#jus making a pinned post for fer

[brineoffire]

Wings and Wires- Chapter 2

I've done it! This time im trying out a switch of pov :> Also! Trying to come up with a posting schedule that works for me, so ill pin that post if i actually figure one out!

Part 1-

Price marches over to the meeting room, a steady plume of smoke rising from the cigar between his lips. Barging into the room he lifts his chin, his tail swaying

gently behind him as he counts all his boys present. Ghost cross armed against the back wall. Gaz sits near the front of the

table, legs crossed on his seat. Soap sits across him, arms crossed behind his head. Lastly, Roach sits just in front of where Ghost stands, picking at his knuckles.

“Right then boys, it's an infalteration.”He says as he moves to the head of the table. The projector clicks on as he wakes up a laptop while he sits. 

"As you all know Los Panteros have been working off the coast for several months now. We've traced them back from Las Vegas and have finally been able to track their leader, Alphonse Velez. He's hosting a party at the end of this month and we're going in.” Price looks around as the others all nod or grunt in agreement. Soap is the first one to sit up and say something.

“A’right then cap’. When we doin’ this?” 

“We’re movin’ to set up recon in two weeks. Roach’ll be on overwatch with you as an escort. There known to have infernal sigils up so Ghost’ll have ta be backup while Gaz and I go undercover.”

“Cap!”  “Wai’ a sec-” “You?”

Price’s hand raises as all of them speak up at once. “Aye’ easy now you lot.”

“But sir, they’re known dragon dealers! You would be at too much of a risk!” Gaz has his palms down on the table, his wings flaring up as he speaks up.

“Right. Which is why Laswell’s got a spellcaster to cook up a disguise spell. The two dragons ‘es got are always patrolling outside, so Gaz’s scent will cover us enough to get in jus’ fine.” The rest of the room settles slowly as he presses on with his explanation.

“No more fuss now lads. We stick to the plan, get our intel, ‘n everything ‘ll be right as rain.” Soap's pointed ears pin back to his head and Gaz's feathers stay roused. Theres a low humming growl in the back of Roach’s throat as Ghost steps up behind him squeezing his shoulder in reassurance. 

“If things do go south we all move in. We aint leavin’ without makin’ sure yer outta there cap.” Price gives Ghost a nod as his gaze softens, looking from him to Roach.

“We move together. This is just recon fer now. Should be no noise so long as we stick to the plans.” The tension in the room slowly simmers back down, Price stepping over to Gaz.

“Come now birdie.” He rests a hand on the back of the harpy’s neck. “You'll be right there with me.” Gaz relaxes into the touch, his feathers smoothing out as he looks Price in the eye. His feathers ruffle up softly this time as he nods along with Price's reassurances.

"Aye cap. Up ta me ta keep ya’ safe then, yeah?” Various laughs and chuckles sound out around the room. Price crouches down to get eye to eye with him. One hand settles on Gaz's knee, the other cupping his cheek, clawed finger tips tickling his neck.

"Ata’ boy. We run this tight, get in an’

out, ‘n flush out the rats.” Gaz's wings settle on his back as he leans into Price's hand. He nods again and Price steps up to his feet again.

“Alright then. Rehearsal time lads.” Headed back to the head of the table he flips the laptop to the next slide. “The compound we've linked ‘im to is just off the North coast. Looks like a warehouse but the inside is modified into what looks like a dining hall. With what we've uncovered we know the dragons under his command are used as guards. They patrol outside during events, starting an hour before and staying out two hours after each one.” He looks over at them, catching each of their glances to make sure there are no questions. 

“Gaz ‘n I'll have false identities that Lazwell an’ ‘er team have been cultivating. Weapons dealers from overseas, setting up in the U.S. much like Alphonso has done ‘imself. I want you you all ta keep yer wits about you.We’ve got two weeks between then and now so lets get prepped for the usual.”

“Understood cap.” “Yssir.” “Right.” They all sound off their agreements, Roach even letting off several clicks of approval. They discuss ammo stocks before breaking off separately. Roach heads off with Ghost leaving Soap and Gaz to set up their restock. Price watches them go with a smile on his lips, his tail swaying contently as he lets off another puff of his cigar.. 

The weeks pass quickly, all of them keeping busy and triple checking their equipment until they finally pooled their vehicles. It only takes

about eight hours to drive to their temporary base, and setup only took another half hour. Soap and Roach focus on their electronics. Tapping into city cameras and setting up their comms. They take extra care to keep them all connected, making sure each line has a strong connection tied to communication spells as a backup.

Once it's all set up they spend the rest of the day in each other's company. Price does his best to keep the nerves down, but even with his constant reassurance and firm touches Ghost and Roach are on edge. He finds them scanning over the surveillance cameras for what could probably be the fifth or sixth time in the hour. He sets his hands on both of Ghost’s shoulders, squeezing gently and he rests his chin on the other's head.

“Easy there boys, nothins guna’ change enough for either of you to be stressin’ this much. Take a breather Si, I need both a you to save it for tomorrow night.” Roach lets off a few low chirping sounds as Ghost leans back into Price’s touch. He reaches over to Roach, his hand gently squeezing the back of his neck. 

“You’ve done more than enough for now. Take a breather fer now.” Ghost sighs but relents, turning his chair from the monitors and facing Price. 

“It’d be much easier ta relax if they didn’t have sigils up. Can’t see a damn thing through those fuckin’ walls. These are strong enough to block scents too so once Gaz and you are in there I’m cut off.” Roach trills softly, setting a hand on Ghost’s arm.

“I know, I know, but we don’t have any way of countering these sigils without our cover bein’ blown. Our comms are reinforced with sending spells so we got ears at all times. Like I said, we stick to the plan an’ theyll be nuthin ta worry about.” Ghost gives a nod and takes a deep breath. “Now cmon, the both of ya’.” Price pulls the two of them up from their seats, a hand on both of their backs leading them to the sofa that Gaz and Soap have already sprawled out on. They all shift around, Ghost ending up with Soap over his lap, Price leaning on an arm rest, legs over the length of the sofa with Gaz and Roach sitting on them as they lean on each other.

Their closeness slowly eases the rest of the tension as they wait for their window to open, a large television playing some cheesy rerun of a show they’d seen together beforehand. The time passes slowly as they all mellow out, Soap’s chatter eventually drowning out the television. Laughter fills the room as Ghost's attempts to silence him with a sofa cushion only leads to a face full of wolf drool and a high speed chase through the base. Price chuckles and pulls Roach and Gaz further onto his lap, choosing more relaxation over chasing after his rabid dogs. They all end up spending the night together in the same bedroom, Ghost dragging in a smirking Soap by the scruff as they spend the rest of the night in soft silence.

[wally-friggin-franks]

PART THREE (take two) YOU GOT IT PAL

actually writin' this in my notes, so, uh, hopefully i'll remember the way i wrote some of this stuff-

the biggest story on my mind right now is when henry was tryin' ta work late for the third, maybe fourth day in a row. and i wasn't havin' it. that day i had baked breadrolls, so i just waltzed up to him, gave him some, n' just. talked with him. had a chat, yknow? eventually, i convinced him ta go home and get some rest. i'm glad that i could. i also wanna make those breadrolls again some day- they were one of th' only things i could safely make that weren't too shabby, and they were pretty easy fer me. maybe soon.

the next story was when i was helpin' clean the warehouse. clutter, beams, junk, etc... i was just strong enough to help move this stuff. i wasn't entirely helpless, heh. anyways, i was in the middle of movin' a huge metal beam, it's hoisted onto my shoulder, and friggin' bertie is standin' in my way. now. a normal person would say "hey! excuse me, gotta get through!" but not me. cos i didn't like th' guy. so i just. "accidentally" knocked him unconcious with the beam. everyone believed me, sayin' that i "didn't have th' smarts ta pull it off" WELL I DO AND I DID AND IT WAS ON PURPOSE. take THAT. and the warehouse guys didn't help move anythin' it was just me n' lacie

i think i'll save th' repurposed coat closet story for a while, at least 'til i draw what it looked like. it was awesome. i would make that its own seperate post.

although, i'll gladly tell about the writin' department. usually, that place was dead quiet. could hear th' drop of a pin, and then everyone was lookin' at it. but this particular day, everyone was shoutin' and pointin' fingers, all thanks ta friggin connor wheatley. cos he didn't like alice angel. "boo hoo women character waaah waah weh weh weh BLEUGH." he got punched. i let it happen. after that, i slammed my broom handle to th' floor, and everyone went quiet enough for me to go clean. soon as i left, everyone was back at it again, heh.

if you ever were t' hear susie sing, you'd know the recordings NEVER did her voice justice. sounded like a literal angel. any time she was in a recordin' session, i'd try and clean nearby, cos lemme tell ya- she's gotta be the best out there. her voice had me floored every time. never got old. and she could be a wide variety of characters, too! it was really awesome t' see.

and shawn was th' BEST toymaker. i know about the whole "crooked smile" debaucle but honestly? thought that gave 'em more charm. made it so you could tell which ones would last ya for forever versus which ones couldn't. and just,, the craftsmanship behind it all? was awesome. sure, injury here and there, but each one was made skillfully. i loved watchin' shawn do her thing, they were really good at what he did, y'know? gah.

i really wish i had asked norman about how projectors worked. i would've gotten t' listen to it gush 'bout somethin' it loved, and it would've been smilin' the whole time, AND it wouldn't be mad at me? all around win situation! it was really cool. i can't even properly put anythin' into words it was so cool. the best projectionist in the world ever! n' was just a good guy. awhagwhgr

and henry's awesome, too! the way he could jus' whip up a drawing that quickly, and precisely? you could tell he knew what he was doin'. even the stuff he threw away was awesome. any drawings norman didn't steal, i definetly stared at for a while. he was good at advice, too. all-around a swell guy. he probably didn't have a single malicious bone in his body, in all honesty. couldn't insult his friends if he tried. really sweet guy. makes norman happy, and norman makes him happy right back. sweet, aint it?

jack was one of the best lyricists ever, i think. they could just... immediately get the vibes for a song, n' put it into words. it was really cool! again, what is it with people throwin' stuff away that was still REALLY good? all the lyrics they wrote had some swing to 'em, and just matched the feel of the song perfectly. good tempo, good use of phonetics, etc. just awesome. tried not t' disturb jack while they worked, though, so i mostly admired from afar.

prayin' tumblr doesn't eat this one. if it does, got it saved in m' notes, cos norman said to do that. its really smart :]

[arch-magister-khnemu]

THE ARCH MAGISTER

Ferando Khnemu

Exalted Sorcerer of the Thousand Sons, Arch Magister of the Drowned Moon Sect, Heavenmaster of Seshat

“I detest trickery. But if we ourselves are to suffer deception, our hands are … zzz …”

- Khnemu, the Somnolent

/ Age (M42): 11,170 /

Fer Khnemu oversees the training of Thousand Sons neophytes. He is chronically fatigued.

M30: A kind warrior mage with a sense of humor

M42: A jaded and snarky sorcerer lord

Occupation: teaching, scheming

Origin: Prospero [830.M30]

Skills: sorcery, biomancy

Likes: the old ways of the legion, justice, knowledge

Dislikes: insolence, scheming, cruelty

Affiliation:

3rd fellowship, Pavoni Cult

The Legion's Netjer (teachers; cult adepts)

Cult of Knowledge, 3rd Sect

Equipment

Artificer Mk III Power Armor: A gift from Khnemu’s Terran mentor, Jul Pran; an ancient suit of power armor adorned with ibis & Pavoni motifs, commissioned in time for the Komenka Troika Xenocide. When observed in the astral plane, this baroque armor shines with a blinding lunar radiance, or suffocates all aetheric sight with an impenetrable darkness.

The Spear of Iah: This force-spear is inscribed with catalyst etchings attuned to Prospero’s moon. Its design pays homage to the spear wielded by the sorcerous Prosperine moon goddess of ancient myth, Iah.

The Hand of Tides: A wicked lightning claw that resonates with authority among the daemons of Tzeentch. Its scythe-like platinum claws constantly drip a black murk; its fullers are dyed a deep blue, a reminder of long past glories.

Retinue, Servants, and Allies of convenience

Ravi Suvesh: Primus Medicae; currently one of the few sorcerers allowed to tend to the legion’s precious geneseed. Former member of the Heroditine Cirle of the Legion’s Apothecarion, once attached to the 3rd Fellowship.

Arhnath Bharam: The Arch Magister’s sworn sword. Former Blade Master of the Khenetai Occult’s Naunet terminator elite.

Honored Mahendra: Guardian of Seshat; a revered sorcerer interred within an Osiron dreadnaught. Former master of the Pavoni arts.

His nine Magisters, including Heh & Yah, and their Thrallbands

Nenime the Corsair Princess: A funny eldar who should know better.

Notable Events

The Great Change

Xenocide of the Kamenka Troika

Secondment to the Salamanders Legion

Fall of Prospero; the assault on the Locis Mundus

Siege of Terra

The Rubric of Ahriman

Age of Burning

Siege of Fenris

Battle of Luna

Invasion of the Stygious Sector

Skirmish at Kaelac’s Bane

The Ritual of the Damned

Sect of the Drowned Moon

Led by Fernando Khnemu, the sorcerers of the Drowned Moon are masters of lunar arcana and conjurations related to the warp’s abyss; when called to war, they bring to bear luminous powers and leviathan screamers of Tzeentch.

The Sect makes its home deep within Sortiarius’s shifting wastes in the Heaven of Seshat: a vast stepwell citadel watched over by a pair of ceratsus knights, the remnants of a jackal-helmed Khenetai Occult blade-cabal, and Naunet terminators.

The Sect also has great influence over Hara, a world of expansive salt flats and underground oceans, where permanent water can only be found where the surface crust has broken away to form enormous sinkholes. Hara’s human population, the Kin, are deeply spiritual and psychically gifted. Scattered among nine sorcerous clans, they provide the Sect with its favored soldiery.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Ginger Snap, Chapter 2

A/N I am breaking probably the only rule I gave myself when I started writing fanfic, which was Don’t Ever Post a WIP.  But lord knows I’m not immune to peer pressure and the narcotic that is reader feedback, so here it is, the second chapter of what is now an open-ended modern AU story about Jamie the Chef and Claire the Kitchen Disaster.  Still a first person Claire POV, so I apologize in advance for any stray pronouns.

For the first chapter, I recommend reading it on Ao3, since I’ve made some minor edits since I first posted it on Tumblr.  See above re. not planning on posting a WIP.

Oh, and funny story.  When I decided to check the location of the real Ginger Snap catering company in Edinburgh, it was squished between “FrazersOnline” and “McKenzie Flooring”.  If that’s not kismet, I don’t know what is.  The location I describe below, however, is based on a catering venue here in Ottawa called Urban Element, where I’ve attended a few team-building events.  I have yet to set anything on fire, though.

I checked my phone for the third time, confirming I wasn’t lost.  

Frank and I moved to Edinburgh over the summer, just in time for him to start his position as Associate Professor of History at the University of Edinburgh. Despite our years spent in America, neither of us cared overmuch for driving, so we chose a flat (or rather, Frank chose a flat and I concurred) not far from campus.  Therefore, this was the first time I’d ventured as far afield as Leith, a maritime enclave just to the north of the capital that couldn’t seem to decide if it wanted to be grittily working class or artistically hip. 

When I finally reached the address, I had to smile.  No main street pretensions or non-descript commercial frontage for Ginger Snap Catering.  Before me stood a two-story red brick fire station, still emblazoned with the crest of the Scottish Fire and Rescue Services.  The two massive truck bays were now enclosed by see-through doors that could be drawn back on a sunny day.  Through these a warm yellow light could be seen, spilling onto the grey, damp pavement.

A petite woman with dark hair manned the small reception area, a red-haired toddler clinging to her like a marsupial.  She held a phone to one ear while simultaneously pacing the polished concrete floor.  I stood as unobtrusively as possible near the door, but in such an open space it was impossible not to overhear her side of the conversation.

“... they willna take ‘im back until ‘is fever goes down...  aye, an hour ago when I picked him up but it hasn’t... nay, i dinna think it’s... tis jus’ terrible timing with two weddings t’morrow... Could ye?  Och, I owe ye Mrs. Fitz, a million times o’er... Anytime, we’ll be here.  Alright, soon.”

The speaker turned to me, the harried look of a working mother sharpening her already honed features.

“I apologize fer keeping ye waiting.  What can I do fer ye t’day?”

Before I could respond, the young boy, probably no older than two, began to fuss, rubbing his flushed cheek against his mother’s shoulder.

“Och, mo ghille, Mam kens ye’re poorly.  Mrs. Fitz is coming as fast as she may.”

Unable to quell my instinct to diagnose and then cure, I spoke up.  

“I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation.  Based on his age and the way he’s holding his head, it may be an ear infection.”  At the woman’s penetrating look, I hastened to explain: “I’m a doctor.  Would you mind if I took a closer look?”

Permission granted, I carefully palpated the boy under the jaw and peered as best I could without an otoscope into the offending ear canal.  Confident in my diagnosis, I recommended treatment with a warm compress, an over-the-counter analgesic ear drop, and children’s paracetamol to control his fever.  If, after twenty-four hours the symptoms had not improved, they could consider seeing his pediatrician for antibiotics, but these were only truly necessary for a persistent infection.

“Och, ye ‘ave no idea what a relief it is tae hear ye say so, lass.  He’s my first bairn, ye ken, an’ I can ne’er tell if I’m over-reacting or being negligent.   Can ye say thank ye tae the nice doctor, Wee Jamie?”

My stomach jumped.  “Wee Jamie?  Is he related by chance to Jamie Fraser?”

“Aye, tis his nephew.  I’m Jamie’s sister, Jenny.  Ye ken my brother, then?”

The pieces fell into place, and my insides settled.

“We’ve spoken before,” I explained.  “I’m Claire Beauchamp.  You and your brother helped me with a dinner party emergency last Tuesday.  I came to return your market bags, and to thank you again for coming to my aid during my hour of need.”

Jenny and I spoke for another ten minutes, sharing the superficial narratives of two strangers brought together by circumstance.  She was warm and thistly by turns, and I felt a longing for the honesty of female friendship that I’d given up when we left Boston.  Eventually a matronly woman arrived to collect Wee Jamie.  I carefully wrote down the exact names and dosages of my prescribed remedy.

After Mrs. Fitz and Wee Jamie had left, it occurred to me that Jenny needed to get back to work.  I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do, even if I hadn’t thanked Jamie himself.   As I began to make my goodbyes, however, Jenny interjected. “If ye’re no’ in a rush, why dinna ye join our afternoon cooking class?  My brother will be demonstrating how tae make quiche.  Tis the least we can do, after ye helped Wee Jamie.”

Which was how I found myself standing behind one of six cooking stations arranged across the fire station’s main area, a bright red apron covering my black slacks and saffron turtleneck.  My impetuous curls were slowly breaking ranks from where I’d slicked them into a bun that morning.  I worried I looked like a human Pez dispenser.

I glanced at the workstation immediately to my left.  A slight woman who I guessed to be roughly my own age was engrossed in her phone, a cheeky smirk playing on her berried lips.  Her strawberry blond hair was swept into an effortless chignon that made me twitch with envy.  She looked up from her screen and caught me looking her way.

“Geillis Duncan,” she said, offering a well-manicured hand.

“Claire Beauchamp.  Pleased to meet you.”

“Is it yer first time taking a class, Claire?���  At my nod, she leaned in and whispered conspiratorially: “Ye’re in for a treat.”

Before I could enquire what she meant, a murmur amongst the other students (all women, save one) was accompanied by the heavy tread of work boots on polished concrete and a familiar Scottish burr.

“Good afternoon, everyone.  Thank ye fer joining me on this dreich Scottish day.  I ken a few of ye are new, so let’s start with a brief overview of yer stations and some basic safety reminders, before we tackle the quiche.”

Today Jamie was wearing a pair of olive pants that tapered down his endless legs and a technical shirt that clung valiantly to his upper body.  He looked like he’d just stepped off the nearest rock climbing pitch.  I wondered if he owned anything that answered to the name of a professional wardrobe, but I couldn’t deny that he looked impressive, in an athleisure sort of way.

