#much more about the tension of being in disguise and under scrutiny

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I endured a day of out-of-control imagination that wanted to come up with a million story ideas all at once, and emerged on the other side with a renewed desire to try my hand at my "Twelve Huntsmen" retelling again. It won't last. But for now I have a vivid image of how to tell about our heroine's first meeting with the lion.

[h0tchner]

Something More (Aaron Hotchner x Fem!Reader)

pairing: aaron hotchner x fem!reader

summary: Written as a request for the loml, Abby! (@heliotropehotch!) "Could I have a hotch x reader request thats got a love confession- maybe a hurt comfort scene where the reader is maybe torn up about something like self deprecation or some cop makes an off-handed compliment and he cups her cheeks and wipes the tears away? Pretty please 🥺"

word count: 3.2k

includes: love confessions! hurt/comfort, protective!hotch, mutual pining!!!, kissing, a little teaser of sexytimes, work tension, BAU!reader, crying and other emotions, rude af deputies, fluff soooo much fluff

rating: 18+ (cursing, crude nicknames, suggestive sexual mentions, and brief explicit sexual content at the very end)

a/n: HELLO BESTIES! I hope you love this one! If you want a smutty part two, let me know. PLS (!!!!!) interact if you liked this fic; rb, comment, like and/or send me a request if you have ideas for future fics! i love y’all! - rivka💞

some pals tags: @arsonhotchner @laurensprentiss @mrsh0tchner @ssahotchie

“It’s time to give the profile,” Hotch announces.

Six words. One sentence. Zero hesitation.

“Go and gather everybody in the bullpen,” he directs Spencer, who nods and quietly exits the conference room to collect your team and the rest of the Sherrif’s department of this small, Wisconsin town.

You stand on the opposite side of the table from your boss, looking at him expectantly. Hotch meets your gaze. His tongue darts out from between his lips as he glares at you from beneath thick lashes. You wait for your instructions, but the instructions don’t come. Rather, you both stand there in a staring contest, unmoving.

You can’t help but feel bare under his scrutiny, but this feeling is nothing new. Every time Hotch looks at you, it feels as if every fibre of your being is on fire. It’s been this way since the very first day you started with the BAU, and, over time, the flame has only burned brighter.

You and Hotch have grown close over the two years you’ve been with the team: closer than he’s been with any of his other agents, even Rossi. It all started with one long night spent together in his office, sharing cold Chinese food, scribbling away at mountains of paperwork. It was then, sitting across the desk from him, laughing at his incredulous reaction when he dropped some Lo Mein on an After-Action Report, that you knew: you were in deep. From then on, your Chinese food office “dates” became a regular occurrence. And then, those regular occurrences transformed into other regular occurrences; to name a few: rides on the jet, side by side, sharing soft glances and tired smiles after hard cases… holding hands to comfort each other when emotionally vulnerable… and even bringing you your favourite coffee on mornings that you’ve needed an extra boost. All these little moments of kindness and care are what made you fall in love with him. You would cross the line from coworkers to more in a heartbeat if you knew for certain that he felt the same way about you. But you refuse to take a risk on losing what you currently have with Hotch for the chance at something more.

The way that Hotch looks at you now, tall and commanding, feels very much like something more… it’s incredibly intimate. He’s effectively stripped away all the layers of protection you’ve built up to do your job with one pointed glance. What you don’t know is that he too feeling the same way, and is toeing a line between being your boss, being your friend, and being your “something more.”

Hotch breathes out hard through his nose. You watch as he swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he does. His jaw ticks. He shifts on his feet.

“I want you to sit this one out,” he says.

“Hotch?” You question, puzzled. Nothing about this day has prepared you for him to say that. You start racking your brain, trying to figure out why he would give you such a ridiculous order. Did you piss him off somehow? Did you play-flirt with Morgan too much in the car? Overlook an important lead? Did he not like the coffee you made him this morning?

Looking over at him, you swear he almost looks conflicted… but it doesn’t last.

“This is not up for debate. Do you understand me? You’re sitting this one out.” He repeats, steadfast.

“I don’t understand, what did I do wrong?” You ask more defensively this time, wishing he would give you more information. Something, anything besides the “SSA Aaron Hotchner” routine he was pulling on you now.

“I never said you did anything wrong.” Hotch moves forward a step, finally breaking eye contact, opting to gather files and loose papers into his arms.

“So, then what it is?” You cross your arms, stepping forwards as well, challenging him with your posture.

He doesn’t respond, nor does he look at you. Instead, he lumps more files into his arms before rounding the table, moving swiftly toward the door.

You have never, ever disobeyed one of his orders because his orders have always made sense… until now.

“Hotch,” you say sternly, your stubborn feet moving to stand between him and the exit before your logical brain can stop you.

He’s practically up against you, cornering you between his solid body and the old wooden door. His height dominates your shorter frame, and the heat coming off his body is positively criminal. Your heart flutters in your chest as he stares you down, calculating his next move.

“Out of my way, Agent Y/L/N.” He breathes out, tensing his jaw.

“Fine,” you stutter, “just tell me why and then I’ll let you go.” Your confidence wavers as you’re a little taken aback by his official use of your title and last name.

You’re hurt, confused… and he knows this. No matter how hard you’re putting on your tough-girl FBI face, Hotch can see right through it. He knows this order is unjustified, but he has his own reasons: reasons that he can’t get into. Not now.

Hotch lets his eyes dart to the side, past your head, not daring to look you in the eyes. He wills himself to be gentle.

“I can’t tell you, but I need you to trust me. Sit this one out.” He verbalizes, looking at you a little softer now. His face relaxes a little more into the Hotchner you’ve come to know: the one who calls his son every night to read a bedtime story, the one who grins every time you beat him in chess.

You two stand there a moment longer, your heart racing from the heat of the quarrel and your current proximity to your Unit Chief.

Hotch opens his mouth to say something else, but a knock on the door behind you stops him in his tracks. You step aside and he whips open the door; a very apologetic Spencer stands behind it.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Spencer says, clearing his throat awkwardly, “but everyone is ready in the bullpen.”

“Thank you,” Hotch nods, stepping forward to leave, but you grab a hold of his arm.

“Hotch,” you begin, not entirely sure what you want to say.

“Later,” he answers, finishing the unspoken thought.

With that, he’s out the door and you’re left alone with only stale coffee and a bunch of disorganized files to keep you company.

You close the door behind them with a sigh, letting yourself rest against it again, closing your eyes for a moment in defeat. Three days on this case. Three days of hard work, interviews, and research just to get benched in the end zone. You wish that you didn’t love Hotch, because maybe if you didn’t, it would be easier to disobey him. Opening your eyes again, you scan the quiet room. Then, something in front of you catches your eye and you get an idea.

On the table rests one of the precinct’s phones. It is all too easy to use the conference feature to listen in on one of the other phone lines: specifically, one in the bullpen.

You grin and rush over to the device, feeling a little bit sheepish for not listening to Hotch, but you push the buttons anyway, and bring the receiver up to your ear.

At first, all you hear is the shuffling of papers and muffled voices. You take a seat, leaning back in your chair like the cat who caught the canary. Several more moments pass of bureaucratic white noise, but then, someone speaks.

“Where’s the slutty one?” A male voice whispers.

“Oh, Agent Y/N? Probably on her knees somewhere waiting for her boss to come back.” A second male voice snickers back, matching the volume of the first.

You gasp, the phone slipping out of your hand, landing on the table with a loud thunk.

Scrambling, you grab it again, your other hand coming to rest over your open mouth.

“Don’t know why he wouldn’t let us use her as bait. This whole case could’ve been wrapped up and done by now if we just stuck her in a skimpy dress and shoved her out on the street.” One of them muses.

“Obviously because he’s sleeping with her.” The other mutters. “Agent Hotchner looked like he was going to take your head off when you asked him about it. Thought he was going to deck you for suggesting disguising her as a hooker to lure this guy out.”

“Yeah, he did. She looks like the victims, though. Bet she’s a whore like them too.”