“See what I mean?” Geillis hissed at me as Jamie made his way to the front of the hall, speaking now about optimal burner temperatures.  “That man is a dozen kinds of yes.”

I concentrated on each step of the ostensibly simple recipe.  Pie crust had been the previous week’s assignment, so I had only to blind bake the prepared dough already at my workstation.  Once I had the crust centered exactly in the pie pan, pierced with a fork in orderly rows and placed in the oven, I rushed to catch up with the others.  I’d missed Jamie’s instructions regarding pan frying the bacon, so I increased the flame, thinking I could make up a little time.  The fatty meat crackled pleasingly as I set it in the lightly greased pan.  I was inordinately proud of myself.

Things went very badly, very fast.  First, my eyes wouldn’t stop watering as I meticulously peeled then dissected the onion into near-transparent crescents. Tears obscured my vision and I tried to wipe them away without contaminating my hands.  To my left I could make out Geillis skillfully cracking eggs into a glass bowl, her pie crust already elegantly filled with crispy morsels of bacon and caramelized onion bits.  

A vague sense of having forgotten something important tickled my mind.  My pie crust!  Grabbing a silicone glove (I wasn’t making that mistake twice) I rushed to the wall oven and extracted the pan.  Giddy with relief, I saw the dough was only a little dark around the edges.  

Before I could return victorious to my station, Jamie uttered a Scottish noise of alarm from his vantage at the front of the class.   We both rushed across the room to where my rashers of bacon now resembled blackened shoe laces obscured by a heavy veil of smoke.  With practiced ease, Jamie lifted the entire skillet into the adjacent sink and turned on the cold water.  A cloud of steam enveloped his head, highlighting his auburn curls.  I bit my lip as he looked my way in amusement.

“I hope ye werena planning on serving quiche to yer faculty guests t’night, Ms. Beauchamp?”

I stood meekly next to Geillis for the remainder of the class, no longer trusted around open flame without adult supervision.   She graciously allowed me to extract her quiche when it was done baking.  It looked like a magazine cover.  Meanwhile, my workstation looked like the scene of an industrial accident.

While we were waiting for her quiche to cook, Geillis and I got to know each other a little better.  She was a Highland lass from up near Inverness.  Married to a wealthy older man, her life sounded like an endless quest for diversion.  Despite this, or because of it, she had a sharp-witted frankness that I appreciated.  She was also a hard-core gossip.

“Wee besom,” she remarked with a nod towards a blond girl who was currently monopolizing Jamie’s attention with endless questions punctuated by manufactured giggles and flicks of her pin-straight hair.  “Tha’s Laoghaire Mackenzie of the Mackenzie brewing dynasty.  They’ve a live-in cook, so there’s only one reason she attends these classes, and it isna for the quiche.”

I watched Jamie laugh over something the girl said, mineral eyes alight and his perfect white teeth on display.  I suppose I couldn’t blame her.  I wasn’t here for the quiche either.

The interminable ninety minute lesson finally ended.  I thanked Geillis profusely and we exchanged numbers before she rushed off for her reiki treatment.  Gathering my trench coat and purse, I tried to slink away without calling any further attention to myself.

“Ms. Beauchamp!”

I cursed under my breath, then turned to face him.

“Please, call me Claire.  After I nearly burned down your place of business, we should probably be on a first name basis.”

Jamie chuckled. It sounded more natural and lived-in than his earlier response to Laoghaire, but I was likely fooling myself.

“Och, wha’s a cooking demonstration wi’out a wee bit of drama.  Will ye be joining us next week?  We’ll be making ceviche, sae I willna need tae put the fire brigade on stand-by.”

“Bastard,” I replied to his cheeky smirk.  “Alas, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a cook.  It appears to be the one science I can’t master.”

“Cooking isna a science, Claire,” he explained with sincere intensity.  “Tis an art.  Perhaps tha’s the root of yer struggle.”

“Perhaps it is.  But in that case, I may as well give up now.  I haven’t an artistic bone in my body.”

His languorous perusal of said body lit a different kind of flame in my belly.  Geillis was right; he really was a dozen kinds of yes.

“I canna say as I agree.  Come back any time if ye’d like tae try again.”

I blushed, thoroughly discomfited by his blatant flirting.  He knew about Frank.  He’d fled from him onto my fire escape, for Christ’s sake!  Maybe when you looked like James Fraser, every interaction with a woman was merely a chance to hone your craft.  Or maybe he was truly ignorant of his effect.

“I’ll take that under advisement.  Thank you again, Jamie.”

“Until the next time, Arsonist.”

[buirbaby]

Thistle & Thorn: The Letter

Rating: General

Masterlist

Dawn always brought blisteringly bright sunlight with it, lancing through the sheer curtains and smacking Nessia right in the face. Summer in the highlands was mild, temperatures typically peaking just beneath 20°C (the 60s°F), the cracked window trailing in a refreshing breath of fresh air that caused the shades to dance. Rolling in her quilts, untangling herself from the fussed sheets, and nearly falling out of the bed to land upon the hard wooden floor, ivy green eyes peeled toward the window as talons scrabbled at the edge of the sill and an unfamiliar owl poked its head past the threshold and into her domain.

"Allo there," Nessia yawned, finally dislodging herself from the hazard of her restless sleeping arrangements. Her eyes pulled over the creature groggily, inspecting the tawny feathers banded with black, ear tufts quivering as the eagle-owl blinked pumpkin orange eyes at her. "Hae'na seen ye before. Post usually goes downstairs by the kitchen, big windows over the sink. Hoggle typically handles—" she explained, pausing when the owl offered a letter toward her. "Or is this for me?"

The owl preened, feathers lifting momentarily before it allowed her to take the parcel and bunkered down in the sunlight that streamed against the window, basking in the warmth.

Nessia hummed, turning the letter over before realizing what it was, her fingers becoming clumsy and wrists quivering in blistering excitement as she started to vibrate at the sight of the Hogwart's crest. Now, she'd known that one day that the school would send her a letter, just as all young witches and wizards in the area received one. However, she'd felt anxious because she didn't display her magic as brazen or spectacularly as Logan had when he'd been her age. Hoggle had told her all about how he'd caused a mess of the manor, from causing statues to come to life from laughs that echoed like lion's roars and knocked paintings from the walls. The most that Nessia had ever done was hiccup out a bumblebee, which Hoggle said was much more preferable to Logan's messes.

Breaking the seal, Nessia's eyes became watery, as if she'd gotten potting soil in them again from rubbing her face with filthy hands. This was no farce, written in beautiful emerald script was a letter addressed to her, welcoming her to Hogwarts for her first year, and hosting a list of supplies required as a student. Finding the acceptance form in the very back, Nessia scrabbled for an inkwell and signed her name, aware that the resting owl was roosting for the journey back and likely to also send her own reply so that she could officially be added to the roster. She wondered if anyone ever declined.

"Och," she placed the new letter before the owl, an orange eye blinking open suspiciously. "When yer all good and rested, can ye take this back? Ye can stay here as long as ye need. Here's some water too," Nessia grabbed one of her pails and filled a cup she had laying around in her room, pushing it up her desk toward the raptor. "Mind the plants, but make yerself at hame."

The owl shook its feathers out and gave a low, trilling hoot before bending down to lap up some of the offered water. Nessia took the pieces of parchment, threw on a proper dress—which was little more than a corduroy sack over her shift—and burst out of her room with more fervor than the typically quiet girl displayed. Sputtering around a corner, her socks slipped beneath her and she slid an extra few paces before a hand snapped out and gripped the bannister, redirecting her path so that she could sprint toward her grandfather's solar.

Located on the opposite side of the heirloom cottage, the home that she'd grown up in as long as she could remember, even when her parents had been alive. The MacDougal Manor, situated within the misty rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands, flanked by Loch Linsor and relatively removed from neighbors muggle and wizard alike. Despite the sheltered, rural location, the home was a hive of familiar faces including Hoggle, the house elf, to other friends and servants. In the lake was a pod of merrow, many of which didn't mind popping above the surface to spare an afternoon of conversation with Nessia, to their gardener, a centaur named Rowan who was estranged from the local clan and happily made his home amongst the MacDougal family.

Even if their own grounds were limited to those that worked and kept stock of the care and daily routines, they were often frequented by visits that related to her grandfather's connections. He had been an important man in his prime and despite the years of his youth slipping through the hourglass that was time, many still came to him for advice or whispering happenings within the shadows.

Being so early in the morning, Nessia hadn't expected it to be another day where Bhan was entertaining a guest, sputtering to a graceless halt in front of the oaken door wrought with intricately carved designs depicting the MacDougal alliance with the centaurs and merrow of this area of the highlands. Their family had always had close ties with other Beings (even if the merrow and centaurs disregarded this classification), including their own house elves which lived a much more comfortable life than most elves in similar positions. She had only just raised a tanned fist to knock upon the door when she overheard voices on the other side.

"He's escaped Azkaban?" it was her grandfather, Angus, hissing in frustration at the revelation. "How in Merlin's name? If I werenae so hoachin' I'd join the hunt for him meself. Where aboot did he get loose?"

"Further south and put a little more faith in the department assigned to hunt werewolves," the other person retorted calmly.

"Faith?" Angus huffed in indignation. "I had faith that the sleekit dug wouldnae escape from Azkaban in the first place!"

"Things happen, Angus."

"Things happen, me arse. When I worked for the Ministry this wouldnae happened. Folk be gettin' too relaxed noo that Ye-Ken-Who is pushing daisies. Noo the Ministry gets all gallus and let's a bloody lycan loose. How many ye think will be turned or killed, eh?"

"Angus, I only came here to deliver the news so you could keep your eyes and ears sharp. I doubt he'll come up here, not when there's nowhere to hide and far too many centaurs roaming the moors," her grandfather's companion sounded bone weary, exhausted by toiling with the idea that innocent people were going to be cursed, maimed, or killed.

"Makin' a habit o' eavesdropping?"

The sound of Hoggle's voice made Nessia leap up, fumbling her letters before giving the house elf a bashful, guilt ridden look. "I-I," she stammered quietly, worried that those inside the solar would hear her. "Got me letter to Hogwarts. I only wanted tae show Bhan."

"The MacDougal has a guest. Come downstairs fer now and break yer fast," Hoggle shook his head dismissively, but a tight smirk betrayed the elf's amusement by the girl's dolefulness. "A letter tae Hogwarts noo? Suppose it's aboot time ye had yer own turn there."

"Do ye ken anyone who works there?" Nessia trotted after the house elf, his ragged tartan swaying behind him, pinned in place by a rusty pennancular pendant that Hoggle took deep pride in.

"Got a few cousins who do work in the kitchens," Hoggle admitted, giving her a sideways glance. "Course they're nothin' like me."

"No one is like ye, Hoggle. Everyone's different," Nessia pointed out chipperly.

"Nay," he shook his head, batty ears swaying from their position where they'd been slicked back like hair. "The MacDougals are a fine clan. Good witches and wizards. Treat all their servants right. Hogwarts is good too, but... most places dinnae treat me kind like people. The MacDougal gae me a room, a stipend, clothes—this is a job. For other elves its servitude, slavery and they bow willfully. We were made that way... tae want tae serve. I wouldnae trade whit I hae here for anything. Me cousins... they're happy, because the folk at the school are kind and they dinnae ken better. So they might seem a bit odd compared tae me."

Nessia cocked her head, having never met another house elf aside from Hoggle. Truth be told, she thought all of the elves were servants who had their own respective quarters and free time. But slaves? Her wide lips pulled down in a frown and her steps started to trudge as she contemplated the situation others of Hoggle's kind might be subjected to. "I'm sorry, ye sound sad."

Hoggle blinked. "Is na yer fault, Nessie. Jus' the way things be."

"That's wrong though. Just like it's wrong that the centaurs and merrows are classified as beasts," Nessia huffed.

The house elf's lips tugged up in a smile. "World needs more witches who think like ye, Nessie. Be a much kinder place."

"World would be weak if it were more like me," Nessia muttered, mostly to herself as the pair stepped into the kitchen. Yet another one of her favorite rooms in the house, with high ceilings, a long table in the center of the room that functioned as both an island and where informal meals were hosted. With a wave of a knobbly hand, a stool danced toward Hoggle and he hopped up onto it.

"The world needs kindness, Nessie. It doesnae make ye weak," Hoggle assured her. "Yer bhan is kind."

"But he's also braw," she countered, plopping down on a barstool by the island.

"Och, yer bum's oot the windae, int it?" a third voice joined the conversation, the tall visage of her adult brother sauntering into view as he fixed his tie. The siblings, while having the same parents, reflected each parent in their own way. Nessia took after their mother, with tanned skin, thick curly black hair, and a flat nose-smattering her nose like a constellation was her father's Scottish freckles and the MacDougal green eyes were another telltale sign of her heritage. Whereas Logan was a shade fairer, strong jawed, tall and broad, a head of russet curls hashed with strands of auburn and gold. Whilst he looked more akin to their father, Bhan always claimed he had their mother's fire burning in his heart. Despite their differences, they did share their mother's nose.

"Ah umnae!" Nessia squeaked, cheeks darkening at the insinuation that she was talking rubbish.

"Whit hae ye got there?" Logan gestured to her folded parchment while he was adjusting the cuff links on his shirt.

"Oh! Me letter to Hogwarts," she stood on the pegs of the stool and leaned over the counter to wave it at him.

In just three strides, Logan met her and took the parchment from her, whistling low as he thumbed through it thoughtfully. "Who wouldae thought they'd accept a lil mandrake like ye. Did ye send a letter back sayin' ye'd only want tae study plants?"

"I can learn other stuff," Nessia grumbled, crossing her arms as her brother.

"Well, if that's the case, when ye get yer want, how aboot I teach ye some spells?" he offered, handing the parchment back and pouring himself a cup of tea that Hoggle had on the stove.

"I thought I couldnae practice magic outside o' school," Nessia recalled smartly.

"In front o' muggles. Otherwise, who's gaunnae stop ye? Most other students are na lucky enough to hae a big brother who's an Auror," Logan retorted glibly.

"Am not tryin' to be an Auror," Nessia reminded him.

"Och, yer too wee tae ken whit ye'd like tae do yet," Logan played off dismissively. "I do ken we hae a lot of the supplies ye need here—like the cauldron, scales, phials, telescope. I might even hae some of the books, I ken ye have the One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi one in yer room."

Nessia gave a stout nod, pleased that she wouldn't dirty new books, as she had the uncanny ability to smear dirt on them as well as the inclination to make notes in the margins. Even if the clan had a manor, comparatively Nessia wouldn't claim they were the richest or most influential family. Most of the sacred twenty-eight turned their noses up at the accepting tendencies the MacDougals practiced. They lived comfortably, but if items could be repurposed or recycled, there was no use in wasting it. Both Nessia and Logan had been raised to be appreciative of what they had, what they acquired, and to not discard belongings without regard. An old book still held the same words as a new one and personally, the old one had more character.

"Suppose I'll need tae get a wand and robes, ye were a skinny malinky longlegs when ye went tae school," Nessia pointed out.

Logan sputtered into his mug, Hoggle chortling at the description.

"Keep the heid, young master," Hoggle taunted before the man could offer rebuttal.

"Whit's this noo?" Heads swiveled in the direction of the voice from under the awning, Angus having his hands propped up on his hips as he surveyed the crowd and began carving his path toward the tea kettle. "Yer gaunnae be late fer work, eh?" he prompted, turning verdant eyes to pin Logan where he stood, still gobsmacked from Nessia's prod.

"It's an important day. Na everyday that yer little sister gets an acceptance letter to Hogwarts," Logan preened, taking a glance at his watch.

"Sounds like an excuse tae me. Whit time are ye supposed to be in?" Angus countered suspiciously.

Logan grumbled. "Och, I'll go!" With a snap the man's silhouette rippled inward and he disapparated from the kitchen, fluttering a nearby towel that was folded over the oven handle.

Plates were beginning to float from the stove, landing soundlessly on the island as Hoggle moved as if he were conducting an orchestra. Silverware, plates, and cups followed—the door banging open, followed by the clopping of hooves as Rowan entered.

"Mornin'," he greeted, pausing to wash his hands in the sink.

"So ye got yer letter to Hogwarts? Aboot time," Angus remarked, returning to the island to glance over the parchment. "Might be time tae head to Diagon Alley for the rest o' yer supplies. Hoggle, ye think ye can scrounge up the auld books? I ken Logan had a few of these."

"O' course," Hoggle agreed.

Diagon Alley had been a less than often frequented place of Nessia. To be honest, it was busy, overwhelming, and cramped. Nothing about London was favorable to her, especially when she was so accustomed to the wide open moors and the loch that spanned her home. Additionally, it was humid and frizzed up her curls, turning them into a deplorable helmet. Usually, she let her bhan go without her, but managed to suppress a sigh because she knew that this outing would result in acquiring one of the most important items as a witch: a wand.

"Dinnae look so driech," Angus chuckled.

"It's gaunnae be gross, I jus' ken it," Nessia pouted, spooning hash onto her plate and settling on a scoop of eggs to join it. "Hogsmeade is closer, innit?"

"Tis," Angus mused. "I jus' thought ye'd want the full experience."

Nessia arched a brow at him. "Full experience? I'd prefer na tae sweat me breeks off."

"Lassie dinnae care fer the Sassenachs," Rowan observed mischievously. "Cannae blame ye for that."

"Most o' yer peers are gaunnae be Sassenachs," Hoggle wagged a wooden spoon at her.

"Well, if I can put off meetin' em for as long as possible-" Nessia suggested lightly, shoving some food into her mouth.

"Feart not," Angus declined. "We're gaunnae go to the Alley."

Nessia let out a plainative groan and nearly choked on her eggs, chasing it down with orange juice. The rest of breakfast went on as usual before she was sent off to get ready for the afternoon. London was going to be quite a bit warmer than the highlands, which forced her to choose thinner robes that she preferred to wear. Bundling her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck to save her the embarrassment of it being frazzled to hell, Nessia slipped on a pair of Wellies and trundled grumpily out of her room, the owl having left before she returned.

Upon passing her grandfather's solar, Nessia paused momentarily to reflect on what she'd overheard. Lycans? Escape from Azkaban? She hadn't caught a name, but a shiver traced down her spine at the thought of werewolves roaming the countryside in search of unsuspecting victims. Living in the highlands, she was reminded duly of the protection she was afforded so far north, so removed, and by plenty of other creatures that would chase the werewolves across the moors before letting them bunker down and cause a ruckus.

Waiting by the main hearth, Angus had already dressed in his afternoon robes, including a small sash in the clan's tartan which slashed across his breast. Adjusting his balmoral cap, his heavy brows raised at his granddaughter.

"Try na tae look too enthused," he retorted sarcastically, mustache twitching up at the 11 year old's dismay.

"It's gaunnae be driech, Bhan," Nessia whined, dipping her hand into the basin filled with Floo powder. "And they talk weird."

"Whit if we're the ones who talk weird?" Angus challenged.

"Doubtful," stepping into the fireplace, the sand sifting between her fingers, Nessia tossed the powder down with pizzazz. "Diagon Alley!" Careful to speak clearly, envious green flames lanced up in front of her, obscuring her vision completely. Holding her breath to prevent breathing in the fumes and ash, she narrowed her eyes in an effort to witness her voyage up out of the tippy top of her home's chimney. Arms pinned, up becoming down, skipping from north to south, Nessia groaned when she made impact with the public fireplace of the Alley.

Immediately, she was rebuffed by the humid air of London, the cool and refreshing summer of the highlands replaced by an unusually hot day, peaking at the high 20s (nearly 80F). Pushing a few stray curls from her forehead, Nessia grimaced and stepped out of the way as the chimney above her thundered with the warning of another traveler approaching. Never a pleasant experience, her nose wrinkling as she huffed a sneeze and barely managed to move as a wizard threw a haughty glare in her direction. Rolling her eyes, she waited another moment before her grandfather materialized, dusting off his robes and tartan, ruffling his mustache and sneezing just as loudly as she had.

The mimicked fashion made her grin widely and he chuckled. "Blasted Floo. Never been tae fond of it," he grumbled, striding up to meet her.

"I dinnae think anyone 'likes' it, Bhan," Nessia pointed out to his chagrin.

"Shoulda just disapparated," he muttered, rubbing beneath his nose again. "Noo, where do we need tae go?"

Unfolding the list from her pocket, Nessia could already feel sweat beading on the back of her neck. Maybe she'd worn too heavy an outfit, the corduroy like a smothering blanket amidst the humidity. Thank Merlin Hogwarts was in Scotland. "Robes, parchment, note books, a wand-" she recited, aware that most of the other supplies could be scavenged around the MacDougal grounds. Hand-me-downs didn't bother her too much, though it wasn't as if they couldn't afford newer items; Nessia just didn't see a point when there were perfectly good ones at home.

"Generic supplies," Angus admitted. "Och, well let's get started then. Get ye some robes, 'course yer wand—it's the most important item ye'll get. Maybe if yer not too cheeky, we can stop for some icecream."

Nessia beamed in spite of the blistering weather and flanked her grandfather as they started through the brimming streets of Diagon Alley. From the sloping roofs held up by only magic, defying gravity's expectations, to the gayly hued robes that bespeckled the populace, she settled into the hum of activity. From the freshly baked pastries that filled her with fragrant thoughts of Hoggle making holiday desserts to the owls ruffling their feathers within their cages, she relaxed slightly, keeping close beside her grandfather who parted the crowd as if he had a wand out and was thrusting folks aside. Be it the prowess the broad man moved with or just the heavy expression he always wore, most steered clear of the highlander. He was easily recognizable from his hints of traditional garb and the pride each shoe fell with.

Nessia wished she possessed an ounce of her grandfather's confidence or vindication, but as close as they were they couldn't have been more unlike each other. He was outgoing, strong, ambitious, wise, and willful. Nessia was quiet, reclusive, and shy. Only those that she knew did the girl have the heart to sass, but under the scrutiny of strangers she felt nervous and sweaty. The sheer idea of having to go to school without him made her falter. For today she should have been rejoicing, as excited as the other children around her that she would be going to school soon and beginning the next endeavor of her life. Truthfully, Nessia was terrified.

"Bhan, whit house do ye think I'll be in?" she asked him as they continued down the road toward the wand shop.

"Dinnae, bit o' a toss up for ye. Yer smart, so maybe Ravenclaw. Yer also too nice fer yer own could, ye could be in Hufflepuff," he answered honestly, which made her frown slightly.

"Weren't ye in Gryffindor, Bhan?" she prompted.

"Aye, do ye think ye'll be put into Gryffindor?"

Nessia wanted to be in the same house as her grandfather, almost as if it'd prove that there was more to her than the demure plant-loving witch, but she didn't think herself very brave. Just contemplating how desperately she wanted to be in the house made her eyes prickle with tears, which she quickly blinked back. "I hope Ravenclaw," she decided, knowing that Logan wouldn't let her live it down if she got placed into Hufflepuff. Not that the house sounded bad, but when her family came from a long history of Gryffindors, it made her balk at being placed in the 'softest' house at Hogwarts. After all, she was a highlander and only Ravenclaw or Gryffindor would do.

"Dinnae fash. Ye'll do well wherever ye are, lassie. Ye ken I'm proud of ye, even if ye got placed in Slytherin. No house will change me mind," Angus assured her, tapping her on her nose, having noticed that she was fighting back tears.

The shop in front of them was dusty, but then again, many of the store fronts around here were. It was strange, considering how busy Diagon Alley was, that time was rarely allocated to clean off store fronts or afford a new repaint. Considering all it would take was a swing of a hand or wand to set brooms or dustpans to work, Nessia cocked her head as she stared at the grimy pillow in the display and itched her nose at the anticipation of stepping into the shop. Hoggle would have lost his mind.

Bell tinkling upon their arrival, Nessia shielded her eyes—not because the shop was particularly bright, in fact it was rather dim. No, it was the chain reaction that her presence caused, a box on the wall jetting out amongst the rank and file and pinging right into the side of a rickety desk. An elderly man jumped, his thin white hair going astray as he glanced from the box, the mess the wand had created by acting so spryly—spilling at least two dozen others from the wall—before bending down to pick it up.

"Mr. MacDougal," the shopkeeper smiled, placing the box up on the counter and glancing between them. "I don't think either of you will be spending very long here."

"Nice tae see ye, Ollivander," Angus greeted, palming his granddaughter's back and thrusting her forward from where she'd frozen. "Seems yer wands got minds of their own."

"I see it... from time to time," he smiled gently, turning his wizened eyes down toward Nessia. "This must be Nessia? You look a lot like your mother when she came to get her first wand."

"You remember her?" Nessia's trepidation was trumped by the man's memory of a mother she barely recalled. Both of her parents had been killed when she was little, amidst the wizarding war that had made for a tumultuous childhood for her.

"I remember every person I sell a wand to," Ollivander winked, lifting the lid to the box and revealing a wand. "She had a 12", dragon heartstring cored wand, made from red oak. A very handsome wand."

"Whit happened with that wand?" Nessia inquired, gesturing to the one that had flown clean off the shelf.

"Ah, well let's take a look," he picked up up, holding it to the oil lamp beside him, scrutinizing the ribbing and the fine lattice work of knots around the grip. "Made from vine. They have a tendency to display their attraction to potential partners. I've only seen it happen a few times before, but they're not always quite a brash as this one."

At the insinuation that the wand had reacted to her, Nessia's tanned cheeks darkened and she sputtered. "M-me?"

"Certainly not your grandfather. I'm afraid this wand would not suit him," Ollivander betrayed. "This one has been collecting dust for a while. A very long while," he insisted, reaching over to offer it to Nessia. "I made it many years ago, while I was still experimenting with other cores aside from dragon heartstring, unicorn hair, or phoenix feathers. Honestly, I thought it might never sell. Griffin feathers are quite particular, perhaps even more so than phoenix feathers. Prideful creatures."

Accepting the wand, a tingle lanced up her hand, into her elbow, and caused the girl to shudder all over as if a strong gust of cold highland wind had knocked right through her. She could smell the rain on the moors, fresh air whistling through her thick curls, and roasted apples over a fire. A smile curled her lips and she opened her eyes to glance curiously at the wandmaker.

"A perfect fit," Ollivander declared. "It would seem MacDougals are always the quickest shops. I seem to remember when my father had a wand nearly jump into your hands, Angus."

Her grandfather snorted, removing his wand to offer it to the artisan, who ran his fingers along the wood with a sad, but pleased reminiscent expression upon his face. "Nessie's a MacDougal through and through," he puffed up in pride. "Griffin feather, ye hear? Makes sense, a good deal of griffins migrate to the highlands in the warmer seasons."

Always having felt that maybe being a witch was not suited perfectly for her, Nessia clutched the wand. She couldn't have wished for anything more than this perfect union with the unique wand. A tendril of confidence bolstered the girl's frail spine and she grinned up at her bhan. A griffin feather? Of all the cores, she wouldn't have expected such a braw one to choose her, but her heart soared like the creature it was made from.

"I always thought your core was so strange. How my father managed to acquire will-o-wisps and fashion it into a wand always eluded my skill," Ollivander commented, turning Angus' wand over a few times. "I would have expected the reverse for the two of you, but such rare cores are fickle and don't sell often enough to warrant making them in masses. I realized this once I had taken over, but it still warms my heart to see these wands finally find their partners."

"Served me well, it has," Angus assured him. "And dinnae forget that I wasnae always how I am noo. Nessie's got a much better head on her shoulders than when I was a lad," he patted his granddaughter affectionately.

"You were a bit naive if I recall correctly. Bright eyed and bushy tailed," Ollivander chuckled, returning the wand as he began drafting up a hand written receipt.

"Bhan?" Nessia gasped, as if the idea of her grandfather being anything other than the strident retired Auror that she'd known for the entirety of her life.

"We all grow up, Nessie. I was no exception," he mused, mustache twitching in amusement. "Mr. Ollivander is one of the few who still remembers. Though I hae no doubt Professor McGonagall might as well. We went tae school together."

"I think there are still quite a few more who do, but you're unwilling to admit," Ollivander smiled. "That'll be 10 galleons."

Mr. Ollivander packed up the wand for Nessia, which he shared was about 13.5" and had a relatively hard flexibility to it, but he assured her that the wand was rather delighted to have her. Keeping the bundle tucked close to her chest, she followed her grandfather through the streets which had only grown more busy and sweltering as the afternoon peaked. Past the shops with the pets again and to the robes shop. They passed the front of a second hand store, about to continue when a voice called out.

"Oh! Mr. MacDougal—"

Nessia didn't recognize the voice as one of the typical visitors to their homestead and glanced up inquisitively toward her grandfather who froze and wrinkled his nose. A bemused smile tucked on her face as he turned mechanically and forced a pressed, but polite look onto his face. "Allo there," by the second hand shop was a man with a head full of bright, coppery red hair. "Been a while, Arthur. How's the Ministry?"

Arthur was tall, had a face full of freckles, and beamed excitedly up towards Angus. Beside him were two boys, both of which appeared to be of similar age to Nessia, but she didn't know for certain. Just as ginger as their father, they spared her curious looks. One tall, the other a little shorter and broad. Subconsciously, she waned toward her grandfather, but still stared nonetheless.

"Not half as well since you left for good, but it's nice to see you. I hear you don't often leave the highlands, so I'm surprised to see you in London," Arthur admitted politely. He didn't look like an Auror, but Nessia supposed that was a rather rude thing to think by assessing his weathered robes.

"Me granddaughter, Nessie, starts Hogwarts this year. We came tae get the last few things we needed. Logan had quite a bit o' supplies she can put to good use again," he patted her back. "These yer bairns?"

"Ah yes, my eldest Bill, who is in his third year. My second eldest, Charlie, is starting this year. Perhaps the two of you will be in the same classes or house," Arthur suggested, motioning to his sons respectively. "Boys, this is the legendary Auror, Angus MacDougal. He headed the Aurors for many years, fought against Grindelwald and helped during the Wizarding War with intel. I'm surprised you didn't stay around, join the Wizengamot-"

"Bunch o' pompous pr-" Angus started at the mention of the Wizengamot, cutting himself off before he cursed. Nessia snickered behind her hand. "Ah, too many years workin'. Aboot time I enjoy me home, avoid the stress of the Ministry. How's work been for ye, Arthur?"

"Good!" Arthur chirped, but even Nessia caught the fleeting anxious look on the man's face and her grandfather stiffening. "Busy as always," he chuckled, scratching the back of his head.

"Well, it was nice to see ye. Nessie and I still hae to get some supplies before headin' back north. Tell Molly and the other bairns I've said allo."

"It was nice tae meet ye," Nessia squeaked quickly, following Angus' lead, but still finding her manners. "I'll see ye at school."

"Will do. It was nice to see you," Arthur said, parting ways.

Once out of earshot, Nessia glanced up at her grandfather. "Ye dinnae seem tae happy to see him."

"Arthur is... very passionate," Angus grumbled. "He's a good man, but he's obsessed with muggles. Half the time I see him, I worry I'm gaunnae be stuck listening to him prattle on for hours."

"Oh, he's not an Auror?"

"Oh, nay, nay," Angus shook his head. "Works for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts. Tae be honest, that department's a bit ignored and underfunded... Ministry doesnae see the importance of it much, but we could learn so much from the muggles if we allowed our folk to study with better pay. Used to run into him when I grabbed me morning tea. Realized who I was, was a bit feart at first, but warmed up when he realized I wasnae gaunnae bite his head off. I suppose many other Aurors got their heads far up their own arses. Think they're better than people like Arthur. If any of them had as much passion for their job as Arthur, perhaps we wouldnae had so much of an issue with dark wizards like Ye-Ken-Who."

"Clan MacDougal always mingled with muggles."

"Aye, before Catholicism took hold. We had tae hide our abilities after, but we remained friendly with the muggle clans in the highlands," he added duly. "But not every wizardin' family thinks the same as we dae."

"I ken," Nessia shuddered. "That's why ye never accept those invitations that come from those other families. The Malfoys? Rosiers?"

Angus hummed in agreement. "Jus' posturin' to them. 'Look at what we have', when they dinnae work a day in their lives. Jus' takin' up space and lookin' pretty."

"They dinnae work? Whit do they dae?"

"Merlin kens," Angus rolled his eyes.

Madam Malkin's had a violet store front, a dapper, well dress family in the store display. She thought this one was considerably less dusty, as the mannequins were probably changed out enough that they didn't have enough time to collect half as much dust as the pillow in Ollivander's window. A plump, bright witch hummed around the shop and had her laden with packages as Angus commented about how thick the cloaks were and that a true highlander wouldn't need these to brave the winters in Scotland. While growing rosy cheeked at her grandfather's complaining, they acquired the necessary materials and hurried to collect the last few miscellaneous items. Without having to struggle with books, a cauldron, and the other items they had at home, they were able to easily settle down at the ice cream shop for a much needed treat amongst the heat of a strangely warm afternoon in London.

The path to the Floo hearths was a little choked up, various other patrons just as eager to head home after a successful day in acquiring their needs on Diagon Alley. While waiting in line, Nessia glanced up toward Angus.

"Bhan, we dinnae hae tae come back here, dae we?" Sweat was pouring down her neck, trickling down her back.

"Nay, not til September when ye hae to catch the train."

"The train!" Nessia whined. "But Hogwarts is not too far frae home."

"It's aboot the experience. Ye may meet yer best friends on the train," Angus wagged a brow at her.

Grousing quietly to herself, Nessia didn't shed light on the anxiety she felt surrounding the idea of having to find somewhere on a train to sit, let alone deal with not knowing a single soul. Sure, she knew the names of those two boys, but she didn't know them. To be fair, she didn't really know anyone. It was easy to get lost amongst her jungle at home, the pages of her journal, and the garden outside. There was Hoggle, Rowan, and Logan. Plus the merrow in the loch, which were quite conversational once she'd learned how to understand them. The centaurs were a bit standoffish, but they'd been polite to her.

Hoggle had located the books she needed for school, a couple of which were nearly falling apart because Logan had abused the spines. While the pages were intact—minus his maddened scribblings in a few books—she had to do some repairs of her own to prevent them from breaking further and threatening to actually spill necessary reading material everywhere.

"Knock, knock future Puff," Logan announced his presence, rapping upon the frame of her open door as he poked his head into the jungle.

"Och, ye dinnae ken that yet," Nessia huffed, blowing a few strands of hair from her face as she was sewing another binding back into place.

"Where else would ye go?" Logan stepped in, teasing his younger sister. "Ooh, sorry there. Those look as if they've weathered bein' beat by hippogriffs."

"Oh, yer sorry? Might've fixed 'em before ye handed em down tae me," Nessia quipped, but honestly wasn't that upset. The books still functioned.

"Well, how aboot I make it up to ye?" he offered.

"Ye gaunnae buy me new books?"

"How aboot I do ye one better? Ye got yer wand today, didn't ya?"

Opening the box in front of her, Nessia pulled out the pale wooden wand. "Aye, but I'm not supposed to practice magic outside of school."

"Not around Muggles," Logan corrected. "And if I remember correctly, there arenae any here. Yer perfectly allowed tae practice at home and we're quite remote. If anyone questions it, ye got me to vouch for ye."

Her brother's beguiling reassurances did little to quell the twanging nerves, plucking like an out of tune violin as she contemplated taking the bait. "Whit are ye gaunnae teach me?"

"A few defense spells—Och wait!"

"I dinnae need those. I'm not ye! I'm not gaunnae get into any fights—" Nessia objected immediately.

"Better to ken them and not need them than to be dumped on yer arse. Yer a MacDougal. Like it or not, we have a reputation to uphold and while Bhan will not say anything aboot it, I want to be certain no one picks on ye," Logan interrupted, raising a hand to deflect her disquiet.

"No one is gaunnae pick on me," Nessia snorted. "It's not like when ye went to school."

"Slytherin is still just as nasty as when I went. Yer better off, Nessie."

He wasn't going to drop it, causing her to groan at his insistence. "Fine, but I ken I'm gaunnae be foul at spellwork. Never been good at it before."

"Ye never had the chance tae really try. C'mon, let's go oot in the garden."

[redeyedryu]

Cross Dimensional Problems

Chapter 2 - Hmmm... | [Ao3]  | 1 | x |  » |

Hey look! Another chapter! And it hasn't even been a day! Amazing, I know. Who knows when the next one'll come though.

Summary:  What if I told you that your whole existence is nothing more than a creation meant to entertain people?

What if I told you that you're not even the original, that you're just some recolored imitation?

So. This is apparently a thing that's happening. And you’re pretty sure it really is because those slaps to the face didn't exactly feel pleasant. Neither did the pinches. Your company is probably questioning your state of mind after that display and honestly? That's fair because you're currently doing the same thing.

The proverbial “they” say you can't feel pain in a dream but what if your brain is just really good at playing pretend? It'd make more sense than this—sitting on a thread bare, obnoxious green sofa that doesn't make you think of a very certain event in a very certain game. The skeletons kind of drive that point hard enough, you don't need more reminders, thank you.

Someone clears their …throat? Whatever, the sound is made and it draws your attention, your eyes drifting to one skeleton in particular out of the three—the Classic™ one.

“heya,” he says and oh boy, that is a really deep voice. Very nice, very rumbly. You could listen to it for hours, you think. “what’re uh… what’re ya doin’ down here, bud?”

You purse your lips and squint your eyes, fingers pinching and pulling and scratching at the suede fabric of the couch you are sat on. It’s wedged off to the side of the safety hazard that is the sparking boiler-thing, just near enough for you to have dazedly stumbled over to.

“Hallucinating, I think,” you eventually reply as you continue to fidget. The fingers of one hand slip and you accidentally stab the side of your thigh with a particularly sharp nail. You don't so much as react to the stabbing pain. “Or maybe I'm actually having some kind of mental break?”

You watch (see: blatantly ogle) as the skeleton’s expression shifts, his sockets pinching as his brow furrows, as that perpetual grin of his dips at the corners. He pulls his shoulders in a shrug, that iconic blue hoodie of his bunching and creasing with the motion.

You never did get around to ordering one of those. Too bad, it looks really comfy.

“gonna be honest, kid,” that deep, soothing bass breaks through the wandering of your mind. “wasn't expecting to see a human down here.”

“Didn’t really expect to be down here,” you shoot back. You let loose a heavy sigh, pushing air through your nose as you slouch and violently throw yourself back against the couch. Your arms flail as you rant, “There’re bags of popato chisps and Grillby’s takeout bags and talking skeletons and couches from video games and nothing is making any sense! ” An arm lays across your face, shielding your eyes, as the opposite lays bent above your head.

There’s an awkward stretch of silence, though you're pretty sure you hear the ruffling of fabric, the sktch of someone’s shoes coasting along the filthy floor. And then,

“uh… what?”

Your arms shoot up, fingers splayed, and you glare at the ceiling as you shout,” Video games, Sans! Video games!!” You pull yourself back into a proper seated position and meet the eyes (eye sockets??) of the vanilla bean. Oh. Huh. He’s doing that pitch black eye socket thing. Looks like the edgy bastard behind him is doing it too. Maybe the tall one is as well. You can't tell with Papyrus types--sometimes they have eyelights, sometimes they don't. Oh well.

“What?” Your brows furrow and you purse your lips as you tell them to, “Stop doing that eye-thing at me.”

They don't listen, of course. Just continue to creepily, silently stare at you.

“Stop it!” you demand, and in an effort to get them to cease and desist, bring your hands together in a rather forceful clap. You have to bite your lip to keep from laughing at the way they jolt at the noise.

Sans clears his non-existent throat again, then he shuffles in place, before finally, “how’d ya know my name, kid?”

You quirk a brow.

“What? You're telling me most people wouldn't recognize the brother of monsterkind’s mascot?” Hey, look at that, he really does sweat blue magic. Neat. “Aren't there only like two skeletons in all of existence? Your alternate copies don't count.”

Op. Maybe that was the wrong thing to say ‘cause the voided eye sockets are back again.

“Hey, no! You stop that!” You snap your fingers several times in quick succession and thankfully, it seems to work.

”I mean… Y’all are on the surface, right? This is a post-pacifist ending timeline, right? It usually is in these kind of scenarios.”

And before the sweating Sans so much as squeaks, you hear a rumbling growl, see a blur of reds and black, and then you’re being pinned to the sofa. Underfell Sans is literally right up in your grill, his snarling, sharp-toothed face mere inches from yours.