“Deputies, we’re starting.” You hear a third voice pipe up. This time it’s one you recognize: it’s Hotch. “This is your final warning. I don’t want to hear another word out of you for the rest of the day. Not only is this wildly inappropriate, but it is insulting and vile. If I hear either of you speak about, look at, or interact with Agent Y/N, I will make sure you are both charged with harassment and fired from this department. Is that clear?”

With that, your eyes nearly pop out of your head. The deputies mumble something back, but you can’t hear over the sound of papers rustling.

Stunned, you set the phone back in its holder and force air into your lungs.

Waves of thoughts come crashing down on you. You have so many questions and so many answers and it’s all just… too much.

Suddenly, you know that you need to be anywhere but here.

You stand, shoving the chair aside and burst out of the conference room, fuming. You power-walk down the hall, and past the bullpen, focused on getting yourself outside and into the fresh air. Understandably, you don’t look up as you pass the profile briefing, so you don’t see Hotch’s brow furrow at the sight of you. You also don’t see him hand his papers to JJ, excuse himself, and race to follow you out the front door.

Once you’re outside in the parking lot, you look up at the cloudy, grey sky, and the tears start to fall. You feel guilty and angry; part of you wants to run away and cry, but the other part of you wants to walk straight up to those men and kick them straight in the dick. They not only called you vile names, but they also called the victims – those poor, dead women – the same. You sniffle, thinking about how Hotch stepped in and protected you, stood up for you.

Hotch… the thought of him makes you cry a little harder.

You start to pace around, kicking gravel as you went.

Were you that obvious? Was your crush so rampant that two low-level deputies in the middle of nowheresville picked up that easily on how you really felt about your boss?

“Fuck you two,” you curse under your breath to nobody as you choke back sobs. You kick a large piece of gravel as hard and as far as you can, but it doesn’t help.

“Are you okay?” A voice prods from behind you, gently, hesitantly, as if not to spook you. It’s a curt baritone, laced with concern. It’s Hotch.

“Hotch,” you breathe, turning to face him, furiously wiping tears away from your eyes.

“What happened?” He frowns, stepping closer to you, a comforting hand reaching forward to take yours.

Any other day you would grasp it contently, letting him console you. Today? All you can hear are the deputy’s comments. Sleeping with her. Whore. On her knees. You’re embarrassed and ashamed, so, you involuntarily step back.

“It’s nothing,” you put your hands up, looking down at your feet.

“Y/N,” Hotch says, his heart pounding in his chest.

You look back up, locking on his beautiful, angular face. You see every feature clouded in a haze of sorrow and concern.

You know you must swallow your pain and try to get it out. He wasn’t about to let you off easy.

“You… they… I…” you begin, but never finish your sentence. Instead, you start to cry again.

Wordlessly, Hotch moves to cup your face in his hands. They’re large and slightly calloused, encasing your cheeks as his thumbs gently swipe away the tears. His soft eyes search your watery ones; despite your better instinct, you bring your hands up to rest on his chest. You feel his breathing hitch. One of his hands moves from your face to cover your smaller hand against his chest. The two of you stay there, just like that, for another handful of heartbeats. You focus on his hands and how warm and safe they make you feel. Soon enough, you stop crying and gather the courage to speak.

“I heard them.” You whisper, not trusting yourself to say another word. You know that Hotch knows exactly who “them” is, and exactly what it is that you’ve heard.

His brow creases and his hand grips yours tighter. He cleans another tear off your cheek, and then lets that hand down to ball in a fist at his side.

“I’m going to kill them.” Hotch states, furious and heartbroken.

“Me first.” You sniffle.

Your boss sighs, giving you a heartfelt look. Leave it to you to make a joke at a time like this.

“I told them this morning that if I ever heard them say another thing about you, I was going to have their badges. I should’ve kicked them off this case hours ago.” He huffs, closing his eyes, letting his other hand, the one that was covering yours, drop down to his side.

You know this look all too well. You know he’s blaming himself.

“It’s not your fault,” you offer, smoothing your hands over his chest to settle on his upper arms. “Hotch, look at me.”

He doesn’t at first, but eventually, he opens his eyes. His hands open and close at his sides, as if he’s fighting them to be still.

“I’m sorry.” He breathes out. “For everything. For handling this how I did.”

“I’m not.” You chime in, feeling braver, calmer now that you’re here with him. Your comment earns a quizzical glance and a slight head tilt from Hotch, urging you to go on. “You stood up for me. You honoured me. You respected me. You protected me. You –“

With a fierce momentum, your next sentence is swallowed by Hotch’s lips pressing into yours. His hands come up to rest on your hips, and then circle around your waist to pull you closer. He’s warm and soft and intense; you whimper into the kiss, moving your hands to rest on the back of his neck and card in his hair. The kiss is over far too soon for your liking, both of you needing to pull back and inhale.

Hotch looks at you with heavy eyes, hands gripping your hips. He smells like coffee and pine, with a hint of something spicier. Everything about him is overwhelming yet grounding.

“Finally,” you whisper, hands clasped around his neck. “It’s about damn time.”

“It is,” is all he musters, still dazed by the audacity of his own actions.

“Aaron?” You lick your lips, feeling his hands squeeze you tight at your use of his first name.

“Yeah?” He can’t help but start to smile, showing off his adorable dimples and crinkled lines around his eyes.

“I love you; do you know that?” You say in earnest.

Aaron giggles, giggles at your confession, and then attacks your lips again, making you yelp at the surprise. His lips detach from yours only to pepper kisses on your tear-stained cheeks, jaw, and forehead.

“I love you too,” he breathes out, giddier than you’ve ever seen him. He looks like a kid in a candy shop, and it makes your heart leap into your throat.

Just then, a car beeps on the road, startling you two. You’re suddenly reminded where you are, and why you’re here. The thought of having to go back inside makes you groan, and you bury your head into his chest for a moment. He hums into your hair, planting a kiss on the top of your head.

Reluctantly, you pull yourself off his chest to look up at him.

“Forget about them,” you say, “go finish giving the profile so we can close this case and get the hell out of this town so you can take me home and show me how much you love me.” You smile at him, pulling him in for another, lighter kiss.

He grins against your lips, meeting you for another smooch.

“Yes ma’am,” Hotch replies, giving you a kiss on the tip of your nose.

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

Three months later, you and Aaron are coming down from your highs, sweaty and blissed-out after an amazing lovemaking session. After the team wrapped up the case and made it back to Virginia in one piece, you and Hotch went out to dinner the next night. He took you to dine in at the Chinese restaurant that you both usually ordered from on those nights you both spent pining and yearning in his office. It was… perfect. He was perfect. Just as your friendship had blossomed, so did your relationship. One date led to another, one gesture turned into more, and you and Aaron settled into life as a couple with ease. You hadn’t brought up the incident with the deputies since it had happened the afternoon that Hotch had followed you out to the parking lot to wipe away your tears.

Now, as you lay in his arms, wrapped in his strong, loving, embrace, your mind wanders back to their words. However, you don’t feel animosity toward them, rather it makes you giggle.

“What’s so funny hot stuff?” Aaron cracks open an eye and smiles down at you. One arm is tucked underneath his head, and the other is tracing patterns on the bare skin of your shoulder.

“Oh, just that case we had in Wisconsin a few months back.” You nuzzle deeper into his chest with another laugh.

Hotch frowns, recalling the memory, thinking about the way those awful men spoke about you.

“How is that funny?” He asks, hesitantly.

“They called me a whore.” You say nonchalantly, peering innocently into his amber eyes. You bring your palm up to swipe across his cheek softly, feeling the light stubble of his jaw underneath your fingertips.

Both of his eyes are open now, and his hand motions cease their patterns on your skin. He’s confused, and the face he’s giving you is downright adorable. It makes you giggle again.

You detach yourself from his grasp and sit yourself up, carefully shimmying down the bed. Aaron’s eyes never leave you.

You nestle yourself between his legs and look up at him with a smirk.

“They were partially right.” You offer, studying the small changes in his face, watching as his eyes glaze over with lust for the second time that night.

“I am a whore.” You pout suggestively and flutter your eyelashes. “A whore for you, Hotch.”