“th’ fuck kinda shit’re you spoutin’, ya sack a’ shit?”

Oh. This is awkward. Not to mention uncomfortable. He’s practically kabedon’d you, arms on either side of your head, a sneakered foot precariously positioned between your legs.

Kinky.

His voice is pretty nice, too; a deep bass like his vanilla counterpart, though there’s an edge to it that the blue-clad skeleton’s clearly lacks. You think you could listen to this guy's voice for hours too.

You sink into the couch a bit, entirely unimpressed, and shift your weight to the side, bringing up a hand to push against his arm, and slide to the side, out from under him. Your nonchalance seems to catch him off guard as he just stares, befuddled, as you casually extricate yourself, resettling against the arm of the couch.

“C’mon,” you start, gaze shifting from Underfell, to Undertale, to Underswap, “you're smarter than that. You can pick up on the context clues, can't you?”

“the machine…” Your gaze shifts back to the tall, lanky skeleton still standing towards the back as he speaks. His voice is definitely somewhere in the tenor range, though it’s a bit raspy. It's nice, but nowhere near as smooth, broadcasting quality as Sans's is. “you're from an alternate timeline.”

He sounds so convinced, so sure of his deduction. You? Not so much.

“Mmm… something like that? I guess?”

The edgy skeleton beside you shifts, lowers his arms from the couch and instead just… lets himself flop into the cushions. The action causes you to jostle slightly.

“whadda ya mean, ‘summin’ like that’?” he all but growls, scowling at you.

“I mean what I mean. It's something like that but not quite? Because uh…” You drag your eyes from one skeleton to the next and then back again before shifting your gaze to the left and right. Man, this place is an absolute pigsty. “Because hmmm….”

Sans, the Classic™ one, chooses that moment to re-engage with the conversation. He lets loose a world weary sigh and plops onto the other end of the couch, sandwiching his Underfell variant between the two of you.

“‘hmmm’?” he prompts.

“Yes, hmmm,” you respond, face scrunching up in thought. Well, the cat’s pretty much out of the bag (not that it was ever really in one to begin with) so. What’ve you got to lose?

“It's a game,” you begin and you don't miss the way they all seem to snap to attention. “Undertale, by the way. That's what it's called. Came out a few years ago. Actually just had its what… fourth anniversary the other week?”

Underswap Papyrus, likely envious of everyone else sitting but him, comes over to the couch and props himself against the opposite arm. “so… what. we’re just a buncha video game characters to you?” He appears to be frowning as he fishes a honey sucker from his hoodie pouch pocket and wedges the treat between his teeth.

“Mmmmmmm… no. Not exactly. Sans—the original one—” and you point to the blue-clad skeleton, “is technically the only video game character. Which by the way, congratulations on making it into Smash, even if it’s just as a costume.”

Sans’s expression twists in confusion, a bead of sweat dripping down the side of his skull as he responds, voice slightly higher pitched, “…thanks?” He has no idea what you’re talking about.

“You’re welcome. But as I was saying, Sans is the original, the main branch, as I’m sure you’re all familiar with that particular analogy. You,” and you point to the Papyrus, who quirks a brow, “and you,” you point to the scowling, sharp-toothed Sans whose scowl only tightens in response, “are from AUs—Alternate Universes created by fans curious about different takes on canon. Underswap and Underfell, respectively.”

It occurs to you, then, that maybe you should go at this a little lighter, maybe don’t be so blunt about everything… but. Well… you don’t really know how else to lay this down. You’ll apologize about any existential crises you induce later, you guess—asking for forgiveness over permission and all that. Besides, it’s not like you asked for this situation to unfold, either; it’s not like you know what the hell is going on. You’re pretty much in the same boat as these jokers.

The skeleton seated beside you growls (he likes to do that a lot, doesn’t he?) and twists to face you, the little lights in his eye sockets burning red hot.

“s’what? we’re s’posed t’believe yer a human from sum kinna reality where we ain’t even real? jus’ summin made up fer yer own sick entertainment?”

You recoil at the sheer animosity in his voice, back sinking into the worn padding of the couch’s arm. It’s a miracle you don’t just tumble over the side of the thing, honestly, with how far you pull away.

“Uh… I mean. No? You’re free to believe whatever you want but it’s not like I just decided to break into some random dingy basement in my lounge clothes for shits and giggles.”

He just stares at you, his scowl tightening, his sockets creasing and his face just absolutely scrunching in anger before he’s just. Gone. Poof! Shortcutted right the fuck outta here.

Well.

That was a thing that happened.

You can empathize with the guy to a certain degree but well. You don’t exactly want to spend too much energy thinking about things. Not right now. Like a lot of things in your life, you’ll deal with it later.

Brushing that exchange aside, you find yourself releasing a lot of pent up tension you hadn’t realized you were holding onto (in your shoulders, your neck, back, even your jaw ) and address the two remaining skeletons still sat with you. Sans doesn’t appear to be sweating anymore, though he does look like he’s thinking something over. Underswap Papyrus is much the same, though he’s taken to fiddling with the stick of his honey sucker.

“So hey,” you start, effectively drawing their attention, “got any popato chisps?”

You want to know if they taste any different from regular potato chips.

[vorefluff]

Drunk poker

This is the event that starts it all. This is where the Vore Blog Vlogging Times starts. Drunk poker. 

Drunk poker entails:

1) Being drunk. 2) No actual money exchanged. Just favors/dares/items. 3) All the rules are fucked up 4) Turns are out of order 5) Cheating all over the place, intentional or not (mostly by gryphon) 6) Reliant entirely on drunken memory as to what the bets were and who gets what 7) And a conversation the day after, straightening everything out and figuring out what the bets and everything was. Then decide collectively as a group whether it’s all valid and people are going to be held to it, or if it’s going to be forgotten and thrown away. 

There ain’t any vore in this one, and this is more the settup before the poker game, not the drunk poker game itself. It’s just short and silly.

Next story: https://vorefluff.tumblr.com/post/185113304474/vore-blog-vlogging-time

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

John is heading back to his room after grabbing a quick snack when Gryphon turns the corner and sees him. 

“Hey! John! I was just lookin’ fer ya!” Gryphon saw, grinning at him and leaning against the wall. Her face is flushed.

“Are you drunk?”

“Jus a little. I’mm tipsy.”

“Lemme know if you need me to drive you somewhere.”

“Noo, no, that’s not it. Ya wanna ge’ drunk and play poker with me?”

“I was just about to go back to studying. And I’m broke and don’t gamble.”

“Nno, no. No money. Favors and dares.”

John considers it. “...Lemme go get Blaze too then.”

“Yeah sure, whatever. Is that a yes then?”

“It’s a recipe for disaster that I’m definitely going to regret, but yes.”

“You got to get drunk though. You’re not allowed to play if yer not drunk, k? Same for Blazy Bitch.”

“Come up with that nickname yourself?”

“Yes. Very proud of it too.”

“Pfft. Play in the dining room?”

“What am I playin’ in the dining room?”

“Poker. I’m asking if you want to play poker in the dining room.”

“Oh. Yeh. Okay.”

“I’ll go get Blaze drunk then,” John says and goes to hunt down Blaze. He found Blaze chilling on the floor beside his bed reading a book. 

“Why are you on the floor reading instead of the bed?” John asks, confused.

“It’s comfier.”

“Really?”

“No. I fuckin’ fell off the bed earlier and got too lazy to get up again.”

“Wait was that sarcastic or actually what happened.”

“The world may never know.”

“Aw. Oh well. Do you wanna play drunk poker with Gryphon and I?”

“Oooo, I get to get drunk?”

“Mhmm.”

“You or Gryphon volunteering for that?”

“Me.”

“Kinda figured, but it was worth a shot.”

“What, you saying her blood is better?”

“Yes.”

“Fair, fair. Well you’re stuck with mine, sorry.”

“I mean honestly as long as I get drunk I don’t care whose it is.”

“Desperate, huh?”

“It’s a rare luxury for a goody two shoes vampire that can’t just jump a drunk in an alley.”

“True. Well come on. Oh yeah, with the drunk poker. No money, just favors and dares.”

“Bloody hell. Is it too late to back out then?”

“Well, if you don’t want to get drunk. It’s both or neither friendo.”

“Well fuck. I guess I don’t have a choice.”

“Good to hear it. Common,” John says, gesturing for Blaze to hurry up. 

“Don’t fkin rush me, binch,” Blaze says, getting up and bending the corner of the page to mark his spot in the book. 

“Sacrilege! Heresy! Blasphemy! How could you do that to the poor book! What did that book ever do to you?”

“It killed my family,” Blaze says, rolling his eyes and tossing it on the bed.

“Mhmm. Sure. I bet you didn’t give it a proper trial with a judge and jury,” John says as they make their way out to the kitchen.

“I’m the fkin’ accuser, witness, judge, and jury. All in one. The Ultimate Judge. God himself.”

“Uh huuuuuh.”

“Can you imagine that though? Me as a god? Pfft. All I’d do is lounge around and eat all the food I can’t enjoy as a vamp. Like potato chips. I’d be a cannibal - a couch potato eating potato chips. I’d be a horrible god.”

“Very true.”

“Hey you weren’t supposed to agree with me there.”

John shrugs, and rummages in the alcohol drawer. It takes him a little while to decide, but he finally settles on tequila. 

“Going for the hard stuff, huh?”

“Heck yeah.”

“You’re supposed to use the fuck word there.”

“Mmm, nah. Heck that. How much should I do?”

“6 shots.”

“Thaaaaaat’s a little too much there.”

“5 shots?”

“I think I’ll stick with just three.”

“Do ‘em all at once.”

“Are you the little devil on my shoulder or something?”

“Yes and I want to get drunk too hurry up.”

“We should get out a camera and put mics on everyone, so we’ve got recorded proof of whatever deals and dares are made.”

“That seems a little much, don’tcha think?”

“Eh, yeah,” John says, grabbing a shot glass and pouring his first shot of tequila. 

“Nnnnnnnow chug the rest of the bottle.”

“No.”

“Half the bottle?”

“Nope. It’s prolly a really really good thing you can’t drink straight up alcohol.”

“Why?”

“Downing the whole bottle at once without eating first would prolly put you in a coma.”

“Oh. Uh. Don’t do that then. That’s bad.”

“Oh really? I didn’t know that,” John says, throwing back his first shot and grinning at Blaze. 

“But you can do multiple at once fine, right?”

“Well you’re not really supposed to.”

“That’s not a no.”

“This stuff tastes nasty. I hope you appreciate what I’m doing for you here,” John says, downing another two shots. He grimaces and thumps his chest, then belches. “Really really nasty. Wooph. Excuse me.”

“Nice one. One more?”

John sighs and looks at Blaze. “Really?”

“Please?”

After a couple moments, John shakes his head and pours another shot. “The things I do for you. This is gonna kill me later, you know. You’re supposed to space them out more. This is it, no more shots,” John says, downing the last one. He coughs a few times and puts away the tequila. 

“How long until I get drunk too?”

“Probably about twenty minutes before you can drink for max effect. I dunno how it works for vamps and how much or how long it takes after that though.”

“What do we do until then?”

“I dunno. Ask Gryphon. She said we weren’t allowed to play until we were drunk, and we aren’t drunk yet.”

“Uhhhh can you ask Gryphon.”

“You really need to work on having a better relationship with her. We’re all on the same team.”

“Well yeah but she’s fokin’ scary.”

“Not really. She just has a low tolerance for jerks.”

“Are you saying that I’m a jerk?”

“I didn’t say it, you did.”

“Mreh. Fuck you.”

“No thank you.”

“I- stop doing that.”

“Nah. So are you gonna go ask Gryphon?”

“Nah.”

“Hey no fair, that’s my trick.”

“Nah.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Then it’s just annoying instead of clever.”

“It was never clever.”

“Heheh that rhymes. Never clever. Never clever cleaver beaver. Pfft.”

“Uh John, you alright there?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I just like rhymes. But never mind that, we need to ask Gryphon what we’re supposed to do while we wait for the tequila to kick in,” John says, planting his hands on Blaze’s shoulders, turning him around, and propelling him through the doorway in Gryphon’s direction.

“Wait what - feckin’ ‘ell.”

“Gryphon! What’re we supposed to do while we wait to get drunk?” John asks. 

“I dunno. Pin the tail on the donkey?” Gyphon suggests.

“I don’t think we have that game.”

“Nno no. We do. Jus get a ribbon and a tack. We already got our ass right here,” Gryphon says, gesturing to Blaze.

“Sorry, I ain’t gay.”

“What? How. What? How is that related to. What?” John says, confused.

Gryphon furrows her brows, trying to figure it out.

“The. Pin the tail on the donkey. The tack. I don’t want things in my ass.”

“Oh.”

“I made an attempt to be funny.”

“I don’t think it really worked,” John says.

“Yeah, I’ll just leave the gay jokes to you.”

“We should go out sometime,” John says, shoulder bumping Blaze.

“... was that supposed to be a gay joke?”

“Yeh.”

Gryphon snickers

“Why am I the butt of every bloody joke?”

“Cause you’re an ass,” Gryphon says. 

“No, that doesn’t work. You can’t use the same joke twice,” John scolds. 

“Can we not make that joke at all maybe.”

“Ooooooh noooooo, he’s offended! That’s it, cancel the missions, disband the team,” Gryphon says, putting her hands up.

Blaze grumbles. 

“So what’re we doing?” John asks again.

“I dunno.”

[kitstwistfellau]

Bucket List

This fic has two versions.

The first version, on AO3, contains triggering content. Link can be found HERE, but please mind yourself. 

The version under the cut is trigger-free. It is a nice, fluffy fic, and it shouldn’t give you any trouble. The listed tags and pairings are for the fic posted below. The AO3 version has its own tags and triggers posted.

Summary: There's so much to do once they reach the surface. And Twist wants to try everything.

Pairings: Very, very mild Cash/Twist and Twist/Slim.

Tags: Twist-centric, fluff, mild warning for brief skydiving. Background sads if you consider what a Bucket List is and why Twist has one.

-

Edge sighed, staring at the fourth attempt at a cake. He ran a hand down his face, while Twist just studied it, puzzled. “So…what’d I do wrong?”

“Well I think being born was likely your first mistake.”

“Hey! I was created in a lab, an’ I think ya know that.”

Edge sighed, rubbing the space between his sockets. “Are you quite certain you don’t just want to let me make the cake?”

“No!” Twist said, and Edge raised a brow-bone. Twist rubbed the back of his neck, looking away. “Sorry, darlin’. But, uh, this is import’nt, yeah?”

Edge sighed. “Fine. Let’s try this again. For the fifth time.”

Twist, infuriatingly, beamed at him.

-

“Hey, sweetheart, ya ever thought ‘bout goin’ skydivin’?”

“…you’re joking, right?”

“So tha’s a no?”

“twist. that’s an emphatic ‘no’ with a series of exclamation marks at the end of it.”

“…Oh. Well. Uh…so now that ya’ve thought ‘bout it, ya think maybe ya’d be in’erested? Hey. Hey! Rus? Where’re ya goin’?”

-

“Hey, darlin’? If ya could go anywhere in the world…where would ya go?”

Red blinked, taking a pull on his beer. “dunno. haven’ thought ‘bout it much, i guess.”

Staring up the ceiling, Twist said. “There’re so many places up ‘ere. So many things ta see, ya know? An’ not half ‘nough time ta see ‘em all.”

Red just grunted. “so where’d you go, then? if ya could go anywhere?”

“The moon,” Twist said, dead serious. Red chuckled and Twist cracked a grin. “Not sure. Ev’rest would be cool ta see. Fun ta climb, too.”

Red laughed. “you an’ me got different definitions ‘a ‘fun’.”

Twist glanced at him and winked, clinking his beer against Red’s. “Not always, sweetheart. Not always.” For a little while, he was quiet, then he asked, “If ya could fuck anyone in the world, who would it be?”

-

Twist sat beside Slim, watching his fingers move over the keys. “So…how d’ya do this, darlin’? Where do I put my fingers?”

Slim smiled serenely and stilled his hands. “here. like this.” Twist laid his hands overtop his and waited.

“Right. Now what?”

Slim chuckled. “we’ll start with something simple.” He slowly moved his fingers over the board, and Twist followed him doggedly, a hesitant rendition of ‘Hot Cross Buns’ sounding out. Slim pulled his hands away. “now do it on your own.”

Twist nodded and took a breath, fingers playing over the keys. “Like this?”

“yeah. like that. you’re doing really good.” Slim smiled softly, and Twist beamed, a rumbling purr rattling his bones.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Fer, ya know, teachin’ me. ‘preciate it.”

“of course. i’m…i’m happy to.” Slim blushed as he said it, and for a moment, they were both aware of how close they were sitting, aware of the warmth of the monster beside them. Then Twist cleared his throat and returned his attention to the piano.

“So…I jus’ keep doin’ this, or…?”

“oh. right. um. here. let me get the sheet music. you’ll, uh, you’ll need to know how to read it.”

-

“Hey, Pap. Got a question fer ya.”

“OH! HELLO, TWISTED ME. WHAT CAN I HELP YOU WITH?”

“Ya wanna go ta Washington with me? ‘pparently there’re monsters up ‘ere that never got driven Underground. They’re shy, though. Wanna see if I can draw ‘em out. Ya know. Make friends.”

“THAT’S AN EXCELLENT IDEA! AS AMBASSADOR, IT IS MY DUTY—NAY! MY PLEASURE TO FIND THESE MONSTERS AND REUNITE THEM WITH THEIR PEOPLE!”

“Sweet. Pack a bag. Plane leaves in��” He checked his watch. “Five hours.”

-

“Heya, darlin’!”

Cash just glared at him and went back to reading his newspaper. Twist scooted closer. Cash scooted away. Twist scooted closer again, and Cash was out of room on the couch. He didn’t say anything until Twist was close enough to put his chin on Cash’s shoulder and say, almost directly into his acoustic meatus, “Whatcha doin’?”

“trying not to lose my patience. what do you want?”

“You’re inta gamblin’ an’ shit, right? A real high roller?”

Cash’s interest was peaked, but he tried not to show it. “you could say that, yes.”

“…So would ya be in’erested in goin’ ta Vegas with me? Got tickets to a magic show.” Cash shook out the newspaper, turning the page. “But tha’s more my thing than yers, I bet. Reserved the penthouse suite at….” He tilted his head back. “The Bellagio? Yeah. That sounds right. Figured tha’s a lot a space fer little ol’ me. More’n enough room fer a friend.” Cash glanced at him, brow-bone raised.

“twist. i’ve seen your pay check. how the fuck did you—?”

Twist smiled slowly and raised a hand, holding up Cash’s wallet. “Right. Yeah. So. Might’ve misspoke b’fore. You reserved a room at the Bellagio. Rented a convertible too, fer the trip out that way. Pretty little thing. Real smooth ride. Should—“

“you little—!” Cash snatched his wallet back and glared at him. Twist just grinned, somehow managing to look innocent after committing actual theft. He flipped through his wallet to make sure he hadn’t stolen anything else. “you picked my pocket?! when?”

Twist shrugged. “Sorry, sweetheart. You c’n take the rat outta the gutter, but ya can’t take the gutter outta the rat, I guess.”

Cash shook his head…but he was eyeing Twist with calculation now. “…yeah. i bet. and i bet a gutter-rat like you has more than a few tricks up his sleeve.”

A slow smile spread across Twist’s face, and he indeed produced a coin from seemingly nowhere. “Yeah. Ya could say that, darlin’.”

Cash grunted, looking between Twist and his recovered wallet. It had been ages since someone had rolled him like that. He could put those talents to good use. Especially in a place like Vegas. With another calculated look, he declared, “fine. but you’re sleeping on the floor.”

“Aw, darlin’—“ But a particularly harsh glare silenced him. It didn’t wipe the smug grin off his face, though.

-

Blue looked between Twist and the long trench filled with hot coals. He could feel the heat radiating off of them. “I’m not so sure about this.”

“Aw, c’mon, darlin’. Ya ain’t havin’ second thoughts are ya?”

Blue took a breath. “Second thoughts, yes. And third thoughts. Maybe even fourth thoughts.”

Twist leaned down, planting his hands on Blue’s shoulders. “Ya remember what they said durin’ class, yeah? Jus’ keep walkin’ an’ stay calm. Don’ run. Don’ rush it, and don’ stop no matter what. Here. I’ll go first, if it’ll make ya feel better ‘bout it.”

Blue shook his head. “No. No. I can do it. Just. Give me a moment.” He took a deep breath, and started across, blocking out Twist’s encouraging shouts.

At the end of the trench, when his bare feet were back on cool grass, all his breath left him in a rush and a huge grin lit up his face. He ran to his brother—watching anxiously from the sidelines—and hugged him, chattering excitedly while they watched Twist walk across the coals himself. A huge smile lit his face, and he joined them soon enough, laughing as he lifted them both off the ground in a celebratory hug.

-

Red grinned as he opened the mailbox, pulling out the latest series of post cards. There was one with a picture of Mount Everest on the front. The others were all places he couldn’t recognize, the caption on the bottom of the card little more than gibberish to his uneducated sockets. The back of each card was filled with Twist’s shockingly neat writing, narrating his journey across Nepal and the Himalayas.

He brought the cards inside, reading the backs as he drank his morning cup of coffee. Smiling to himself, he pinned the fresh batch of post cards to the corkboard. There was already a collage of similar cards from all over the world pinned to it.

Maybe Twist was right. Maybe there wasn’t enough time to see everything, but damn if the crazy fucker wasn’t trying his best.

-

“how did you talk me into this?” Rus demanded, knees shaking as the door of the plane was thrown open.

“Same way I talked my way inta bed with Cash. Persistence.”

Rus blinked. “…what?”

But Twist was grinning as his jump partner strapped him into the tandem harness. The instructor was reminding Rus that he would be just fine. He didn’t have to do anything—just let his jump partner do all the work. His soul pounded, terrified. But Twist and his partner were already out the door, and now everyone was looking at him and—

They.

They were.

Falling!

Rus swore at the top of his voice all the way down, the wind whipping his words away until even he couldn’t hear what he was saying. His soul only settled marginally when the parachute deployed and—after the initial jerk against the harness—they started to drift down at a more leisurely pace. When they landed, though, his knees were shaking and, if not for his flight partner, he’d likely have allowed himself to slip bonelessly to the ground in gratitude.

Twist, infuriatingly, was laughing recklessly and swearing in pure, undiluted joy. “Fuck yeah! Yes! Fucking hell!” Manic grin in place, he looked back at Rus and said, “We’ve gotta do that again.”

Rus, speechless, gave him both middle fingers—dissatisfied when Twist’s only response was another joyous whoop.

-

“Next time, ya wanna try Jersey? Heard there’s a monster out that way with a real nasty reputation. Poor guy’s prob’ly jus’ lonely.”

“HMMM. I SUPPOSE.” Papyrus rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “BUT I THINK WE SHOULD DO MORE RESEARCH NEXT TIME. I’M NOT SURE THE LOCALS TOOK OUR QUEST VERY SERIOUSLY. AND I’M QUITE CERTAIN ‘BIGFOOT’ IS SOME KIND OF PEJORATIVE.”

Twist nodded seriously. “Yeah. Yer prob’ly right. Can’t say I’d be all that keen ta come say ‘hi’ if someone was yellin’ racial slurs at me either. Can’t really blame the poor guy.”

Papyrus patted him on the back. “I KNOW YOU’RE DISAPPOINTED, TWISTED-ME, BUT WE DID LEAVE THEM SOME BROCHURES! I’M CERTAIN THEY’LL CALL US ONCE THEY REALIZE OUR INTENTIONS ARE ONLY GOOD.”

He brightened at that. “Yeah. Yeah!” He knocked his shoulder against Papyrus’. “Thanks, darlin’. Ya always know jus’ what ta say.”

Papyrus beamed. “NOW…JERSEY, YOU SAY?”

-

Twist’s fingers played across the keys. He stumbled in a few places, and he hit a few wrong notes, but the melody was recognizable, and his playing was soft and sweet—at odds with the look of intense concentration on his face. The song came to an end and he sat back, features inscrutable.

“something wrong?” Slim asked.

“…This is hard, sweetheart. Harder’n I expected.”

Slim nodded sagely. “yeah.” He sat beside Twist and, nudging him to make room, set his hands on the keys. His fingers flowed over the board, smooth and easy. He relaxed into it, smiling softly. “it takes time.”

“Time,” Twist echoed. “Yeah.”

Slim eyed him. “twist?”

He shook his head, his smile returning—just as bright as always. “Show me how it goes again?”

For a moment, Slim hesitated, tempted to push him. Instead, he shook away his unease and set about showing Twist how the song was played once more.

-

Smiling proudly, Twist carried the cake out to the dining room, singing ‘Happy Birthday’ at the top of his voice. Never mind that neither of them actually knew what day they’d been ‘born’. It was the thought that mattered. Blackberry was smiling and kicking his feet, pleased to be the center of attention. The others stood around the table, singing as well. Carefully, Twist set the cake on the table, soul warming when Blackberry leaned over the table to blow out the candles as the song came to an end.

He studied the cake. “Oh, wow, Edge you really outdid yourself this time! This is beautiful!”

“I didn’t make it,” Edge said, a very slight smile softening his features almost imperceptibly.

Blackberry cocked his head. “Blue?” Blue shook his head too. “Um…did you…buy…it?” They all shook their heads. “Then…who…?” Twist smiled and winked at his brother, pretending not to be hurt when Blackberry’s face fell a little. “Papy? You…? Really?”

“Yep!” Twist said, chin lifted. “Wan’ed ta su’prise ya.”

Blackberry did a remarkable job of hiding his disappointment. “Oh, Papy—you didn’t have to do that!” he said, voice bright.

“I know but….” He scuffed a foot against the floor. “Was important ta me. Dunno why. Jus’. Wan’ed ta do it.”

Blackberry’s smile grew more genuine. “Aw. Papy….”

“would someone just cut the fucking cake?” Cash asked gruffly. “you two are making me sick.”

Edge calmly cuffed him, earning a glare and a rude gesture. “Blackberry? Would you care to do the honors?”

Nodding eagerly, Blackberry grabbed the knife and—leaning away from the cake—cut through the frosting and the sponge. The smell of chocolate wafted through the air, rich and heady. When the cake failed to explode, Blackberry leaned close and observed, “Oh, wow. It looks…it looks really good, Papy!” He didn’t quite manage to hide his surprise, but Twist couldn’t exactly blame him for that.

“Hopefully it tastes good, too,” Twist said, scratching at the back of his neck. After several long sessions with Edge, he’d finally managed to consistently produce a cake that wasn’t just edible but tasted good. Still, Edge hadn’t been there to help him out this time. He might have fucked it up without the other skeleton around to monitor his progress.

“I’M SURE IT’S DELICIOUS, TWISTED-ME.” No one really commented on that, but there were a few uneasy glances exchanged. Edge, however, just stared back at him coolly and…confidently? Somehow, that made Twist’s shoulders relax marginally.

“Well?” Edge said, “You’re the guest of honor, Blackberry. It only seems fair you get the first bite.”

Blackberry hesitated, but ultimately nodded. “Yes! You’re…You’re absolutely right! As the birthday boy I am obligated—honored to have the first piece!”

He beamed at his brother, but Twist could see the strain in his cheekbones and around his sockets. He cut a piece of cake—a small piece, given Blackberry’s usual opinion that more was better—and set it on a plate. Daintily, he used a fork to cut a small piece away. He lifted the fork, holding it in front of his face as if to study it before putting it in his mouth. Smiling uneasily, he eyed Twist and, with a nearly imperceptible fortifying breath, took a bite.

His sockets went wide and his pupils burst into stars. Still holding the fork, he asked, “Papy? You made this? Really?”

Soul pounding so hard he could nearly hear it echoing in his skull, Twist nodded eagerly, breathing still a little unsteady. “So it’s...it’s good?”

“Good?” Blackberry asked, “It’s incredible!”

Twist didn’t doubt his word. The hesitance and traces of uneasiness were all gone. He cheerfully cut the rest of the cake and split it amongst the other guests, making sure to give himself another—more generous—slice. And when Twist took the first bite, his bones went limp with relief. He wasn’t exactly a fan of chocolate, but he knew that this was what the cake was supposed to taste like—sweet but not cloying, rich and moist.

Soul still fluttering in a mix of relief and adrenaline, he looked up and caught Edge’s socket—and grinned fiercely when Edge offered him a nearly imperceptible nod of approval.

[lil-blue-one]

In Secret: Sparks and Flames

Guess who finally got her shit together and posted the rest of her fic? If you guessed me, you’re right! Thank @kmmcm for reminding me to post here too.

Gihi. She's tired... Leavin' herself wide open. I struck at the hole in her defenses, but even as tired as she was, Shrimp was fast. She lurched backwards, preventing connection with my gloved fists. It left her off balance though. Quick as a thought, I dropped and spun, knocking her feet out from under her.

I knew she had to be struggling for breath, but I wasn't going to give it to her easily. In a flash I was astride her tiny torso, pinning her shapely arms to the floor. I firmly focused my attention on making sure I didn't hurt her, and not on the little strip of skin I could see between her tight grey tank top and those ridiculously bright orange shorts. It wasn't hard to keep my weight off of her, but it was a challenge to keep my mind off the warmth I could feel where I touched her.

I brought my face directly in front of hers, a smug grin creeping across my face. Her eyes... Damn... So beautiful. Those hazel eyes stared up at me, determination and rage simmering just under the surface.

"Make yer move, Shrimp." I growled at her, running through possible escapes in my head to decide which she was mostly likely to use. Levy grinned wickedly and my confidence slipped a little. She was smart enough to have figured something out. She made a play to free her hands, and I shifted my attention to making sure my grip wasn't going to hurt her as she struggled. Just as I glanced to my hands, her head came up and I felt her lips on mine. I froze, locking my gaze onto hers.

What the... Before my stupid brain could catch up enough with what had happened for me to kiss her back, I felt her shifting underneath me. I threw myself with the push from her hips, making sure I landed next to her, and not on top of her. Her deceptively strong hands snatched the front of my shirt, pulling her over me.

Still, all I could do was stare at her. Shrimp just sat there for a second, staring at me. "So, I win?" She asked, and then jumped up and turned away. I saw a few of the kids smothering giggles and smiles as she walked off the mat.

I stayed there for another moment, trying to force my thoughts to...anything other than her lips. Her scent had already been driving me mad, but then her touch, the electricity coursing through me. I heard another snicker off to the side and snapped my attention back to the task at hand. I sat up and rose to my feet, glaring around at the kids.

"That obviously ain't a tactic I would say to use against an attacker. It MIGHT work for ya. But I doubt it." I was really proud of the shrimp, actually. She didn't hesitate to use the strengths she had. If she hadn't disarmed me so thoroughly with that... sneak attack... she probably wouldn't have been able to break free. I glanced at the door to the showers, wondering if she was going to help me with the kids' magic practice or not.

"Alrigh'. Get in yer teams." I walked around the mat as the bastards paired off and made corrections to their stances. They were minor corrections, these kids being quick studies. Finally, the pairs were set up to my liking and I stood off the mat, watching. This wasn't very aggressive. With them all on the mat, they were only taking turns performing strikes and blocking. My ears perked up at the sound of the door closing, but I forced myself to stay still. Whipping around to stare at her would only frighten the tiny woman.

God she's beautiful. Her azure hair was down around her shoulders now, swaying as she walked up to the mat again. She smiled at one of the children, her gaze shifting around the room as she walked. Levy wouldn't meet my eyes, but it didn't feel like she was avoiding me. She just looked around, watching the kids. I watched her, resisting the urge to grab her and drag her outside. I couldn't tell if the urge was to talk to her or kiss her again. Maybe both.

Well shit, Gajeel. Ya got yerself in deep now...

"Good. Enough. Stretch and do what ya need to get ready fer magic." With excited yells, the brats scattered. Shrimp finally looked at me, walking over. "You know... We could use some help with some of these kids. I could get Nats-"

"No!" I didn't mean to snap so loud, but I didn't want anyone, especially Salamander here. I hated that she shrank away from me, and sighed, forcing myself to relax. "I'm sorry Shorty, I jus' don't want anyone else involved." She looked away from me as she answered, "I know. I don't understand it, but I know. Our guild is like a family, Gajeel. No one would do anything to hurt these kids. Some day, I hope you understand that."

I didn't really have a response for that, so I just folded my arms and turned to look at the brats who were returning. I know YOU trust 'em Shrimp. And I'm gettin' there. But, these are my brats. I'm not riskin' yer guildmates thinkin' they know what's best and takin' the kids away from each other.

"Miss Levy! Miss Levy!" Little Steven came running up, his eyes bright. "Lookit!" He slid to a stop in front of her and closed his eyes, scrunching his nose in concentration. Suddenly, he opened his eyes and said, "First Light!" A glow started in his chest, emitting a soft light into the room. Levy clapped happily, "Oh, Steven, that's wonderful!" The boy dispelled his magic, but was still glowing with pride at his mentor's approval.

"Look Miss! I learned a new one too!" Not to be outdone by his friend, James popped up, his blue hair damp from a hurried shower. He lifted up a light pen Shrimp had given him and started writing in the air. "Solid Script: Flowers!" The word appeared, falling into her outstretched hands. It was barely bigger than my own hand, the kid not having much power yet, but he was still extremely happy with himself.

Shrimp pulled both boys into a hug, carefully cradling her flowers. "Boys! I'm so proud of you both!" They blushed, the little bastards hugging her back. I looked away, an inaudible growl rumbling in the back of my throat. I glared around at the other brats, fighting down the sudden territorial rage in the back of my mind. Get yer head right, idiot. She just did that to distract ya. She ain't yers. She don't want ya. "Alrigh', ya know yer drills, get to 'em!" I barked out, and the magic began.

We hadn't been working very long when I heard a yell and smelled burnt hair. Our little firestarter, Kasai, had gotten too close to his partner, Saki, and her shirt had caught. I had taken only two steps when a deep blue...something flew past my head. Just before it collided with the fire, I saw the letters W and A. I whipped my head to see the shrimp standing barely three feet away from me, two fingers raised in the air, her eyes wide. I looked back at the kids and saw that Kasai and Saki were drenched and giggling, adrenaline kicking in.

With a grunt I looked them over for burns. "This is why I said no magic without us, yeah?" They both nodded, wide eyed, trying to choke back their giggles. I patted Kasai on the head roughly, "Now, Pyro, do it right."

"Wha?!" I glared at him and folded my arms, not offering any other explanation. "Al-alrigh', " he stammered out, putting the heels of his hands together, one open and pointing down and the other with just two fingers sticking up. A magic circle appeared in front of his hands, and he cupped them, a small flame appearing. He stared at it in concentration and Saki held up a bucket of water, ready to douse the flames if he lost control again. She'd had it before too, but had been too shocked to do anything with it.

Kasai poured power into the flame, watching it flicker and grow. "Good. Now put it out." I barked at him after he'd held the spark for a few minutes and he closed his hands together, snuffing out the fire. "Cool! If'n I coul' et flame like tha' Salamander'd be better though." I could almost hear the shrimp cringing at the boy's speech, but she didn't correct him. With a grunt, I turned away and checked the other bastards.

Sam was teleporting around the room, hiding in different spots, her partner trying to find her. She was trying to get to where she could land in smaller spaces, without being afraid of appearing inside a wall or something. Her partner was a boy with Telepathy magic. He was learning focus, sitting blindfolded and finding just her thoughts out of all of them floating around, and following them to her location. Shrimp had a huge talk with him about the ethics behind reading thoughts a few lessons ago; you shouldn't read thoughts without permission unless you're in danger, never dig for information, just skim surface thoughts, that sort of thing. Apparently, her research had told her that telepaths could feel a "mind presence" and know who it was, kind of like my sense of smell. Rat seemed to be doing well with that part.

The rest of the practice was uneventful, the brats all making a lot of progress. One or two of the youngest started to flag, looking like they were going to pass out. I knew they wouldn't admit it while their friends were still going, so I called a halt. "Alrigh', enough for the day. Listen up. I'm gonna be gone a few days, so no magic. Shrimp may come do letters an' figurin' with ya, but that's up to her. Go rest." With a sigh of relief, several collapsed where they stood, although a few scuttled away to their rooms first.

I headed towards the door and heard her fall into step behind me. Focusing on my steps instead of hers, I fought back the urge to scoop her into my arms and kiss her. Clearing my throat, I picked a safe subject instead, "That was quick movin', Shrimp. Good job." She giggled behind me and my heart stopped for a second. "Well, Gajeel, I have been using my magic for a long time now. And I am experienced at dealing with an explosive fire mage. I'd certainly hope I'd be quick at putting out fires by now."

"Oh. Right. Salamander sure does start a lot of fires." We lapsed into silence as we walked. I started to get uneasy, when I realized she had stopped walking. I turned to see her staring at her feet, her face turning red. "Shrimp?" I stepped back to her, bending a little to meet her eyes. "Oii! What's the matter?"

"N-nothing is the matter, Gajeel. Only..." Her beautiful eyes flicked up, and then her lips were meeting mine. I didn't freeze this time. The exact opposite. A fire started in my gut, spreading up into my chest and down my arms. I slipped an arm around her waist, stumbling back against the wall and pulling her with me. She gasped and pulled back when I collided with the wall.

We stood for a moment, panting for breath. I searched Levy's face carefully, trying to figure out what was going through her brilliant mind. I raked my gaze over her flushed cheeks, and settled on her sweet smile before pulling her to me again. She slid her arms around my neck, tangling her fingers into my hair. Damn. She tastes like strawberries.

Fanfiction.net - https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12352494/18/In-Secret

Ao3 - http://archiveofourown.org/works/9774311/chapters/26068101

[eorzean-wayfinder]

Not even for Family - Entry #25 - Obsolete

Whenever those colors appeared in port Gabriel knew that it was going to be a bad day, or if nothing else a very long one. The Reticent Lady only pulled into Limsa port once ever few moons, but it was always enough that Gabriel dreaded it like some women dreaded their moonflow.

He could hear the crew leaving the ship before he could see them. Gabriel's father's voice booming down the dock, drowning out all the others and the voice only became louder as he came into view. Gabriel's father, Sigurd, was one of the largest highlander men he'd ever known, and the large voice that went with it. Sigurd was at least, generally a jovial man with a large smile and a large laugh. He loved his family very much, but as Gabriel found from experience he could be a stubborn ass especially when it came to his sons continuing on the family tradition.

Which his oldest son had no interest in what so ever.

"Gabriel!" He boomed with a big smile, holding out his arms towards his son. "I swear ye look more like your mother every time I see ye and just as tall too!" he laughs as he pulls Gabriel in for a tight hug, pinning Gabriels' arms to his sides before letting him go with a pat on his shoulder rough enough to make him stagger a moment. "Now Gabe we don't got no cargo to drop off so we're good ta jus’ head inta the city right?"

Gabriel studied his father's face a moment which stayed a pleasant neutral and then looked over to his brother Troy, who just smirked and shrugged. Troy was only about a year younger than Gabriel, shorter by about a fulm and had much more hyuran features, but otherwise there was no mistaking the two were brothers and they'd often been mistaken for twins. The other members of the crew though wouldn't meet Gabriel's eyes.

"Chocobo shit father. What is your cargo and where are you taking it?" he sighed angrily. "You know you can't just bring whatever you want in to port. There are regulations on everything, even those items that you get through piracy." Gabriel said and turned back to the assessors stand for his log book. "Now, what items are you declaring?"

"Nothing," Sigurd continued stubbornly. "Yer getting too big for yer britches boy, and yer not to old fer me to bend you over my knee like when ye were a little one." he said getting up in Gabriel's face, though his expression softens after a moment. "Come on boy, ye know pirating isn't as profitable as it used ta be. Even with the sanctions from the admiral. Now give yer ol' man a break yeah?"

Gabriel took a deep breath, and stepped away from his father and men, turning his back on them. There was a time where he wanted nothing more to be jsut like his father but... it had been a long time ago and things were changing too much in Eorzea. "Your way of life is obsolete father. The sooner you figure this out, the better." he said coldly, even if it sounded a little strained. "There will be guards posted to your ship. If any cargo is removed from it you will be arrested and face a fine." He paused for a moment hearing his father begin to protest. "The law is the law," He continued before Sigurd could say more. "And it cannot be broken or bent... even for family."