He shakes his head at you in amusement and chuckles, but it quickly turns into a deep, throaty moan as you wrap your lips around the tip of him.

As you start to bob your head on his already hardening length, you think to yourself: as much as I hate to say it... someone should really give those two deputies a raise.

[incorrect-ikevamp-quotes]

Hi! Just wanted to know what you think Charles' route will be alll about, and how would the Ikevamp lore continue from there? Do you think we'll get an Act 3 or more suitors? I absolutely love reading your interesting insights and hearty theories! They're food for my simping soul ♡(> ਊ <)♡ please forgive my fangirling..

Hihi!!! You’re much too sweet, thank you!!! 💛💛💛 you’re always free to simp and fangirl here, haha~

I'm happy to answer as best I can, though honestly I'm not 100% sure given the main story routes all range--both in terms of topic and larger narrative impact. My guess is that it will likely be about Charles' history as somebody who took part in the French revolution, namely his role as an executioner. In line with that, I would address two lines; one from Mozart, one from Dazai.

Mozart in relation to Charles says "I remember that name..." and Dazai says that "He is a young man with many secrets." I think they both speak to a larger consideration with Charles, which is that he is both a famous historical figure but also one that trails so much blood behind him? This is a man who killed people for a living (and in droves), despite being a medical doctor. There is going to be an inevitable mental dissonance that comes with that dichotomy. His life aspiration was to help and heal people, and instead he was called to murder them indiscriminately (and often for reasons that were openly unjust). Much of his energy and disposition feels like a kind of mask; it's intended to disguise what's truly lurking beneath the surface. When people are convinced they're unsightly or monstrous, they can very often overcompensate with buoyant behavior and positivity. Dazai’s main story really felt like it was hammering this concept home, considering Charles’ insistent cheer directed at MC (yet showing Dazai and Faust a great deal of darkness.)

Interesting too, now that I think about it, because there is a kind of foil mechanism that comes with making Charles the antagonist of Dazai’s route. I didn’t realize it until now, but they both hide their secrets--and the true nature of some of their uglier feelings--with a kind of forcible levity. The difference here lies in the state of their baseline energy, the form by which it is expressed. Dazai is one to joke around and make light of (often serious) things, but he does it to a point of absurdity and mild outrage. He has a kind of desire to be chased out the way I understand him (because being chased out means he can leave and avoid the pressure of being real). If he’s not seeking to be chased out, he wants the person to smile/laugh at his blunders. He’s a mood-maker just as his description entails, and as such his goal is always the regulate/influence the emotional tone of a group in a positive way.

Charles, by contrast, avoids transparency by bouncing around and pretending like nothing really gets to him. He’s forthright and bold, but his desire to have fun belies the reality of who he is and who his master is. The impatience, the burning envy that dwells within remains to be seen--and only makes an appearance in flashes. It begs the question as to what it is he’s trying to avoid moving at that speed, as his increasing velocity means a lowered scrutiny and self-awareness (one that limits him just as much as it enables him to keep going). Furthermore, he has some notion of regulating the mood of the group in that he’s often the one who lowers tension between Vlad and Faust with his upbeat attitude. However, I would argue that it isn’t nearly as powerful as Dazai’s fixation with it; when Charles is upset or wants something, he will not hesitate to put his personal needs first (or demand them, even). Dazai does not seem to have this same audacity generally.

There's also the question of what Charles is hiding, other than the obvious historical information we have. I get the feeling something is lurking behind his desperation to believe in the future Vlad wants to create. Maybe it's some desperate wish to atone for what he's done. Maybe he raised that guillotine under some kind of misguided belief that he was restoring the world to order. We believe outlandish things to survive sometimes, and I wouldn't be surprised if that were the case for Charles. I’d like to see just what it is that makes him tick.

That being said, that doesn't always free us from the truth of what we've done. Sooner or later we're forced to confront and come to terms with it. Dazai's main story (for a short time) forced him to face that gaping maw of trauma, and it was very clear he was not in the slightest bit prepared or able to cope. So there is the question of--if MC confronts him with that--what he will do in response.

I also wouldn't be surprised if he's among the bolder suitors, seeking her affection and body with more insistence than the boys of the mansion. It remains to be seen, but given the impression I've received from him and the rest of the trio...(a note of caution to people uncomfy with that).

I'm interested to see where Charles will go, in that I'm not really sure if he'll skew to the yandere side or the lowkey wants to help people side. He has every potential to become increasingly demanding of MC’s time and attention, trying to monopolize her as much as possible. Burying himself further in denial, never questioning his master. But he also has a kind of hearty maturity at his core that might result from his life experiences, where he acknowledges what he's done and just tries to do the best he can moving forward.

If the latter happens, there is the very real question of what happens with his relationship with Vlad--which is part of the reason I have my doubts about this possibility. In the infamous (and paraphrased) words of Mulaney(? I think it was) "if this is gonna happen Vlad is gonna need to become suddenly cool with a lot of things very fast" LMAO. I don't really see Vlad ceding his control over Charles' mind easily, and I don't see him satisfied with a future of Charles' autonomy. But then, who knows? I may very well be proven wrong

I'm also curious about Charles’ pronounced interest in Comte, this kind of hope for reconciliation. There's a very real chance that could be a focal point, in that Charles wants there to be mingling between the two houses. There are also a lot of problems with this sort of theory in that it would likely require A LOT of development/time to bridge that gap if it was ever bridged, and I don't think Comte would accept anything less than Vlad agreeing to cease and desist his assault on humanity. This potentiality might be more probable for an Act 3 story progression, now that I think about it.

As for Act 3, I'm really not sure who will or won't get one. The only storyline that has been left openly/grossly unfinished is Comte's to my knowledge, largely because of the agreement they made? In all the other routes, there isn't much of a whisper about her turning into a vampire. (Vlad turns her at the end of his route I’ve heard, and as for Faust I don’t know--but I haven’t seen any signs that he would demand it of her so far.) Comte hesitates--but he has every intention of doing it when they feel the time is right. So there's the question of when or how that will happen. In a bday story? In an event story? Act 3? Dunno

I also wonder about how pureblood society and vampire hunters might come into play, but given they exist on the periphery of the game I don’t know if it’s as safe a bet as Comte vs. Vlad continuing their ideological battle.

As for the suitors in general, there is always the potential of antagonist intervention in Act 3? Maybe they heckle their happy ending or throw the relationship into some kind of turmoil, though I'm not sure exactly how that will work since most of the routes end on a pretty resolved note? There's also the reality of all the rivals being murdered in cold blood after their duels. So like ???? Really depends on the direction Cybird wants to take. Expand on the relationship, create new issues/threats--or make Act 3 a more large scale story progression.

There’s also the possibility that the story is expanded by hinging on the timespace complications. If Vlad saw a desolate future, what does that mean for everyone? Will that come to pass--and if so, when? Will he be supported or stopped? What will that entail? Maybe Vlad sees that the desolate future was the product of his own megalomania. Maybe Vlad turns out to be right and drastic action needs to be taken before it gets that far. Whatever the case, I’m interested to see what narrative avenue Cybird will choose.

As for more suitors, I really have no idea given I haven’t seen so much as a whisper of what comes after Charles. I think my best bet would be potential pureblood suitors (maybe the product of Comte/Vlad story continuations), or more roulette famous figures in line with Vlad’s machinations to thwart the suitors. If Michelangelo comes back and throws hands with Leonardo, I will veritably lose my entire mind

[heliads]

The Dare

It’s a boring, hot day at Hogwarts when your friends dare you to spend the night out of your dorm in the Quidditch pitch. Will you be able to make it without getting caught by Filch, especially with the help of one redheaded twin?

masterlist

It’s a hot, stuffy day at Hogwarts. You and your friends are sprawled out on a bench in an arched hall, close enough to the open windows to let the breeze wash cool air over your faces but treasuring the shade brought on by the roof over your heads. Black and emerald robes lie in puddles around the bench, tossed off to reveal the starched white shirts and black skirts beneath. 