[rfsak2]

Inappropriate

Inappropriate Summary: He was a gentleman and she was a lady but they weren’t always appropriate. Jack Lowden/Reader  Warnings: Tension, sexiness

From now on, these are probably going to be a fair bit less chronological. Also, I’m not sure where some of this came from.. I think I’m in a mood...

“Let me get ‘er.”

She put the last dish in the washer and turned toward the kitchen door as Jack poked his head into the kitchen. “The folks from Stewart an’ Christie wanted a word wit’ ye.”

She smiled. “Whatever for?”

He shrugged and shepherded her into the living room. “Jus’ go, lovie.”

Shaking her head, she hushed Angus as he began to get noisily restless and moved to sit next to the puppy on the couch. “Hello!”

The man, a marketing executive for Stewart and Christie, smiled. “Yer right, Jack, she’s a bonnie little lass, isn’t she?”

Jack smiled. “I’m a lucky man.”

She blushed and rolled her eyes at Jack, before turning back to the skype call. “Did you need something, sir?”

The man nodded. “We had thought, love, tha’ we could make somethin’ fer ye as well. It’d be great to have a couple such as yerselves to represent the brand at the Festival.”

“Oh!” She grinned. “That would be lovely.”

“Yer besotted boyfriend,” he paused to grin at Jack, who blushed, “also reminded us that yer a verra talented photographer. We were wonderin’ if ye’d like to do Jack’s shoot?”

“Even though I’m not Scottish?”

“I think ye could be considered an honorary Scot given who yer datin’.” The older man winked.

Jack grinned. “She’s got a little Scottish in her, I reckon.”

She shot him a confused look but didn’t correct him, eventually shaking her head and turning back to the computer. “I would love to.” She nodded. “Absolutely. I love taking pictures of Jack.”

“Great! We’ll get in touch once everythin’ is finalized. We’ll need yer measurements, of course.”

She nodded and hit the end call button when everything had been wrapped up. Turning to Jack, she smiled. “You know I’m not Scottish, like at all… right? I don’t want you to feel deceived.”

He grinned a tad slyly. “Och… I dinnae ken, hennie. Ye had some Scot in ye las’ night.” He leaned over and kissed her, before standing and leaving the room.

She sat and stewed on that for a moment more.

What had happened last night?

It had been a fairly normal night. They hadn’t done anything unusual. Jack had worked through a new script and she had helped him run lines for most of the night, while she had edited photos from a friend’s wedding. Then they had gone to be-

“Jack Andrew Lowden!” She jumped to her feet and followed the sound of his cackling laughter to the bedroom.

He grinned at her from his seat on the bed. “Aye, hennie?”

“Don’t you ‘aye, hennie’ me.” She swatted at his arm. “Did you just make a joke about.. about being inside me in front of people I don’t even know?”

He laughed and she shoved at his shoulder, the blond man falling back. “Technically I made the joke in front of ye, baby.”

“There is no ‘technically’! You just made-” He stood quickly and kissed her, but she pushed him away and he fell back on the bed still cackling. “No, I don’t think that’s gonna work, mister.”

“Och.. lovie, they had no idea. No need to be angry.”

She grabbed a pillow and hit him in the chest, causing him to cackle all the louder. Angus jumped on the bed and joined in the chaos, barking and nipping at Jack’s ears. “I can’t believe the gall! You lout!”

“Away wit’ ye, beastie.” He shooed away Angus and pulled Y/N to the bed, pinning her quickly. “Why are ye haverin’, love? They know we have sex. They know I spend every minute I can in between your gorgeous thighs.” She blushed and he grinned, bending his head to ghost the tip of his nose over her clavicle. “Every single person we come in contact wit’, every single one, knows ye’re mine.”

The minute he had had her pinned underneath him, her breath started to come in increasingly shorter pants. She gasped his name as he started pressing open-mouthed kisses to the tops of her breasts.

He hummed and lifted one hand to pulled her neckline further down. He pulled the cup of her bra out of the way and worked a hickey into the skin revealed there.

“I’m still very-” gasp “angry with you, Jack.”

“Sure ye are, hen.”

**

She checked the focus on her camera and did a quick test shot of Jack, where he stood against the brick wall. She checked the photo and smiled. “That’s quite the smoulder you got there, baby.”

Jack grinned and chuckled. “I can see right down yer dress, hen.”

She shrugged and winked at him, a smirk twisting her rouged lips. “Good. Keep your eyes there and we should get some good pictures.”

Bobby, her assistant, barely batted an eye, accustomed as he was to hearing the near constant banter between the couple. “Might need to crop in close to avoid anything untoward.”

Y/N shook her head. “Nah, those jeans are tight enough, aren’t they, Jack?”

Jack grinned, eyes on her lips. “Ye lookin’, lass?”

“I’m always lookin’.” She clicked a few photos.

Bobby huffed. “Cool it, you two.”

They did and they managed a solid hour of professional photography, before Y/N thought it necessary to fix Jack’s hair.

It probably wasn’t but she wanted to touch him. Badly.

Jack’s eyes were still very firmly focused on her cleavage, well showcased in this dress, as he leant over so she could comfortably reach his hair. He had a feeling that all of this was on purpose.

She smiled and blew a kiss at him, aware of her lipstick, hand trailing down from his shoulder to suspiciously low on his stomach. “There, much better.”

Jack straightened and then leaned back over to speak directly into her ear, crowding into her space. “Ye keep tryin’ t’wind me up, hennie, and I’m gonna bend ye over tha’ vanity when we get back to th’room.”

She giggled. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

He grinned, all teeth. “I’m gonna fuck ye raw t’night.”

“Again. That’s not a punishment.” She started backing up, but Jack grabbed her hand gently and pulled her back to him, locking an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him.

He mouthed against her throat. “Yer not gonna be able t’sit right fer a week.” Bobby blushed, not really able to hear what he was saying but catching the tone, and wandered a couple steps away. “Makes fer a long train back t’London.”

She sucked in a breath, flushed, breasts pushing against the neckline of her dress and his chest with every stuttering inhale. She swallowed dryly and all but whispered, “Promises, promises.”

Jack grinned. “Have I ever let ye down or welched on a promise, love?”

She bit her lip and shook her head.

“I wouldn’t assume I would now, lovie.” He kissed her neck, beard rasping her skin just right.

Bobby coughed into his fist. “They wanted a shot of both of you too. Should we go ahead and do that then?”

She nodded, still struggling to control her breathing and passed her camera back to her still blushing assistant, eyes locked on Jack’s.

Bobby took a lot of photos in the next ten minutes, some painfully posed, looking like they came from a catalogue, but the one they ended up using, the one that was posted to Twitter for all the world to see, was the first shot he got.

Jack, leaning back against the brick wall, one arm around her waist, holding her to him, the other hand on her thigh, inching the pretty tweed of her dress up. He stared the camera down, smug and self-assured.

She was looking back at the camera over her shoulder, painted red lips parted in a gentle ‘o’, her only visible hand against his chest.

She read some of the comments with a blush, but hell if she didn’t squirm in her seat the entire six hour train ride back to London.

Jack's hand sat heavy and warm on her knee, smirking and smug, as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I told ya so.”

**

She sighed heavily and sorted through the dresses, trying to rule out dresses that were clearly not going to work. She fingered the fine grey wool of a Dior dress that immediately caught her eye and smiled.

“Nope.”

She turned over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow at Jack. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”

He smiled and kissed her shoulder, one hand absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of her silk dressing gown. “Yer too pretty fer tha’ dress.”

She scoffed. “It’s Dior, Jack. That’s not possible.”

“It’s definitely possible, hennie. Yer bloody gorgeous and that dress is boring.”

Shaking her head, she kissed the underside of his chin and chuckled. “Okay, rooster, which do you prefer then?”

He parted the rack, revealing a red silk Antonio Grimaldi  dress.

She considered it, running her fingers over the heavy beading that encrusted the open back. “It is pretty but it’s a bit much don’t you think?”

“M’love, ye’ve been nominated fer yer ferst Golden Globe, is anythin’ too much?” He leaned in closer, lips against the shell of her ear. “Besides, yer gonna be so sexy in red.” His hand coasted up her inner thigh underneath the silk. “I’m not gonna be able t’keep me hands aff ya.”

She shivered and made a feeble attempt to push his hand away. “Jack…”

He nibbled on her earlobe and groaned lowly in her ear, eyes casting around looking for the stylist. “Shh.. She’s lookin’ fer more dresses...or shoes… whateva.” He mouthed hotly at her jaw. “...not payin’ ‘ttention…”

She gasped as his hand cupped her intimately, grinding the heel of his hand against her with just enough pressure to have her knees threatening to buckle. “You’re gonna get us kicked out, rooster.”

He grinned against her neck. “Ye love it… I can feel it.”

She bit her lip and stifled a moan as his finger worked its-

Clack, Clack

Jack straightened so abruptly that her head spun.

The woman smiled widely, none the wiser, Y/N blushed guiltily none the less. “What do you think of my selections?”

Smiling shyly, Y/N smiled. “I’m partial to the two Diors,” she indicated the grey wool dress as well as a floral embroidered silk dress next to it, “Jack prefers the red Grimaldi.”

She nodded and pulled all three dresses from the rack, hanging them in a row for comparison. “Men always prefer red.” She smiled. “What do you think of it?”

“I don’t mind the color, I just think the beading is…”

“Too much?” She nodded. “I agree. I don’t think it really fits with the majority of your aesthetic choices. But still, we should try it on, yeah? If only for your audience.”

Jack nodded and took his seat, winking at her. “Aye, try it on, hennie.”

Smiling, the stylist went back to the rack, grabbing another red dress. “This Dior is much more simple but still red. I think this might be more your style.”

Y/N fingered the fine tulle. “It can be lined?”

She nodded.

“I like it. It’s very soft… romantic.”

Jack smiled. “I may like tha’ one more, hennie.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because the skirt is sheer?”

Jack shrugged, grinning. “I jus’ like ye in red. Try it on, lass.”

“No promises, baby. I still like the floral one.”

“Lovie, t’floral one is pretty enough, granted, but t’red one… now tha’ one is phenomenal.” He winked. “It’s yer nigh’, gorgeous, I wan’ ye t’stand oot as ye ought te.”

She nodded. “I’ll try it on, baby.”

“Yer gonna look beautiful in anythin’ ye try hennie.” He smiled. “Don’t fret.”

She blew him a kiss as she followed the stylist back towards the dressing rooms.

A few moments later, she stood on the pedestal in front of the mirror. She fluffed the red tulle skirt and smoothed the pleated bodice. “What do you think, rooster? Is this the one?”

He stood, meeting her eyes in the mirror, and licked his lips. She blushed and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the stylist look pointedly away.

“Wha’ do ye think, hennie?”

“I like it. I’m actually quite pleased with the color.”

“I’m not gonna say I told ye so…” He set his hand in the small of her back and kissed her neck, rasping in her ear, “Yer so fuckin’ sexy.”

She knocked foreheads with him. “I love you.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I love you too, gorgeous girl.”

She smiled at him and turned to the stylist. “Do you think it’s fancy enough for the Globes?”

The stylist, who was still blushing, nodded. “Once it’s fully lined and with the right shoes and clutch, it’ll will be perfect.” She smiled. “You’re young, you can get away with just about anything. Especially if your date is dressed to match.”

She chuckled and winked at Jack. “That’s the next thing on our list, but I’m not worried. He’d look good in a paper sack.”

**

She smiled and chatted with the Stewart and Christie receptionist, Anne, while Jack disappeared into the fitting room with George, the tailor.

“What are ye wearin’?”

Y/N smiled. “Dior.”

Anne sighed wistfully. “I love Dior.”

“I know, me too.” She made a little nervous motion. “I’m so excited!”

Anne grinned. “We’re all rootin’ fer ye!”

“Thanks.”

“What do ye reckon he’ll wear?”

Shrugging, Y/N looked down and fingered some of the fine wool swatches she had been handed. “He’s been goin’ on about wearing a leather jacket over a tweed waistcoat.”

“That could be very nice.”

“Aye… I agree. But then I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in something that I didn’t like on him. He’s bloody gorgeous.”

Anne giggled. “Yer a lucky girl, for sure.”

The door opened and Jack stepped out in a pair of well-fitted dark grey trousers and a waistcoat that hugged him in all the right places, made out of a lighter grey tweed. He adjusted the black tie and smoothed the collar of the white shirt before turning toward her. “Wha’ do’ye think, hennie?”

She excused herself and made her way toward the love of her life. “I like it. Well done.”

George smiled. “Thank ye, ma’am. Now th’moment of truth. We don’t normally do leather jackets.” He held the jacket out and helped Jack into it.

As soon as George stepped away, she had to bite her lip to physically hold back the moan of approval. Stewart and Christie had really outdone themselves. They were truly artists of the cloth.

The jacket was made of an exceptionally fine black leather, soft and supple, lined in red satin to match her dress. It fit perfectly, molding to his broad shoulders and hugging his torso well.

T’was a thing of beauty. She looked forward to helping him out of it later.

“Ma’am?”

She hummed and caught Jack’s knowing eyes in the mirror. “Sorry?”

“How do ye like it, ma’am?”

She blushed and ignored Jack’s grin. “It’s beautiful work. Thank you.”

George nodded. “T’was a bit nervy fer a wee bit, but it turned out well.”

Jack nodded. “Thank ye, mate. It’s wonderful.” He leaned over to shake George’s hand. “Now I won’t embarrass th’missus on th’red carpet.”

She scoffed. “Hush you.” He’d been doing this more often, referring to her as ‘the missus’ or saying that they’d need this or that for the wedding and ‘wouldn’t it be brilliant, hennie, if we got Harry te perform’?

She loved the man, but there wasn’t going to be a wedding if he never bloody asked her. It was starting to get a bit irksome.

George frowned confused. “The missus? Are ye married now, lad?”

Jack grinned. “All but. When we do get hitched, I’ll be sure t’stop here ferst.”

George smiled and nodded. “Aye, lad. We’d be verra pleased to dress ye from yer wedding.” He turned to Y/N. “Ye’ve got a good’un there, ma’am.”

Nodding, she arched an eyebrow at Jack who was still grinning like a loon. “I’m a lucky girl.”

“Let’s get ye changed intae yer normal clothes now, lad.” George motioned back toward the dressing room. “I’ll get all of this finished, cleaned and sent down to London by the end of the week.”

Jack nodded. “Tha’s perfect. Thank ye, again, mate.” As he passed her on the way to the dressing room, he paused and kissed her. “I love ye, hennie.”

She smiled. “I love you too. Now go get changed. We have to catch a train to your mum’s soon.”

A few minutes later, her normal, everyday Jack returned, in his woolly jumper, broken-in jeans, and boots.

She sighed. Somehow he’s beautiful like this too.

He grinned , blowing her a kiss, and she shook her head, turning and pausing to kiss Anne’s cheek. “Goodbye, see you next-”

Anne was no longer looking at her, staring instead past her. Frowning, Y/N turned and gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

Jack was kneeling on the hard stone floor, hands dwarfing a small velveteen ring box. “Hennie- Y/N, love. I’ve never met anyone who completes and… and balances me th’way ye do. Yer everything I have ever wanted. Yer sweet and smart and strong and dignified. I’ve never met a woman who can keep up wit’ me in the-” He blushed and she smiled, laughing.

She couldn’t be angry. It was so Jack to refer to sex during a proposal.

He grinned and swiped a hand over his face. “I’m fuckin’ it all up.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

He shrugged. “I love ye and I can’t imagine me life without ye…Will ye marry me, hennie?”

She nodded and threw her arms around his shoulders as he stood. He wrapped her up in a bear hug and lifted her against him. “Of course I will!! I love you so much, Jack Andrew Lowden!”

Jack grinned and set her down. “And I you, Y/N Y/L/N.” He kissed her as he slid the ring on her finger. She smiled as she noticed how badly his hands were shaking. He laughed into the kiss. “Tha’s th’right hand, right, hennie?”

She nodded. “Yes. you loon. That’s the right hand.”

He grinned at George and Anne. “I was supposed t’do that at me parent’s house, but I couldn’t wait anymore.” Home Up Next: Fight

[elaianna]

Anchored

"You're putting off your questions,” Elaianna said, knowing when he was clutching onto a distraction.

Thomas smiled at Dagan, pausing as Elaianna spoke. "Mhh -- yer' annoyingly keen, y'know that? ... Sure, I'm puttin' it off. Yer' livin' now an' thas' tha' greater of ma' worries. But I'm inclined ta' ask what in the fuck gave reason fer' ya' ta' be torn from tha' dead ta' begin with." Tom itched his abdomen, affixing her with a stare.

Elaianna blinked slowly, brows knit together. She looked as if he had slapped her. "You.. you think i should have stayed dead." Her voice, though quiet as it had been, had grown even softer. Try as she may to keep the hurt from showing, the emotion laced her words.

Thomas loosed a short exhale. His shoulders deflated, body losing some of it's rigidity, even in his armor. "Fuck n' damnation -- ya' really imagine thas' what I was thinkin'? 'Course I don't think ya' ought ta ... stay de -- stay -- " Tom shook his head, fussing with his gloves. "'Course that ain't what I meant. I think ya' ought ta' never have been ... gone ... in tha' first place."

Dägän didn't even know how to respond but let the man either dig his own hole to Pandaria or try to clear his name as quickly as he could. She didn't know how or what to think at the moment being.

Elaianna's facial expression softened. "I didn't ask to be... gone.. as you put it."

Thomas huffed, "I'm sure ya' didn' ask. But we both know tha' difference between stayin' out a' trouble an' making tha' decision ta' put yer'self in tha' crosshairs."

She sighed softly, closing her eyes. "You want me to stay at home, have afternoon tea and eat cakes... Pretend there aren't things that need fixing in the world?"

He frowned, jaw clenching, "Y'know that ain't true neither. I want -- " Tom halted, pacing back and forth. He dips his head to Dagan before turning back toward Elaianna, "Fuck's sake Anna, we gotta have this talk now? Y'need ... rest."

Elaianna looked up to Dägän. "...Can we have a few minutes, please?"

Dägän nodded in return. "Sure, i'll be outside if you need anything."

Thomas crossed his arms over his chest.

Elaianna pushed herself to sit up, keeping the blankets tugged snug around her waist. "Calm down and use your words, Thomas. Please."

He looked to the floor, the windows, the ceiling, anywhere but her. His jaw clenches again. The color in his face flushed and the veins in his neck pushed against his skin. Despite this, he didn't speak, just shook his head.

Elaianna spoke weakly, putting inflection upon his name when she spoke it. "Thomas. Please." She tried to motion for him to at least come closer but without him looking at her, it was moot.

Thomas pushed out a long, harsh exhale. His hands came to rest against the table nearby. Words did not come out easily, and he looked strained and uncomfortable. "Please what? Damn't Light alive -- I know ya' gotta do what ya' have to. But piss, ya' got folk what count on you. Folk what ... care about you. An' a daughter who needs a mother. More'n fuckin' anythin' y'know that ta' be true, don't you?" Tom's jaw jutted out and his head tilted, looking at the ceiling. There is a bubbling of emotion in his voice, "Fuck."

She canted her head, looking at him with sad eyes. "Please -that-. Say what's on the tip of your tongue, what you're holding back." She twisted a bit, trying not to wince at the phantom pain in her stomach where the second wound had been. It was healed by Cayce as well, but Light only went so far. "..Aye. I know that to be true." Her voice was low, shame tainting her words.

He gritted his teeth hard in his maw. There was a creaking of wood as his hands grip the table. After a moment, he took two hard steps toward her, leaning forward until his face was only a few inches from hers. The blood is still thick in his face, and the vein his forehead is swollen. "Light damn't woman -- I care about you. I need you in a way I ain't felt need in a long time. I can't have you goin' an' dyin'. Nerina can't have that. There're plenty a' bags a' meat that can die in your stead, folk like me that don't swell with such purpose that you do. Y'understand?" Tom moved to speak again, but stopped. The rush of his blood slowing and leaving him standing there, looking pained.

Elaianna set her jaw as he came to her with hard steps. As she listened, her jaw slackened. She reached up with a clammy hand, giving his cheek a gentle pat as if that could wipe away the pained look on his face. "I have a hard time sending folk like you to do things that I wouldn't do," she said slowly. She measured and weighed her words, but even the careful nature she chose them with didn't keep the emotion from oozing from them. "I couldn't have people like you... especially you... die in my stead, because I need you. I can't lose you too... I've told you that, haven't I?”

Thomas softened at her touch. The swelling blood and hard line of his jaw relaxed with the simple pat of his stubbled cheek. Words came slowly, his voice much smaller than it was before. Pin pricks of water ate at the sides of his eyes for a moment, until he blinked. "I'm buil't for it, gal. I'm ... " A shaky exhale escapes him, "I feel like ... I know ya'. Perhaps better'n ... some. I know yer' ache, I feel it too. It doesn' get any less in time. Loss is tha' surest demon ta' pain yer' heart. But ... " Tom inhaled, then exhaled, repeating this a few times. He shook his head. "But tha' don't meant you can throw yer'self into tha' fray so mean an' willingly. Despite tha' fact ya' can handle a horde a' demons or void touched beasts or a plain sailor with a rifle better'n even I can -- y'just ... can't." 

The warpstalker in the corner of the room, Warpson, let out a sharp snore as he slumbers in the corner as the two were busy pouring their hearts out in strained words. The snore behind him caused Tom to pause. One gloved hand scrubbed over his face before he looked at Elaianna from beneath his hood, eyes stained red at the edges.

The lady's dove grey eyes searched the red-stained eyes, only tearing away to look at Warpson when she heard the snore, before looking back. "Built for it or not... I'm not built for losing you." Her lips, twitched, as if she were to say more but hesitated. There was a pause as she chose to swallow those words. Instead, when she spoke again, her voice was defeated. "You do know me.. You know me better than most... Least, what goes on up here." She pressed a fingertip to her temple briefly. "...Which surely to goodness means.. you know I'm not -looking- for death. Contrary to tonight's evidence."

Thomas had difficulty holding gaze with her as she looked at him. His jaw came tight, and he swallowed. There is glimmer in the back of his eyes, something far away but clearly paining him. "I know ... I know y'aint lookin'. Yer' stalwart, n' strong, n' damn't smart. I know it ain' right ta' hound you this way I jus' ..." Tom halted, choking on his words. His throat swelled and he swallowed, shaking his head. "Don' fuckin' go anywhere, alrigh'?"

She reached up with her left arm, snaking it around the back of Tom's shoulder and neck to pull him down over the back of the second bench Korduun had pulled up to make a place for Anna to rest. It was just enough so that her other arm could reach and she could give him a hug. "I'm too stubborn for that. I'm not going anywhere. I'm anchored," she promised.

The Captain seemed startled at her touch, at first. The motion left him slack at the jaw, lips coming together and apart to try to find words. In their absence, he simply leaned forward into her embrace. His arms, rustling as his armor moves, came around her frame. He was gentle, not wanting to harm her in such an infirm state but -- there was an edge of desperation in his clutching at her. A low exhale escaped him, dusting over her shoulder. "... Anchored." His voice came at a whisper.

Elaianna gave his back a gentle pat. "That's right," she murmured.

[ There was SO much that happened in RP, and I plan on doing more posts about it, but while I still had the logs up on WoW, I wanted to get this down/edit some of the pretenses. Thank you to everyone for an amazing guild event. I’d love to tell more but not all the stories that happened last night were Anna’s to share.]

@thomasstalsworth @kharne (mention)

[lupin-bun]

A Wing and a Prayer - Chapter 1 (A Yondu fic)

A/N: I finally worked up the guts to post the first chapter of my first fic. People seemed to like the extracts from my Yondu/El writing so I’m hoping this does ok (please be kind! The internet really fucking scares me!) Yondu and El encounter each other for the first time and things don’t get off to the BEST start...

Yondu/El (Yondu/OC)

Warnings: Nudity, violence, blood

***

The crew cheered as the M-ships powered away from Terra and back to the Eclector, leaving that small, stupid band of high-and-mighty Terrans behind. “Protecting Earth from alien threat” Yondu's blue arse! As far as he could see, they were doing a shit job of it so far. Hell, breaking into their headquarters hadn't even been that hard, all things considered (well... that dumb bird-lizard abomination wasn't exactly a walk in the park, but Kraglin would recover fairly swiftly, Yondu reasoned... and ok, that creature that looked like a sentient scrotum with teeth had caused a few issues but still...). Yondu sat in the pilot seat, one hand on the controls, the other playing with the piece of tech they'd swiped, grinning to himself, jagged, metallic teeth glinting in the Terran sun.

“We did good this time, Kraglin!” Yondu was congratulating himself (and the crew, indirectly). Kraglin grinned smugly from the co-pilot seat next to him, one arm tied to his chest with a makeshift sling he'd made from his belt, the other on his half of the controls. Yondu shifted himself down as they left Terra's atmosphere behind, lifting one foot onto his knee as he studied the tech in detail. It wasn't big, about as long as Yondu's hand. But it was curved and seemed to be made of two identical components that clicked together like those funny little building blocks that were so popular with Terran children. The whole thing was uniform black and a couple of little blue lights on it blinked every now and then. But, other than that, it didn't seem to do much. Someone MUST want it, though. They'd been offered 3.5million units for this seemingly insignificant thing.

“We taking it to the Broker today, Cap'n?” Kraglin queried. Yondu shook his blue head.

“Nah. I reckon the Collector'd pay us more'n that.”

“More'n 3.5 million?” Kraglin asked, astonished. Yondu chuckled and gently pulled the 2 halves of the gizmo apart. They divided neatly with a small *click*. 

“How's about 3.5, per piece?” He said with a smirk.

Kraglin grinned. His Captain was a genius. If there was ever a way to make more out of a deal, you could bet everything you had that Yondu would find it. That was just how he was. And he wouldn't care that he was double-crossing the Broker either. It's not like the Broker would be able to do much other than apologise profusely to his client and hope they weren't someone who'd kill or eat him for failing them. Kraglin made a mental note to inform the others of the change of plan when they got back to the ship. He left Yondu to his musings for a moment and turned his head to check the scanner screens. It was then he noticed something odd.

“Cap'n...” Kraglin said, slowly.

“Mm?” Was Yondu's reply, preoccupied as he was with his prize.

“Did we take any o' them creatures we saw?”

Yondu turned his head to look at his first mate with a confused scowl. What use did they have for any of the poor beasts they'd found locked up in the cells and in cages in that pathetic excuse of an underground fort? Sure, some of them had been big but most had looked next to useless. They had been battered, tired looking and weak.

“Why?” Yondu asked shortly.

Kraglin tapped the monitor he was looking at to zoom in on a particular part of the M-ship, where they usually carried cargo. Sure enough, there it was. The red glow of a third life-sign on the crackling, light blue screen. Yondu hauled himself out of his seat so that he could lean over Kraglin and get a closer look. It wasn't moving. It was entirely stationary. So, whatever it was, maybe it was asleep. Yondu scratched his chin as he considered.

“Maybe we got one o' them dogs er cats from Terra crawled aboard and found a nice, cozy spot.” He said, not taking his eyes off the screen.

“Want me to go deal with it, Cap?” Kraglin asked, reaching for his gun with his good hand. But Yondu put up his own hand with a decisive shake of his head. Something about this just didn't feel right. Maybe it was the way it sat completely still or maybe it was the thought that a creature might have escaped that Terran place. Whatever the case, Yondu had the quicker weapon. 

“I'll go. I wanna see it fer myself.” With a swish of his long coat, Yondu turned to walk down into the tiny cargo bay. He went slowly down the metal steps, trying to step lightly in his heavy boots so that he didn't wake whatever was down here. The light wasn't great down here. There were a few shadowy places that a creature could hide. Piping, air vents, metal grills on the floor. Yondu strained his ears to try to pick up any tiny sounds this creature might make.

“See anythin', Captain?” came Kraglin's voice over the tannoy. Yondu nearly jumped out of his azure blue skin.

“Not now, boy!” He tried to shout and whisper at the same time. “Yah try'na get me killed?”

“No. Sorry Cap'n.”

“Shut the damn thing off!”

There was a slight crackle as the tannoy deadened but it wasn't quite enough to hide the scuffling noise that made Yondu spin in place and stare into a corner. The corner was next to pitch black but Yondu could see something there. And the something knew it had been spotted. Just as Yondu was about to take a tentative step...

“Stay where you are, Centaurian.” a voice demanded in the gloom.

“Well ya ain't no cat.” Yondu observed... kind of. He shifted his weight onto one leg and stood there, staring into the darkness, hand on his hip (poised ready to pull the side of his coat back, should he need his arrow). “What are ya?”

“I'm as rare as you,” came the reply.

The silver barrel of a small handgun appeared from the darkness. It moved forwards, the darkness pulling back like a veil to reveal first a slender blue hand, then an arm, then a shoulder, then feet, then body, then finally face.

“and I'm taking this ship.”

She looked broadly humanoid. She was roughly Yondu's height (perhaps an inch or two shorter), she had a medium build and her skin was a very pale blue all over. She had short cropped hair that was a darker blue to the rest of her and there were twin, coal-coloured tear marks running from each eye to the corners of her mouth. She stood, entirely naked before Yondu and her large, bright green eyes stared at him with a strange mix of fear, fury... and triumph.

Yondu only smirked as he looked at her. If she didn't have a gun in his face, he might have been tempted to find her attractive. As it was, this defiant creature just looked somewhat pitiful and desperate. In one fluid move, Yondu pulled his coat aside and whistled once, quickly. His golden Yaka arrow flew from its holster and came to a halt, an inch from this creature's head.

“I'd wager my arrow's quicker than yer gun, girl.” Yondu growled, quietly. The two stared at each other for a second, Yondu calm but threatening, the woman angry but stubborn. After a pregnant pause, the woman tossed the handgun away. It clanged loudly across the metal floor and slid to a stop near some piping. Yondu smirked again and nodded. “Yer smart. Now jus-...”

But, with a flash, she was gone. Dumbfounded, Yondu looked around him, searching desperately for the stowaway. A pale blue cat streaked past his shins and made for a vent. “What the-...!?” Yondu whistled and his arrow lodged itself in the metal edge of the vent, blocking her way. The cat stopped where it was. There was a flash and, in its place, was a mouse. It made a leap for the vent but Yondu had closed the gap between himself and her and had just enough time to put his foot down in the mouse's path. The mouse bounced off his foot, then turned tail and bolted in the opposite direction. Yondu whipped round with a snarl. The mouse made a leap and flashed again and suddenly there was a bat flying through the air. Annoyed, Yondu whistled. This time the arrow flew straight at the bizarre shape shifter. There was a clang and a screech. The bat flapped and writhed, pinned to the wall by the arrow which had gone straight through its fragile wing membrane. There was a wobble in the air as though some massive heat haze had sprung out of nowhere. The bat warped and flickered for a moment as though Yondu were looking at it on a faulty screen. A moment later, the bat was gone and the woman was back, panting and grimacing in pain, the arrow through her forearm, dark ink-blue blood running from the wound. She hissed at him, displaying thin fangs.

“Tha's a neat li'l trick you got there.” Yondu remarked, not altogether insincerely. He'd not come across a shape shifter quite like her before. Most he'd seen were able to change size or grow wings or extend limbs (among other things). He'd not encountered a shape shifter who was able to alter her entire structure before. “But ya should'a chosen someth'n that could fight.”

The woman said nothing but continued to stare furiously at him. The air wobbled and flickered again but weakly this time. The bat appeared for a brief moment then vanished, leaving the woman standing, exhausted and in pain, still pinned to the wall. Her attempt had been valiant but she didn't have it in her to take over this ship really. She was too tired. Too weak. She panted and bowed her head, knowing that she was beaten.

Yondu whistled and the arrow pulled itself free. The woman cried out in pain as it removed itself from her arm and the arrow head aggravated the wound, allowing the blood to flow quicker, dripping onto the floor. Her arm dropped to her side and she clutched it to try and stop the bleeding but she stubbornly remained standing as Yondu sauntered over to her.

Up close, he could see a long, white scar that ran the length of her sternum from where her collarbones met, to the point where her ribs joined at the bottom of her ribcage. It looked old but it had been traumatic. He could tell. What had happened to her? Why had she wanted to escape Terra so badly? Yondu decided to try a different tactic, seeing as force didn't seem to be working.

“Ya gonna come nice and quiet?” Yondu asked, calmly, with as friendly a tone as he could manage. In one last ditch effort, the woman lurched forwards, fangs bared, attempting to inflict any damage she possibly could. But it was useless. Deep down, she knew that. Dropping his friendly act, Yondu put out a hand and, grabbing her by the head, pushed her backwards, roughly. She stumbled back, hitting the back of her head on the wall she'd previously been pinned to, then dropped to the metal floor, unconscious.

[zellbellart]

Dark Matter

(Massive warning in advance for a character attempting to rape someone and for blood/gore. I don't usually write this sort of thing so don't panic if this isn't your sort of thing. I was having a REALLY bad night of PTSD so I had to get this out of my head and into words. If you can't read these sort of things, don't feel bad for skipping this one. Also, hella long post. I'm sorry.) 

 It was typical. 

Enough to make him snort every time anyone walked by. 

 Ishgardians, mostly Elezen, walked arm in arm down the streets of the Jeweled Crozier. Women in their church best giggled as men complimented them, batting eyelashes as they were showered in whatever material goods their hearts desired. One couple in particular captured the attention of the blonde Seeker that watched out of sight high above them in the rafters of a building’s newly erected frame. 

A male Elezen had his arm crooked around the waist of a female Hyur, a Midlander. Her must smaller stature made it easy for the man to coerce her into a back alley where they began a rather provocative display. His fingers played at the corseted straps behind her back while his other hand strategically snaked beneath her petticoat. Part of it hiked enough that Nyx caught a glimpse of her milky white thigh. A series of small giggles disappeared when the man's mouth hungrily pressed against her own. It wasn't until a few moments later that the ministrations of his dancing fingers reached the Miqo’te’s ears followed by several hitched gasps from the woman that went slack against the stone wall behind her. Nyx looked away for a while, his ears easily picking up the sounds of a female being pleasured without even needing to focus. It was when the sounds changed completely did his amber eyes flick back onto the frantic couple below. 

 “No, no… I don't want to go any further than that… I thought we were just going to…” The Elezen’s expression, Nyx noted, had changed entirely from horny to irritated. A once proud visage now curled near the bridge of his nose and his stance had shifted so that he loomed easily over the smaller woman, “You bitch… I bought you a new dress to play in. I do plan to take it off of you. Whether that's intact or in slivers is dependent on how easy you make this…”.

 She tried to take a step away from him and met the resistance of the cobbled wall, cold and slimy from the day’s drizzle. A small gasp escaped her lips and she ducked down, attempting to surpass his arm and run towards the Crozier. The sound of ripping fabric echoed the alleyway for a brief moment as the man caught the bottom hem of her petticoat, followed by a sloshing as she fell to her knees in the puddled sludge beneath her now half-naked form. 

 Nyx inhaled sharply and quietly rose to his feet, steadying himself with a beam of wood. Narrowed eyes gave him a keen insight on the escalation hundreds of feet below, “Fer feck’s sake…”. The Miqo’te pinched at the bridge of his nose and began a slow, Deathly silent descent as he kept his eyes on the forms he neared to. The man had positioned himself above her, fingers now woven into her hair as he pulled her closer to the junction of his thighs. 

Even in the few seconds that Nyx had chanced to look away, the disgusting creature of an Elezen had pulled himself from his trousers and trailed an engorged purple appendage across the wide-eyed face of the Midlander. The look was not lost on the Seeker… she thought her time was up. 

 The Elezen had plucked her from the ground roughly, one hand wrapped around her wrist as he tugged her to standing. Her small frame was pulled to him in a fashion that caused her breath to escape her again, this time followed by quiet, submissive sobs. He'd begun to position himself, placing the throbbing length he'd so teased her with just between her legs… 

 Ping! Ping! BAM! 

 The alleyway became a deafening place to be as the sound of metal on metal ricocheted above and around everyone. Even the woman's screams were drowned out as she found herself on her knees again, back hunched over as she tried her best to cover her ears. Above her, the Elezen stood strangely still. When she finally chanced a look, a stream of crimson had covered what was left of his face. When she noticed that half of his skull was missing, she screamed again and shuffled backwards until she came into contact with a solid form. 

 “Bitty… ye want t’wear this…an’quick…”, she asked no questions, didn't even turn to look at him, as a leather jacket was dropped in her lap. Quickly, she placed it around her shoulders, grateful that it was big enough to cover her lower regions, and got to her feet. She rushed past the man with the thigh lilt, only catching a glimpse of blonde ears flattened against equally blonde hair, a tail swishing behind him like an angry coeurl. 

 Taking shelter behind a large crate near the entrance to the Crozier’s delivery alley, she watched as she shivered in the man’s jacket…Tobacco…? The Miqo’te took a wide stance with a gun that appeared to be of some Garlean technology. Little implements on it glowed a brilliant blue and something about it seemed different from the muskets and pistols native to Ishgard. 

Just as he'd reloaded it, pulling back a piece that clicked into place, the woman noticed several figures forming further down the darkened alley. A rather bulky looking Duskwight and a curvy, yet dangerous looking female Elezen stepped closer with little reserve. The female flicked a handful of delicately curled, ebon locks from her shoulder before her crimson lips parted with a sneer, “Observant I see… How did you know?”. Nyx’s eyes narrowed and he lowered his gun just slightly, however, a smirk appeared in the corners of his lips, “Ye knoo, when he try an’ traffic on Valentione’s Day… I’s jus’ cliché”. 

He lifted the gun again, the time aiming right for the woman’s forehead. The male with her wasted no time stepping in front of her, hand poised over a rapier. “Are ye jestin’? A sword a’ a gunfight?” The Elezen simply grinned a confident, antagonistic smile, his massive shoulders rolling as he watched Nyx. Red, as Nyx had mentally coined her, pushed the man aside before shoving another mass of curls from her collarbone, “He's not afraid of your little toy, though, if I had me around, I wouldn't be either…”. 

Her voice dripped with both seduction and pure assuredness of her own skill. Why hadn't he noticed it before… the way her perfectly manicured nails tapped at a small crystal-topped wand that rested at her cocked hip. “Thamauturge…” “Ah yes! Good! Again, very observant…” She bit her bottom lip as her brilliant emerald eyes are Nyx alive. Her partner seemed irked by this but turned his attention the Seeker after a time. Something about her gaze seemed divided and Nyx continued to watch her closely while moving his large frame into the center of the alley to draw attention away from the woman that he knew refused to run far enough away. Red knew it too… 

 Just as he was about to move backwards towards her, something zipped past his head and the smell of singed hair and flesh followed. The pain hit him after a few seconds and his hand instinctively rushed to his cheek. Behind him, the crate that the woman had sought shelter behind splintered into a million pieces and she was knocked backwards against the rising steps to the Crozier. Red had darted past at an inhuman speed and Nyx’s form was shadowed by something looming up on him quickly. He reacted in just enough time to have his entire body slammed against the brick of the alley. Above him, in a similar fashion to the scene from earlier, the Duskwight pinned his threat with a well-placed forearm. Nyx’s firearm had slid from his grasp in the chaos and now rested in a pool of both blood and soiled water. 

The Elezen’s face contorted with a glee that didn't quite fit the situation but Nyx knew that expression well: blood lust. He drew his rapier and slid its length along the Seeker’s throat. Luckily for him, the Elezen seemed to be thoroughly confused when the sword didn't pierce flesh and jugular. Nyx's brows furrowed at the revelation and used the man's stupor as an opportunity to use the grip on his failing windpipe to lift himself and kick him away with strong legs. Nyx fell flat against the cobblestones and temporarily knocked the wind from himself. While he gasped for air, he crept towards his gun, one hand outstretched. 

Just as his fingers curled around its barrel, a boot landed with a sickening crunch atop his hand. He groaned loudly as the Duskwight’s laughter rose on the brisk air. There was a flash of light just as the Miqo’te contorted so that his fingers weren't crushed beneath heavy boots and the rapier sank between the cobblestones. 