At first, you and your friends had chatted exuberantly amongst yourselves, but as the heat of the day wore on, the conversation fell into a game you’d seen some group of Ravenclaws playing, Truth or Dare. You swapped out questions and challenges amongst your friends, laughing when brunette Lillian was forced to steal a quill out of a passing boy’s pocket and when a shamelessly grinning Rebecca did a backflip in the middle of the courtyard.

Now it’s your best friend Trin’s turn. You face her with a gleeful smirk when she chooses Truth. “Trin, who do you have a crush on? You’ve been checking around the courtyard for someone since we got here.” Trin looks at you pleadingly, but you’re unyielding in your question. She sighs, and looks at you through hands flung up over her face. “That Gryffindor boy in the corner. Next to Hunt and Carpenter.”

You and your friends erupt in giggles. “No! Not a Gryffindor!” Trin rolls her eyes, but joins in the laughter. Her grin only grows when she realizes it’s your turn next. “So, Y/N, truth or dare?” Not wanting to face scrutiny from any number of questions she could ask you, you choose Dare. Trin fixes you with a satisfied grin that makes you more than a little nervous. It looks like she hasn’t forgiven you for teasing her about her crush, and it seems as if you’re about to pay for that question.

“Your dare is going to happen tonight. I dare you, Y/N L/N, to spend the entire night out of your dorm and outside. I’m thinking somewhere in the Quidditch pitch.” You gape at her. “Are you out of your mind? How am I supposed to spend all night out there? Filch will kill me!” Trin just smirks. “I suppose you’ll have to figure it out. What, are you going to back down?”

You toss a glare her way. “I’m not your Gryffindor boyfriend, I don’t have to prove my bravery to you.” At the look of her triumphant expression, you keep talking. “That being said, I’m not going to give up. I suppose the Quidditch pitch it is.” Your friends cheer. “Oh, and by the way, we’ll give you a little truth spell in the morning. It’ll only last for one question, but we’ll know whether or not you were there the whole night, so I’d suggest you follow the dare. If you don’t we’ll just make you go again the next night.” You roll your eyes. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll have no problem with it.” 

The arrival of dusk and nighttime comes far faster than you had hoped. You groan inwardly as you slip away from the castle and into the cold shadows of the Quidditch pitch. Luckily, you had thought ahead and brought your warmest cloak, which you are grateful for now. Even though it was boiling in the morning, night has fallen, bringing with it a freeze that permeates the air. You shiver and wrap your cloak tighter around yourself, moving faster to stay warm.

You decide to head up to the stands, which are covered in thick cloth banners in preparation for an upcoming game. This will be a good place to stay the night- the cloth coverings will wrap around the wooden beams, hiding you from view from any suspicious caretakers who might otherwise see you. You make your way up into the top of the stand, which is still out of sight from the ground but open at the top, allowing you to see around you. You sit down on one of the seats, tucking your cloak in around you. Well, this is it. Better get comfortable- you’ll be here for a while.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been hidden in the stands- could be an hour or only fifteen minutes when you first hear a noise. You’re jolted out of your quiet stupor, sitting up and alert. There’s silence, then you hear the noise again. Worryingly enough, it sounds like it’s coming towards you. 

There’s no time to think- you stand up, rushing quietly towards the back of the stands and underneath the rows of seats. There’s enough room for you to stand, but will it be enough to obscure you from view? Come to think of it, how is there someone here already? Surely Filch wouldn’t be out here, not this early in the night. You know your friends wouldn’t have ratted you out to Filch, so could someone have overheard your earlier conversation and dropped an anonymous tip that someone would be staying the night?

That doesn’t matter now- the figure is drawing back the cloth coverings to the stands. You press a hand over your mouth to silence your breath, hoping against all hope that you won’t be found. The figure draws closer- you start to panic- then the worst possible thing happens. You back up involuntarily to hide yourself from view, and you bump into one of the rows of seating. It creaks. You’ve done it now- the figure spins towards you. As they start to walk towards you, they cross through a stray beam of moonlight shining down through the open top of the stands and you let your breath out in a sigh of relief as you recognize your face.

It’s not Filch- no, it’s another student. Tall, clad in black robes pulled around him, a ruby collar made just visible in the light. A shock of red hair frames his face, confused as he finally sees you and recognition flashes in his eyes. You step out from behind the rows of seating. “What are you doing here?” Fred Weasley dons a slight smirk. “I could say the same thing about you, L/N. Last time I checked Slytherins weren’t supposed to be breaking the curfew.”

You scoff. “Why does that matter? You’re breaking curfew too. Now, get out. This is my stand.” Fred raises his eyebrows. “I don’t see your name on it. Actually, I think this stand will be just fine for me. I’ll probably stay here.” You exhale sharply in indignation. “I got here first! Go find your own!” Fred glances at you, then chuckles softly and takes a seat on one of the rows of benches, casually stretching out his legs as if he always spent nights in the stands of the Hogwarts Quidditch pitches. “Nah, don’t think so.”

You glare at him for a second longer, then your anger turns to confusion. “Wait, what are you doing here? I mean, I was dared to stay the night by my friends, but why are you here?” Fred sits up slightly to focus on you once more. “I was also dared to stay here. Weird.” You frown, pressing your fingers to your lips as you think. “Do you think your friends heard my friends and made you come down here because of that? Like, is it a prank?”

Fred grins, teeth shining lowly in the moonlight. “L/N, nobody pranks me. I do that to others. And no, I don’t think so. Probably just a coincidence.” You nod slowly, then gingerly take a seat on a bench on the other end of Fred’s row. The two of you exchange pleasantries back and forth, but then Fred sits up, gesturing for you to be silent. “Did you hear that?”

Your head snaps up. “Hear what?” Fred gets up slowly, heading towards the open flap of the stand. “That sound. Like someone climbing up the stairs.” You look at him apprehensively. “I can’t hear anything. This had better not be a joke.” Fred glances back at you. “No, not a joke. Not this time. Look, there it is again.”

This time you hear it- a muffled stomping, growing closer and closer. You can also start to hear a faint metallic clanking, and there’s a muted glow coming from the stairs to the stand. You curse softly under your breath. “It’s Filch. That’s his lantern. We’re screwed.” Fred runs his hands through his hair, thinking. “We don’t have much time. There’s some storage closet back there- maybe if we hide in the back?”

You nod. “It’s our only option. Come on.” The two of you race over to the closet, careful to not make a sound. You duck behind a tall stack of wooden boxes, Fred hurrying over right behind you. You’re just in time, too- barely a few seconds have passed after you find a hiding place when you see Filch climb the last few stairs and appear on the main room of the stand.

Beside you, Fred sucks in his breath, waiting. Filch hoists his lantern high into the air, letting the light shine around him. He speaks to himself in a grunted whisper. “Could have sworn I heard voices. Maybe back there. Rotten kids, up to no good.” He stumps forward a few more feet, getting closer and closer to where you and Fred are hiding. Fred tightens his jaw, moving closer to you in an attempt to take up less space. As Filch draws nearer to the two of you, all you can do is silently beg him to leave.

It feels like you stand there for hours, hoping that Filch doesn’t notice you. Finally, Filch takes one last suspicious glance around the room and hobbles back down the stairs. You don’t dare make a sound or even breathe until the glow of his lantern and sound of his feet on the steps is gone.

You exhale slowly in relief. You open your eyes, and realize Fred is standing inches away from you. You back away hurriedly, hoping the darkness of night can help disguise the warm flush in your cheeks. Fred strides over to the far edge of the stand, peering out over the pitch through the open flap at the top. “Filch’s gone. He’s heading back to the castle.”

You nod happily, feeling your shoulders lose their tension. It’s smooth sailing from here- all you have to do is make it through the night. You shiver slightly as a cold breeze hits you. Now that the worry of being caught is over, the chill of the night hits you in its full force.

Fred, having turned back away from the window, looks up when you yawn. “What, tired already? It’s only midnight or so.” His joking grin makes you roll your eyes. “Maybe. I think I’m just not meant for late nights.” Fred smiles, but the mocking look is gone from his eyes. “Get some rest. I’ll watch out for any other people wandering in.”