 Behind them, Red had begun a slow, maniacal traipse towards the dazed woman. The little wand that had been stowed away now rested, brandished, in her hand, pointed towards her prey. The woman tried her best to crawl backwards, but the distance placed between them shrank faster than any gains she made. There was only a small window of opportunity…this was it.

 Everything happened so fast that even Nyx had a hard time comprehending. He squeezed the gun that had been smashed into his hand, felt that there was an odd malleable quality to it when it felt his touch. A few simple movements… “Yes! Saving Grace activate…!”. 

His voice commanded attention, which somehow worked in his favor. The gun oozed into a liquid, black mess. It took on a life of its own as it snaked down Nyx’s arm and consumed every bit of flesh until it stopped at his shoulder and began to extend into something that stiffened into a lengthy, black lance. At its tip, a series of long, tooth-like protrusions gave it the appearance of a draconic tail with barbed points. Once formed, the pieces that had crept up his shoulder slivered over his neck, jaw, and finally his entire face. The only parts of his upper half that didn't glisten with a blue-black sheen were the wild man's of blonde hair and the pricks of his ears.

 And then the massacre came… 

The Elezen above him didn't even stop laughing until his severed halfs hit the ground not too far from the other dismantled man. Nyx’s speed had taken on a monstrous quality to it as he rushed towards Red, the lance jutting to the side long enough to clean the fresh blood from its surface. She'd had enough time to prepare herself as she whispered a few words of power in a tongue foreign to Nyx. Several jets of pure flame zipped towards him as she braced herself for his onslaught. He felt the searing heat as it streaked past his shoulder, but the substance covering his flesh allowed him to withstand the pain. Another spell sliced through the air, headed for his face, and he winced beneath the façade that hid a burning amber glare. 

 He'd been mostly silent, something that was foreign to the Seeker. The usual taunts and jabs that came with his fighting style were absent and his focus was obvious. Red took another step back, her stiletto heels clicking against the stones upon which her body would lie… and the lance struck home silently.

 She stared up at Nyx’s blank, hidden face and an eerie smile tugged at the bloody corners. Without so much as a groan or a sign of dying, struggling pain, she straightened herself and pushed herself further onto the ebon lance until her face was inches from Nyx’s jaw. “I've no idea what you've done to yourself… frankly I don't care… but it will be your downfall…your end. Cherish it…it's beautiful…” The spirit lifted from her eyes with her last word and she deflated against the weapon. Nyx stared at her for a long moment until finally her body collapsed to the ground as the lance disintegrated back into its usual form, retreating from his body entirely. 

The woman he had so fervently defended had approached him from behind, snapping him from his thoughts. “Are…you ok?” 

 Her glazed eyes watched him closely as she offered his jacket back to him. At some point, she'd managed to find the torn petticoat and wrapped it around herself. He nodded without looking at her. She reached out and touched his bare shoulder and he jarred. “Lass, can ye tell meh… what I did?” 

 She seemed puzzled and her fair face tilted a degree, “You don't remember? You stabbed them all after you shot that one guy dead… You saved me.” Amber eyes furrowed and he holstered the gun at his right hip. Surely he'd heard her incorrectly. 

All he remembered was descending from the scaffolding and attempting to shoot the scoundrels in the leg… “Seven Hells…” He turned suddenly and looked down at the Midlander, a deadly serious expression in his face. She backed away the slightest bit for more than obvious reasons, “Dunnae tell a soul wha’ ye saw… when they find the bodies, dunnae volunteer information…they’ll nae figure oot wha’killed ‘em… an’ lastly, dunnae look fer me, ye dunnae owe me shite…”. 

 Nyx pressed past her, clenching and unclenching his left arms as if something were crawling on his flesh. He now had an urgent meeting to attend with Rook…

[rfsak2]

Inappropriate

Inappropriate Summary: He was a gentleman and she was a lady but they weren’t always appropriate. Jack Lowden/Reader Warnings: Tension, sexiness

I’m gonna repost this because it never did show up in the Jack Lowden tag. If that’s weird/annoying, I’m super sorry. 

From now on, these are probably going to be a fair bit less chronological. Also, I’m not sure where some of this came from.. I think I’m in a mood…

“Let me get ‘er.”

She put the last dish in the washer and turned toward the kitchen door as Jack poked his head into the kitchen. “The folks from Stewart an’ Christie wanted a word wit’ ye.”

She smiled. “Whatever for?”

He shrugged and shepherded her into the living room. “Jus’ go, lovie.”

Shaking her head, she hushed Angus as he began to get noisily restless and moved to sit next to the puppy on the couch. “Hello!”

The man, a marketing executive for Stewart and Christie, smiled. “Yer right, Jack, she’s a bonnie little lass, isn’t she?”

Jack smiled. “I’m a lucky man.”

She blushed and rolled her eyes at Jack, before turning back to the skype call. “Did you need something, sir?”

The man nodded. “We had thought, love, tha’ we could make somethin’ fer ye as well. It’d be great to have a couple such as yerselves to represent the brand at the Festival.”

“Oh!” She grinned. “That would be lovely.”

“Yer besotted boyfriend,” he paused to grin at Jack, who blushed, “also reminded us that yer a verra talented photographer. We were wonderin’ if ye’d like to do Jack’s shoot?”

“Even though I’m not Scottish?”

“I think ye could be considered an honorary Scot given who yer datin’.” The older man winked.

Jack grinned. “She’s got a little Scottish in her, I reckon.”

She shot him a confused look but didn’t correct him, eventually shaking her head and turning back to the computer. “I would love to.” She nodded. “Absolutely. I love taking pictures of Jack.”

“Great! We’ll get in touch once everythin’ is finalized. We’ll need yer measurements, of course.”

She nodded and hit the end call button when everything had been wrapped up. Turning to Jack, she smiled. “You know I’m not Scottish, like at all… right? I don’t want you to feel deceived.”

He grinned a tad slyly. “Och… I dinnae ken, hennie. Ye had some Scot in ye las’ night.” He leaned over and kissed her, before standing and leaving the room.

She sat and stewed on that for a moment more.

What had happened last night?

It had been a fairly normal night. They hadn’t done anything unusual. Jack had worked through a new script and she had helped him run lines for most of the night, while she had edited photos from a friend’s wedding. Then they had gone to be-

“Jack Andrew Lowden!” She jumped to her feet and followed the sound of his cackling laughter to the bedroom.

He grinned at her from his seat on the bed. “Aye, hennie?”

“Don’t you ‘aye, hennie’ me.” She swatted at his arm. “Did you just make a joke about.. about being inside me in front of people I don’t even know?”

He laughed and she shoved at his shoulder, the blond man falling back. “Technically I made the joke in front of ye, baby.”

“There is no ‘technically’! You just made-” He stood quickly and kissed her, but she pushed him away and he fell back on the bed still cackling. “No, I don’t think that’s gonna work, mister.”

“Och.. lovie, they had no idea. No need to be angry.”

She grabbed a pillow and hit him in the chest, causing him to cackle all the louder. Angus jumped on the bed and joined in the chaos, barking and nipping at Jack’s ears. “I can’t believe the gall! You lout!”

“Away wit’ ye, beastie.” He shooed away Angus and pulled Y/N to the bed, pinning her quickly. “Why are ye haverin’, love? They know we have sex. They know I spend every minute I can in between your gorgeous thighs.” She blushed and he grinned, bending his head to ghost the tip of his nose over her clavicle. “Every single person we come in contact wit’, every single one, knows ye’re mine.”

The minute he had had her pinned underneath him, her breath started to come in increasingly shorter pants. She gasped his name as he started pressing open-mouthed kisses to the tops of her breasts.

He hummed and lifted one hand to pulled her neckline further down. He pulled the cup of her bra out of the way and worked a hickey into the skin revealed there.

“I’m still very-” gasp “angry with you, Jack.”

“Sure ye are, hen.”

**

She checked the focus on her camera and did a quick test shot of Jack, where he stood against the brick wall. She checked the photo and smiled. “That’s quite the smoulder you got there, baby.”

Jack grinned and chuckled. “I can see right down yer dress, hen.”

She shrugged and winked at him, a smirk twisting her rouged lips. “Good. Keep your eyes there and we should get some good pictures.”

Bobby, her assistant, barely batted an eye, accustomed as he was to hearing the near constant banter between the couple. “Might need to crop in close to avoid anything untoward.”

Y/N shook her head. “Nah, those jeans are tight enough, aren’t they, Jack?”

Jack grinned, eyes on her lips. “Ye lookin’, lass?”

“I’m always lookin’.” She clicked a few photos.

Bobby huffed. “Cool it, you two.”

They did and they managed a solid hour of professional photography, before Y/N thought it necessary to fix Jack’s hair.

It probably wasn’t but she wanted to touch him. Badly.

Jack’s eyes were still very firmly focused on her cleavage, well showcased in this dress, as he leant over so she could comfortably reach his hair. He had a feeling that all of this was on purpose.

She smiled and blew a kiss at him, aware of her lipstick, hand trailing down from his shoulder to suspiciously low on his stomach. “There, much better.”

Jack straightened and then leaned back over to speak directly into her ear, crowding into her space. “Ye keep tryin’ t’wind me up, hennie, and I’m gonna bend ye over tha’ vanity when we get back to th’room.”

She giggled. “You say that like it’s a punishment.”

He grinned, all teeth. “I’m gonna fuck ye raw t’night.”

“Again. That’s not a punishment.” She started backing up, but Jack grabbed her hand gently and pulled her back to him, locking an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against him.

He mouthed against her throat. “Yer not gonna be able t’sit right fer a week.” Bobby blushed, not really able to hear what he was saying but catching the tone, and wandered a couple steps away. “Makes fer a long train back t’London.”

She sucked in a breath, flushed, breasts pushing against the neckline of her dress and his chest with every stuttering inhale. She swallowed dryly and all but whispered, “Promises, promises.”

Jack grinned. “Have I ever let ye down or welched on a promise, love?”

She bit her lip and shook her head.

“I wouldn’t assume I would now, lovie.” He kissed her neck, beard rasping her skin just right.

Bobby coughed into his fist. “They wanted a shot of both of you too. Should we go ahead and do that then?”

She nodded, still struggling to control her breathing and passed her camera back to her still blushing assistant, eyes locked on Jack’s.

Bobby took a lot of photos in the next ten minutes, some painfully posed, looking like they came from a catalogue, but the one they ended up using, the one that was posted to Twitter for all the world to see, was the first shot he got.

Jack, leaning back against the brick wall, one arm around her waist, holding her to him, the other hand on her thigh, inching the pretty tweed of her dress up. He stared the camera down, smug and self-assured.

She was looking back at the camera over her shoulder, painted red lips parted in a gentle ‘o’, her only visible hand against his chest.

She read some of the comments with a blush, but hell if she didn’t squirm in her seat the entire six hour train ride back to London.

Jack’s hand sat heavy and warm on her knee, smirking and smug, as he leaned over to whisper in her ear. “I told ya so.”

**

She sighed heavily and sorted through the dresses, trying to rule out dresses that were clearly not going to work. She fingered the fine grey wool of a Dior dress that immediately caught her eye and smiled.

“Nope.”

She turned over her shoulder and arched an eyebrow at Jack. “What do you mean, ‘Nope’?”

He smiled and kissed her shoulder, one hand absentmindedly fidgeting with the hem of her silk dressing gown. “Yer too pretty fer tha’ dress.”

She scoffed. “It’s Dior, Jack. That’s not possible.”

“It’s definitely possible, hennie. Yer bloody gorgeous and that dress is boring.”

Shaking her head, she kissed the underside of his chin and chuckled. “Okay, rooster, which do you prefer then?”

He parted the rack, revealing a red silk Antonio Grimaldi dress.

She considered it, running her fingers over the heavy beading that encrusted the open back. “It is pretty but it’s a bit much don’t you think?”

“M’love, ye’ve been nominated fer yer ferst Golden Globe, is anythin’ too much?” He leaned in closer, lips against the shell of her ear. “Besides, yer gonna be so sexy in red.” His hand coasted up her inner thigh underneath the silk. “I’m not gonna be able t’keep me hands aff ya.”

She shivered and made a feeble attempt to push his hand away. “Jack…”

He nibbled on her earlobe and groaned lowly in her ear, eyes casting around looking for the stylist. “Shh.. She’s lookin’ fer more dresses…or shoes… whateva.” He mouthed hotly at her jaw. “…not payin’ ‘ttention…”

She gasped as his hand cupped her intimately, grinding the heel of his hand against her with just enough pressure to have her knees threatening to buckle. “You’re gonna get us kicked out, rooster.”

He grinned against her neck. “Ye love it… I can feel it.”

She bit her lip and stifled a moan as his finger worked its-

Clack, Clack

Jack straightened so abruptly that her head spun.

The woman smiled widely, none the wiser, Y/N blushed guiltily none the less. “What do you think of my selections?”

Smiling shyly, Y/N smiled. “I’m partial to the two Diors,” she indicated the grey wool dress as well as a floral embroidered silk dress next to it, “Jack prefers the red Grimaldi.”

She nodded and pulled all three dresses from the rack, hanging them in a row for comparison. “Men always prefer red.” She smiled. “What do you think of it?”

“I don’t mind the color, I just think the beading is…”

“Too much?” She nodded. “I agree. I don’t think it really fits with the majority of your aesthetic choices. But still, we should try it on, yeah? If only for your audience.”

Jack nodded and took his seat, winking at her. “Aye, try it on, hennie.”

Smiling, the stylist went back to the rack, grabbing another red dress. “This Dior is much more simple but still red. I think this might be more your style.”

Y/N fingered the fine tulle. “It can be lined?”

She nodded.

“I like it. It’s very soft… romantic.”

Jack smiled. “I may like tha’ one more, hennie.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Because the skirt is sheer?”

Jack shrugged, grinning. “I jus’ like ye in red. Try it on, lass.”

“No promises, baby. I still like the floral one.”

“Lovie, t’floral one is pretty enough, granted, but t’red one… now tha’ one is phenomenal.” He winked. “It’s yer nigh’, gorgeous, I wan’ ye t’stand oot as ye ought te.”

She nodded. “I’ll try it on, baby.”

“Yer gonna look beautiful in anythin’ ye try hennie.” He smiled. “Don’t fret.”

She blew him a kiss as she followed the stylist back towards the dressing rooms.

A few moments later, she stood on the pedestal in front of the mirror. She fluffed the red tulle skirt and smoothed the pleated bodice. “What do you think, rooster? Is this the one?”

He stood, meeting her eyes in the mirror, and licked his lips. She blushed and out of the corner of her eye, she saw the stylist look pointedly away.

“Wha’ do ye think, hennie?”

“I like it. I’m actually quite pleased with the color.”

“I’m not gonna say I told ye so…” He set his hand in the small of her back and kissed her neck, rasping in her ear, “Yer so fuckin’ sexy.”

She knocked foreheads with him. “I love you.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I love you too, gorgeous girl.”

She smiled at him and turned to the stylist. “Do you think it’s fancy enough for the Globes?”

The stylist, who was still blushing, nodded. “Once it’s fully lined and with the right shoes and clutch, it’ll will be perfect.” She smiled. “You’re young, you can get away with just about anything. Especially if your date is dressed to match.”

She chuckled and winked at Jack. “That’s the next thing on our list, but I’m not worried. He’d look good in a paper sack.”

**

She smiled and chatted with the Stewart and Christie receptionist, Anne, while Jack disappeared into the fitting room with George, the tailor.

“What are ye wearin’?”

Y/N smiled. “Dior.”

Anne sighed wistfully. “I love Dior.”

“I know, me too.” She made a little nervous motion. “I’m so excited!”

Anne grinned. “We’re all rootin’ fer ye!”

“Thanks.”

“What do ye reckon he’ll wear?”

Shrugging, Y/N looked down and fingered some of the fine wool swatches she had been handed. “He’s been goin’ on about wearing a leather jacket over a tweed waistcoat.”

“That could be very nice.”

“Aye… I agree. But then I’m not sure I’ve ever seen him in something that I didn’t like on him. He’s bloody gorgeous.”

Anne giggled. “Yer a lucky girl, for sure.”

The door opened and Jack stepped out in a pair of well-fitted dark grey trousers and a waistcoat that hugged him in all the right places, made out of a lighter grey tweed. He adjusted the black tie and smoothed the collar of the white shirt before turning toward her. “Wha’ do’ye think, hennie?”

She excused herself and made her way toward the love of her life. “I like it. Well done.”

George smiled. “Thank ye, ma’am. Now th’moment of truth. We don’t normally do leather jackets.” He held the jacket out and helped Jack into it.

As soon as George stepped away, she had to bite her lip to physically hold back the moan of approval. Stewart and Christie had really outdone themselves. They were truly artists of the cloth.

The jacket was made of an exceptionally fine black leather, soft and supple, lined in red satin to match her dress. It fit perfectly, molding to his broad shoulders and hugging his torso well.

T’was a thing of beauty. She looked forward to helping him out of it later.

“Ma’am?”

She hummed and caught Jack’s knowing eyes in the mirror. “Sorry?”

“How do ye like it, ma’am?”

She blushed and ignored Jack’s grin. “It’s beautiful work. Thank you.”

George nodded. “T’was a bit nervy fer a wee bit, but it turned out well.”

Jack nodded. “Thank ye, mate. It’s wonderful.” He leaned over to shake George’s hand. “Now I won’t embarrass th’missus on th’red carpet.”

She scoffed. “Hush you.” He’d been doing this more often, referring to her as ‘the missus’ or saying that they’d need this or that for the wedding and ‘wouldn’t it be brilliant, hennie, if we got Harry te perform’?

She loved the man, but there wasn’t going to be a wedding if he never bloody asked her. It was starting to get a bit irksome.

George frowned confused. “The missus? Are ye married now, lad?”

Jack grinned. “All but. When we do get hitched, I’ll be sure t’stop here ferst.”

George smiled and nodded. “Aye, lad. We’d be verra pleased to dress ye from yer wedding.” He turned to Y/N. “Ye’ve got a good’un there, ma’am.”

Nodding, she arched an eyebrow at Jack who was still grinning like a loon. “I’m a lucky girl.”

“Let’s get ye changed intae yer normal clothes now, lad.” George motioned back toward the dressing room. “I’ll get all of this finished, cleaned and sent down to London by the end of the week.”

Jack nodded. “Tha’s perfect. Thank ye, again, mate.” As he passed her on the way to the dressing room, he paused and kissed her. “I love ye, hennie.”

She smiled. “I love you too. Now go get changed. We have to catch a train to your mum’s soon.”

A few minutes later, her normal, everyday Jack returned, in his woolly jumper, broken-in jeans, and boots.

She sighed. Somehow he’s beautiful like this too.

He grinned , blowing her a kiss, and she shook her head, turning and pausing to kiss Anne’s cheek. “Goodbye, see you next-”

Anne was no longer looking at her, staring instead past her. Frowning, Y/N turned and gasped, hands flying to her mouth.

Jack was kneeling on the hard stone floor, hands dwarfing a small velveteen ring box. “Hennie- Y/N, love. I’ve never met anyone who completes and… and balances me th’way ye do. Yer everything I have ever wanted. Yer sweet and smart and strong and dignified. I’ve never met a woman who can keep up wit’ me in the-” He blushed and she smiled, laughing.

She couldn’t be angry. It was so Jack to refer to sex during a proposal.

He grinned and swiped a hand over his face. “I’m fuckin’ it all up.”

She shook her head. “No, you’re not. You’re doing fine. Keep going.”

He shrugged. “I love ye and I can’t imagine me life without ye…Will ye marry me, hennie?”

She nodded and threw her arms around his shoulders as he stood. He wrapped her up in a bear hug and lifted her against him. “Of course I will!! I love you so much, Jack Andrew Lowden!”

Jack grinned and set her down. “And I you, Y/N Y/L/N.” He kissed her as he slid the ring on her finger. She smiled as she noticed how badly his hands were shaking. He laughed into the kiss. “Tha’s th’right hand, right, hennie?”

She nodded. “Yes. you loon. That’s the right hand.”

He grinned at George and Anne. “I was supposed t’do that at me parent’s house, but I couldn’t wait anymore.” Home