You flash him a grateful look. “You’re the best.” You contentedly sit down on a bench, barely even noticing when Fred sits down next to you. All you can think about is how tired you are, and how comforting the darkness of the night is, and how….

You’re woken up by the first rays of sunlight piercing through the top of the stand. Groggily, you open your eyes, and yet another wave of heat rushes to your cheeks when you realize that your head had been on Fred’s shoulder as you slept, your sides pressed together. Had you really fallen asleep on him? You stay there for a second, just a second more, then force yourself to get up. He’s just starting to wake up too. Evidently the night watch didn’t last forever.

You stretch tiredly. Already you can tell that you’ll be stiff the rest of the day from the benches, but it doesn’t matter. You successfully completed your dare, and your friends will be impressed with you. 

As you start for the stairs to head out of the stand, you notice that Fred isn’t following you. “Planning on staying the day here, too?” He grins lightly. “No, I just figured that your friends wouldn’t want you to be getting help during the dare. If we go out at different times, they’ll never know a thing.” You turn back to him, smirking slightly. “That’s some forward thinking. Sure you weren’t meant to be a Slytherin after all?” He pretends to be repulsed, and you laugh before waving goodbye over your shoulder and making your way down the stairs.

Your friends are waiting for you in the courtyard, and they eagerly flock to your side. “Well, did you do it?” Rebecca demands. “How did it go?” Lillian wraps her arm around yours. Trin pulls out her wand, ready for the truth test, but she’s still grinning excitedly. She holds her wand to your throat, reciting the words for the truth spell to begin. “Y/N L/N, did you complete the dare and spend the entire night on the Quidditch pitch?”

You nod, wincing slightly as you feel the magic of the spell twist their way around your vocal chords. “Yes, I did it. Entire night, out there in the cold.” Trin beams at you, pulling her wand away and ending the spell. “That’s so cool, Y/N. How on earth did you manage it?”

You consider the question as you walk with your friends to the Great Hall for breakfast. Along the way, you pass one particular red-headed twin, and you flash him a grin. “Guess I was just lucky.”

[thecreedsgambit]

Sam Dalton, CEO

author's note: i’m not entirely sure what it is that draws me to sam, but i actually enjoy the nanny affair. despite my uppity claims that i would turn my nose up at the plot (which i, in fact, do) and that i would deny choices the satisfaction of spending endless amounts of diamonds on smutty, indecent scenes with a completely fictional man (which i, in fact, do not do), i cannot ignore my attraction toward sam dalton. it has little to do with his personality and intent. quite frankly, i blame it on the soundtrack. there’s a particular track that’s smooth - almost sexily playful - like a steamy but timid caress that throws a casual smirk at potential and possibility. i’ve grown fond of it, and, of course, it’s the very track that plays when sam freshly enters any scene. so, yes, i completely blame the soundtrack. it’s possible i’ve somehow drawn a loose connection between it and sam. whatever it is, i will continue to read tna and roll my eyes at choices seemingly unobstructed ability to rope me into whatever they present me with (much like sam dalton, i suppose).

"for you, i'll risk it all." - unknown

00. At a Glance.

affiliate: the nanny affair

pairing: m!sam x reader

word count: 1972 (fairly short, i know. but this was poking my imagination after today's chapter. i couldn't deny myself the freedom of writing it down.)

summary: you and sam continue to make eye contact during the regatta, despite your pr plan to lie low and ‘meet-cute,’ if that’s what an outsider might refer to it as.

You had long since forgotten the races. In fact, your eyes weren’t trained on the glistening yachts before you. Instead, your gaze latched onto the picturesque waterfront. The sun’s rays bore into the blue depths beyond where you sat, casting a faint reflection that rippled with every rise and fall of the tide. Slowly, methodically, as if your eyes might blink shut at any moment, you let your gaze lazily trace the waves as they lapped against the dock and collapsed against one another, like a playful fight between two warring siblings.

As if on cue, Mason and Mickey billowed past you with a giggling Jovi in their wake. Jordan scrambled after them, sending you an apologetic smile over his shoulder, before calling - rather, begging - for them to slow down. A short chuckle escaped your lips as you returned your sights to the race before you. Your head tilted, just slightly, as the sun cradled your cheek and warmed your skin with the softest touch.

It was nice. A brief moment to rest from the pressure to look and be impressive. For once, being impressed made a rush of tension leave your already heavy shoulders. The majestic waters and stunning views were enough to draw awe and calm the seemingly desperate need to feel warranted and respected.

Your dignity, poise, and grace sloped, only slightly, as you let your shoulders drop and your hands take refuge on your wrist as you fiddled with one of your bracelets.

For just a moment, you were you. And that was enough.

“No, please. Go on, Will.” Marisol’s voice nearly wrenched you from your stupor. You straightened and resumed your position as a subtle reflection of your new peers you’d almost forgotten sat on your right. Marisol gave you an amused smirk, as if hinting for you to join her harmless teasing. “Perhaps your ramblings about the history of yachting might help me place a few bets.”

Marisol took a small sip of her wine, hiding a whimsical smile behind the tip of her glass. Will only huffed and reluctantly turned his attention back to the race. You bit your lip in an attempt to conceal the grin threatening to lace your earnest expression. You feigned a swat on Marisol’s arm before speaking.

“Oh, Will. Marisol’s only joking. I would love to hear the rest.”

With a quick turn back toward the table, Will grinned triumphantly, clearly elated. “I knew it. At least someone appreciates my genius.”

“I’m sure,” Marisol mumbled, taking another quick sip of her drink to avoid bursting into a fit of laughter.

You dared to throw a sly smirk in her direction before giving in and facing Will directly. He’d already dove into several backstories regarding yachting, each going unfinished as he hurried into the next with enough excitement for the three of you combined. A genuine smile graced your lips as you, momentarily, reveled in his enthusiasm.

Unfortunately, much like your attention on the race, your attentiveness was short-lived. As was your politeness.

For a moment, your gaze slipped once more toward the luminescent waters. You had every intention of returning to the conversation at hand and concentrating on whatever quips Marisol was currently, and once again, uttering toward Will, but your eyes regarded the crowd, instead. Briefly, ever so quickly, you made eye contact with him - with Sam.

He had long since fixed his own sights on you. Normally, your heart would flutter and your stomach would lurch at the slightest glance. Reflexively, you’d wander toward him like a moth drawn to a fiery flame, waiting to be engulfed by his very presence. Even under these circumstances, you wanted to. You wanted to make your way toward him and let your fingers get lost in his hair; public images be damned.

But everything you worked toward thus far hung over your head and your shoulders - a load almost too burdensome to carry.

Your eyes widened with alarm, quickly flitting toward Will and Marisol. Not here.

Sam stood in a semicircle with three other men, who seemed to be lost in a conversation Sam took no interest in. His arms rested at his sides, and his fingers swirled a small glass of whiskey, as he continued his ruthless - almost challenging - stare. It didn’t take long for your demeanor to falter and a restless smile dared to break your masked facade. You tried desperately not to squirm under the intensity of his gaze, so you looked away, forcing yourself to come to terms with the ever-enchanting thrills of yacht history.

Except that topic was long gone, and Marisol was waving her hand at a dismayed Will. “You say that every year. Placing a higher bet on Estate Sail hardly makes things any more interesting.”

“What would you propose, then?”

You couldn’t help but to lose focus almost as quickly as you'd gained it; your entire form now rigid under Sam’s steely gaze. Sparing a quick glance in his direction, you noticed he’d done little to disguise his observation of you. Slowly, painfully so, he brought his whiskey glass to his lips and took a slow drink. His eyes never once left yours.

It was intoxicating. Entirely too heavy. Your chest nearly felt hollow as your heart dropped to the pit of your stomach and heat rushed to your cheeks.

Your own stare fell to his chest, sweeping over his broad frame as you consumed every aspect of his person. The purple button-down he wore was quickly becoming your favorite as your eyes traced his taunt muscles under the fabric. His exposed chest seemed to catch the sprawling daylight as the sun chased his neckline and washed over his tan skin with every regard to the glow of his complexion.

Daringly, your eyes fell lower until you cautiously eyed his brown belt. You wondered just how quickly your fingers could trail over each and every loop and how any such movement might elicit a delicious sound from Sam’s lips. You even ventured to imagine one of his hands working the belt off in one, swift motion -

Your eyes snapped back to his. He arched one eyebrow, subtly, as a knowing smirk crossed his seemingly neutral expression. You wavered, feeling absolutely powerless under his scrutiny. Biting your lip, you pointedly angled away from him and desperately made every attempt to heed Will’s words.

Oh just how timely that was.

“I don’t know about that. I’m sure Steffi will take an interest eventually. What about you, (y/n)?” Will’s easy smile made you relax despite how quickly your startled heart raced. You struggled to remember the last thing you heard as Will shrugged. “I know I can be a bit long-winded, but I hope you’re enjoying the races.”

“Yes, you fit right in with us now.” Marisol gave you a genuine smile of her own. “Despite what some people may think, aren’t you glad you decided to join us today?”

You maintained a steady smile as you pushed pesky thoughts of Lana out of your head. “I am. Where else will I hear the harrowing history of yachting or place a wager on anything other than Estate Sail?”

“Hey,” Will warned good-naturedly, laughing despite himself.

Marisol noticed Jovi running after a makeshift sail the twins had tied to a string and shook her head with a warm smile. She and Will turned back to discussing their children and Sterling Academy as you chanced another glimpse of the crowd. Sam still stood firmly in his spot. The men surrounding him were pointing at the yachts in the distance and making idle conversation as Sam’s attention remained on you and only you.

He offered his counterparts around him a brief nod and a clink of his glass, but it was passive. Half-hearted. His eyes bore into you with enough passion to ignite the already kindling fire within your being. You were desperate. Completely at his mercy.

And utterly annoyed by how quickly you’d succumbed to his will. You wanted to prove your ability to do the same - toying with the inevitable long enough to make him flush with desire and writhe under all that you could offer.

You could do it from here; same as him.

Suddenly, shamelessly, your previously obstructed air bent to your change in attitude as you shifted to address his gaze. You arched an eyebrow as you matched his seemingly indifferent composure. You could tell he found your sudden roused behavior amusing, but his jaw quickly feathered as your eyes now held a challenge of your own: Two can play at this game, and I usually win.

Your sudden burst in confidence swelled your chest with enough boldness to dart out your tongue, wetting your bottom lip before pulling it between your teeth.

Some part of you wanted to make the conscious effort to tune into Will and Marisol’s conversation, but their distant chattering proved what you already knew. They weren’t paying either of you any attention.

Sam’s stare grew more intense; his eyes squinting ever so slightly as he watched your every move. With a coy smirk, you moved to pick up your wine glass at a leisurely pace that you were sure would seem like a lifetime to him. Even as the tip of the glass connected with your lips, you were sure to exaggerate every motion. One quick sip left a few drops of wine chasing the curve of your mouth. Using your finger, you wiped away the remnants and brought them to your lips. Your tongue flicked against your fingertip, closing your lips around it entirely, lapping up what was left of the wine.

All the while maintaining eye contact.

Finally, with a barely concealed chuckle, Sam dropped his gaze and shook his head. Every rapid rise of his chest and tense of his shoulders proved he was thoroughly distracted. Satisfied, you turned back to Will and Marisol. Both were watching the next race with an almost unexpected eagerness.

“I told you Estate Sail would win again,” Will stated happily.

Marisol only smiled. “The race isn’t over yet.”

Feeling superior still, you wanted nothing more than to continue your game with Sam, but, when you glanced back at his previous spot, he was nowhere to be seen. You couldn’t help but to frown until Will’s eyes caught on someone behind you and called out:

“Ah, Sam. Care to join us?”

“Actually, yes.” You tried to quiet your usual disposition, avoiding any instinct to turn and gratefully accept his presence with unadulterated mirth. It wasn’t a hard thing to do. In fact, you had to shake yourself from your frozen, shocked posture long enough to glance over your shoulder. Sam stood close enough behind your seat that you could nearly feel the heat emanating from his being, rivaling even the sun’s warmth. “Do you mind -?”

You shook your head, not fully trusting your own voice but not fully committed to throwing away the careful and meticulous planning for your public appearance together either. You waved, feigning carelessness, toward the empty seat across from you. “No, not at all.”

Before he sat, Sam made it a point to glance at Marisol and Will before settling on you. “Does anyone need a refill on drinks? Perhaps another round before the next race?”

The two of you shared a soft, lingering look - one filled with knowing desire and bridled actions. You weren’t sure how you were able to retrain your urge to surge forward and grab him by his shirt collar or loop your fingers through his belt loop, or, even, how you had the strength to manage the rest of the Regatta with a practiced smile. But, then, a minute smile spread across Sam’s features.

Another coy smirk traced your lips as you shook your head. “I’m fine, thank you. Everything I need is right here.”

[haughtbreaker]

Waverly and Nicole spend a few moments together as Nicole heals from the wounds of their kidnapping.

 “What in the holy shit...” 

Nicole stopped halfway to standing up, her face twisted in discomfort. Before her stood Wynonna, long brunette waves framing disbelieving eyes that suddenly narrowed towards her. “Heeeey Wynn…”

“Did you get knocked in the head hard enough to scramble away any common sense?”

Nicole smiled, as much as she could as pain shot through her arm. “I just… I need to stretch.” 

“Then stretch the fuck out on the the bed.” Wynonna shooed the guards out the door, grabbing the tray and bottle that one held before shutting the door. “What does it take for you to just relax?”

“Sorry, Your Majesty,” Nicole grunted as she took a seat on the edge of the bed again, wincing in pain. “What brings you down here?”

“I’ll your majesty your ass if you don’t take it easy.” Wynonna set the tray and bottle on the bedside table before she took a seat in the nearby chair. “I was told you were finally awake so I figured you’d be hungry or something.” 

“And to yell at me?” Nicole looked over the tray, not feeling anything even remotely close to hunger. If anything, she felt an unavoidable nausea in the pit of her stomach. She’d betrayed the queen, her friend. She’d allowed Waverly to leave the castle and they’d gotten captured.

“I should.” Wynonna rested her elbows on the arms of the chair, her hands steepled together. “I assigned you to watch her because I thought you’d have a better chance of persuading her to at least take this seriously.” 

Nicole nodded. “I know. I’m sorry I failed you.” 

Wynonna rolled her eyes. “You didn’t fail me, you idiot.” She grabbed the bottle before she leaned back, getting a little more comfortable as she propped one foot on the edge of the bed and pulled the stopper out of the bottle. Always under scrutiny, she never really had a chance to completely relax. “I have not been able to control her for years now. She used to sneak out daily but since you’ve started, she’s at least kept her chaos within the castle walls.”  

“What?”

Wynonna took a long sip from the bottle before snorting, wiping her lips with the back of her hand like she’d never be allowed to in court. “Look. My sister is brilliant, beautiful and persistent.  She can also be an asshole and I know that more than anyone.” She set the bottle on the table before snagging a slice of peach. “And for some reason, you annoy the shit out of her.” 

“You are absolutely the worst.” Nicole took a staggering breath. 

“I’m fucking queen,” Wynonna responded. “It is my duty to use all resources to my maximum benefit.” She nudged Nicole’s thigh with the foot she had propped on the edge of the bed. “Besides, it’s better than grunt work. You could be in the pits building barracks.” 

“It would be an honor to assist in constructing housing for the army.” The words came instantly from Nicole, but in truth, the thought of leaving Waverly’s side put anxiety in her belly.

“Anyway, it won’t last forever. Soon Waverly will be off with Prince James.” 

Nicole felt a pain in her chest at the very thought of Waverly’s wedding, a pain that hit deeper than any wound she was recovering from. What did that mean for her? She was a knight of this kingdom, not James’s. She pledged fealty to this throne, to Wynonna, but the very idea of Waverly leaving without her protection boosted the anxiety she already felt. 

Shit. 

  It took a few days for the pain to settle, and in some places fade completely. Waverly made sure to stop by at least twice a day to torment Nicole whenever she found her in any position except flat on her back in bed.

“You should be sleeping.” 

Nicole looked up from the book she’d been writing in, setting the quill down. “If I spend any more time on my back, my mind will start to leak from my ears.” 

“Well,” the corner of Waverly’s mouth tipped up in a smirk, “there is quite a lot one can say to that, but instead, I come bearing gifts.” She presented a wrapped bundle. 

Nicole pushed herself to her feet. The pain was still there, but it didn’t steal her breath like it once did. Her head no longer felt like it was going to explode and thanks to the wrappings around her abdomen, she could walk without much issue. 

“You don’t have to get up,” Waverly protested, stepping forward. 

“I do,” Nicole retorted, slowly stretching her back until the pain grew. “Healer’s orders. Best to keep the blood flowing and what not.” She was glad she’d chosen to dress slightly normal when she’d awoken that morning. At least to have the dignity of not being in a nightgown in the presence of the princess. “A gift from the princess herself, huh?” 

Waverly’s confidence seemed to lessen just a bit, her smile turning more shy than anything. “It’s nothing fancy, just…” 

“Waverly,” Nicole paused mentally, as if to savor the taste of the name on her tongue instead of the usual formal title. “You didn’t have to bring me anything at all.” 

“And come to my savior empty handed?” 

“I’m pretty sure the prince is your savior, not me.” 

“I’m pretty sure I can make up my own mind on who my savior is.” 

Nicole was not going to argue, and instead accepted the bundle. It was soft but weighty and she set the package down on the foot of the bed. There was a silk ribbon holding it closed and she easily untied it, setting it aside. As she unwrapped the bundle, her fingers found soft velvet and delicate embroidery. “Waverly,” she whispered, shaking out the cloak. It was similar to the one the royal guard wore, but there were small embellishments, embroidery far more delicately than was standard. 

“I know your last was ruined in the capture. They were to replace it with the standard, but you are anything but standard.” 

Nicole felt the fire in her own cheeks, a tremble building in her fingertips that she tried to disguise by folding the cloak. “Thank you. It is incredible.” 

“Well, there’s one more thing.” Waverly rocked on her heels. “Outside of the room.” 

Nicole looked up, her eyebrow raised in question. “I believe the queen ordered me to stay here.”

Waverly snorted. “Must we go over this again?”

“No.” Nicole grinned. “But perhaps you might tell me where we are going? Will I need my sword?”

Waverly smiled now. “It’s a surprise, but I need you to put your boots on. You can leave your sword here.” 

Nicole felt a bit of worry but something about the princess’s smile was comforting and she reached for her boots with a sigh.

By the time she was dressed to leave the room and they were traveling through the castle, Nicole’s anxiety was rising. She wasn’t used to being followed by the two guards that lingered behind them or the two that entered every room before them. She noticed one of each set was familiar, while the other of each set was dressed in the colors of the visiting prince. 

His own precautions for his future bride, she guessed.

Overall, there was more security as guests began to arrive for the coronation and wedding. Nicole felt her mood beginning to sour at the thought, her mind beginning to preoccupy itself with visions of the princess getting married to Prince James. Kissing Prince James. Being led away from the reception by Prince James...

“Is the pain too much?” 

Nicole flinched slightly, turning to see Waverly watching her with a worried expression. 

“Just a little uncomfortable. I’m happy for the exercise,” Nicole responded. Internally, she cursed her own weakness. She couldn’t believe she’d let her emotions show to the extent that Waverly would notice. She was so wrapped up in her thoughts that she didn’t notice where they were until they stepped onto the dirt ground. She blinked in surprise. “The stables?” 

“Indeed.” Waverly chuckled as she wrapped an arm around Nicole’s elbow, waving off the guards. “As I said, I wanted to thank you, so I remembered the last time we were here and, well…” She gestured to a nearby stall.

A familiar dapple gray destrier neighed in surprise, hooves stomping at the ground.  “Sir Victor,” Nicole smiled as she stepped forward and was headbutted in the chest. “Hey, careful.” She ran her fingertips over the short grey hair. “Look at you, all pampered and spoiled.” 

“Apparently, when they attempted to give him a new rider, he refused,” Waverly leaned against the boards of the stall, a small smile on her face. “They decided, instead, to retire him and hopefully breed him.” 

Nicole rose an eyebrow, running her hand along the muscles of his neck, her short nails scratching him gently. “Well now, look who’s living the dream. All the food and ladies you could ever want.” 

Sir Victor had the audacity to neigh, nodding his head and headbutting her again. 

Nicole looked over at Waverly suspiciously. “This is not where the breeding horses are normally kept.” 

“No, it’s not.” Waverly reached over to a communal bucket, retrieving a suitable carrot before offering it to Nicole. “From the last time we talked, I knew you were worried about him. I thought about what I’d feel like if I couldn’t see Evelyne again.” She shrugged, looking down at the fresh hay that had been changed not that long ago. “I don’t have a lot of power around here, but I could do this. This way, I figured, it’s closer to the castle and you won’t have to go too far to take care of him if you want to.”

Nicole raised an eyebrow at the slight blush on Waverly’s cheeks as she accepted the carrot.  “You didn’t have to do that.” 

Waverly looked anywhere but at Nicole, her hand coming up to pick at the wood. “I know.” Finally, her eyes peeked up through long lashes. “I wanted to, as a thank you.” 

“How many times are you going to say thank you?”

“I do not think I can say it enough.” Waverly answered honestly. “Something like this, it was a little thing that I knew would mean a lot, so it was an easy enough decision.” 

Nicole had to laugh at that. She could feel a strange tension between them and she wasn’t sure if it was good or not. Instead, she offered the carrot to Sir Vincent. “That is very political of you, your Highness,” she joked. “Minimal cost for maximum effect.” 

Waverly snorted. “Well, one does pick up a thing or two when assisting the queen run a kingdom. Besides,” Waverly turned as a head peeked around the wall, the pale tan mare blowing in her direction as she could hear a hoof stomping against the ground. “I’ve been told that Evelyne has taken quite a shine to him.” She stepped out of the stall to greet her own horse. 

Nicole laughed softly, making sure Waverly was fully engrossed in her own horse before leaning closer. “What saps we are, eh Sir Victor? Such idiots for a pretty girl.” 

Sir Victor neighed, butting her in the shoulder. 

They spent almost an hour brushing the horses, enjoying the peace in familiar busy work and playful chatter before Nicole felt herself growing weary. This was the longest she’d been out of her room since they were rescued and unfortunately, Waverly noticed. 

“Well, I need to prepare for dinner.” Waverly rinsed her hands off before drying them on an available cloth. “Allow me to walk you back to your room?”

Nicole gave her a half smile. “Shouldn’t I be walking you to your room, Your Highness?”  The look the princess gave her brought Nicole’s hands up in defense, taking half a step back. “Waverly.”

“Let’s go, Lady Nicole or you’ll be lucky if the kitchen sends you a tray of more than bread and cheese for dinner.”

“I love bread and cheese,” Nicole responded with a snort, getting a playful elbow to the side in reward.

It took a moment, once back in her room, for Nicole to get the energy to clean herself up. She could smell the stables on herself and she liberated some clean clothes from her wardrobe, filling the large porcelain bowl with the pitcher of warm water that had mysteriously appeared while they were away. There was a collection of herbs and petals that she inspected carefully before dusting the water with one or two, letting them seep for a moment before dipping in one of the provided rags.

It was relieving, cleaning away the dust from her face, leaving a coolness behind after the slightly muggy air of the stables. She took care, inspecting in the mirror to make sure no dirt lingered in the ridges of the scar that went through her brow and cheek.

Did Waverly mind scars?

Nicole sighed heavily, attempting to shake the thoughts from her head. They would do nothing for her in the future, not with Waverly leaving the castle. Almost instantly, her mood began to dampen and she was a little rougher with herself as she continued to wash away her good mood with the dirt.

"Shit," Nicole winced as she ran the cloth down her arm, over the tenderness that still lingered from the attack. After changing into a clean set of breeches and having removed her shirt, she was already exhausted. Her injuries throbbed, and her muscles hurt, but it seemed with her impending departure, any moment with Waverly was worth the hassle.

Waverly, not Her Highness, but Waverly. 

No, Nicole shook her head. Her Highness felt safer. 

But the look in Waverly’s eyes seemed to soften every time Nicole used her given name. 

“You are a blessed fool,” Nicole cursed herself. With one last swipe of the cloth, she reached for her linen shirt, taking a deep breath. She was about to pull the shirt over her head when a knock sounded at the door.  Nicole moved to grab her sword as the door opened, but a familiar voice stopped her.

"Nicole?" Waverly stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. 

“One second,” Nicole spoke quickly as she moved quicker than she should have, trying to pull her shirt over her head. She was glad she had her back to Waverly at the least as pain lanced through her side and she froze mid-motion with a hiss. 

“Nicole!” Waverly set a tray on the bed before she moved quickly behind her. “Let me help you.” She had her hands on the shirt before Nicole could protest. 

Nicole swallowed audibly as she eased her head through the collar of the shirt. There was a silence behind her that she wasn’t used to. She felt fingertips brush against the skin of her back, or maybe she imagined it, just before she felt hands helping the shirt ease down her torso. A hand pressed to her now linen-covered back softly and Nicole looked over her shoulder to see a glazed-over look of sadness on the royal face. “Thanks.” 

Waverly swallowed audibly, stepping back. “There is still so much bruising. I should not have taken you to the stables. You should be resting.” 

Turning to face the princess, Nicole captured the hand that still hovered in the air. “Please don’t regret that. It was the best day I’ve had in awhile.” 

Waverly’s eyes dropped to their joined hands, her eyebrows scrunched in contemplation as if she wanted to say something but didn’t. 

Nicole released her hand, dropping her own hands to rub against her breeches. For the briefest moments, she imagined the embarrassment if Waverly had walked in a few moments earlier before she had changed into them, and felt her cheeks begin to heat. “I, um… what brings you…” The close proximity of Waverly was playing havoc on Nicole as she breathed in the sweet floral scent that clung to the princess, no doubt from her own bath, “to my chambers?”

Waverly paused for a moment, as if thinking over what to say, before she nodded. “It would seem that the kitchen has come across some very delicious plums and…” She moved to the bed where she had set down a tray of sliced fruit and cheese. “I thought you could use something sweet after all that hay and dust.” 

“Okay,” Nicole smiled. “But why did you bring fruit?” She'd already been sent a tray with chicken and root vegetables she'd eaten earlier. 

Waverly raised an eyebrow, the corner of her mouth lifting in an inquisitive smirk. “Lady Nicole…”

“Your Highness?” Nicole winced as she sat on the edge of the bed.

Waverly’s wince reflected Nicole’s. “I’ll forgive you for that, simply because I know this pain is my doing.” 

Nicole huffed. “Normally I would disagree with such a statement, but perhaps it would make you less likely to run a muck next time.” 

“A muck?” Waverly rolled her eyes with exaggeration, bringing the tray as she sat on the edge of the bed, a little closer than she planned. “I think you should try this plum. It will keep your mouth busy.”

Nicole had no chance to argue as a sliver of plum was shoved into her mouth. She managed to pull back slightly, the sweetness of the plum filling her mouth as she chewed. Quickly swallowing, she narrowed her eyes at Waverly. “That’s delicious, but if you are not aware, I am fully capable of feeding myself.” 

“Are you sure?” Waverly smirked. “You are quite injured.” She was about to eat her own slice of plum when a hand quickly captured her wrist. 

Nicole wasn’t sure what came over her as she brought the hand to her mouth and captured the slice between her teeth, easily removing it from delicate fingers. 

When her wrist was released, Waverly’s hand lingered in the air, a contemplative look on her face. 

Nicole suddenly found herself sitting very still as the pad of Waverly’s thumb moved to the scar on her cheek, tracing the short line. 

“What is this from?” Waverly’s voice had softened, no longer holding the teasing tone it had just seconds before.

Swallowing the fruit that had suddenly become a burden, Nicole licked her lips, seeing Waverly’s eyes lower to her mouth. “Two years ago, an army attempted to ambush us as we slept. Thankfully, I’m a light sleeper.” As the hand moved to caress the side of her cheek, Nicole felt her heartbeat increase. Her mind screamed that this was the princess. This was highly inappropriate, and yet she leaned into the touch, begging for the warmth. 

“How can a two year old wound hurt my heart so easily?” Waverly’s question lingered in the air between them in wonder, but it seemed directed more at herself than at Nicole. 

“Waverly...I,” Nicole began, but there were no words that could be formed. Her body and mind were at war, a war that overshadowed the years she’d been away from the kingdom -- a war that dared to leave scars deeper than a few marks on her skin. She knew she should pull away, but she remained frozen, her mind preventing her from moving forward, her heart preventing her from retreat. 

It was Waverly who closed the distance between them, her lips pressing to Nicole’s in a caress that was gentle at first, as if waiting for Nicole to unfreeze before she deepened the kiss. Her hand slipped behind Nicole’s neck, pulling her closer.

Nicole felt the heat spreading across her cheeks as her eyes fluttered closed. On instinct, she returned the kiss, her hand coming up to caress the pillow-soft skin of Waverly’s cheek. The voice in the back of her mind was telling her to stop -- to break off the kiss and pull away from what was nothing but eventual heartache. But she ignored it, pressing closer as she’d only imagined was possible.

[damienthepious]

okay,,, so, , it’s not tuesday in my timezone anymore, but it was when I posted this to ao3, so it still mcfreakin COUNTS. i DID it. the streak still continues

Even With Missteps (chapter 1)

[ao3] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [???]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, (other characters mentioned but not named)

Additional Tags: Unresolved Romantic Tension, Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades

Summary:  There is a masquerade ball in the Citadel tonight. Every knight and citizen has turned out, and all of them bear disguises of monstrosity. What better time could there be, for a monster who needs to find a way inside?

Notes: SO WHAT IF ARUM HAD TO DO HIS INFILTRATION DURING A DIFFERENT SORT OF CITADEL PARTY, IS ALL I'M SAYING. There might be more to this idea eventually, i don’t frickin know. I wrote all of this within the last like three days so I’m feeling a little punch drunk at the moment. Title from the song Little Trouble by Better Oblivion Community Center. 

~

Arum slips in with the rest of the crowd. This is not particularly difficult. The entire writhing population of the Citadel seems to have turned out for this ridiculous, overblown party, a hot mass of humanity tittering and falling over each other and pouring into the courtyard and the smaller royal ballroom beyond. And all of them to a one are bedecked in absurd parody of monsterkind; horns and fangs and feathers, silk flowers and leaves for the affluent and recently cut branches for the less so, billowing fabrics for false nymphs and plastered-on false muscle for facsimile ogres.

It’s a travesty, really. Arum can only stomach it because it fills him with a grim sort of humor to contemplate the fury of certain monsters at their human interpretations.

Arum’s disguise is simple. The thick layers of his own deep purple robes suffice to obscure most of his body, most of his scales, and he has his lower arms tucked into the folds, easily hidden by simply hugging his own midsection beneath the cloth. His robes also dip low enough to that only his feet show beneath, and he has used clay and cosmetics to obscure the shine of his claws and scales, to make his own features appear to be the true costume. His tail would be an issue, but he has painted it in a similar way to his claws, and if he only holds it stiff it looks a fair approximation of similar false appendages on some of the humans in attendance. For his other two hands he has long gloves with embroidered scales to cover his own, and his real claws pierce through as if part of the decoration. His hood is up, and beneath it is the centerpiece, his mask.

It is copper, decorated with the stylized face of a dragon that echoes the shape of his true face. The brows are heavy over the holes for his eyes in a way that shadows the inhumanity of them, and the way it rests on his face beneath the hood should rather skillfully maintain the illusion of a mere human beneath the metal. His height is such as to be noticed, but not such that he will be seen as alarming. A fair number of the knights he has passed already outpace him in that particular quality, anyway.

One knight guarding the entrance to the main ballroom appears to have simply applied charcoal to her armor with stripes of swirling orange painted in between, and her helm is affixed with a pair of dark antlers that chime with bells whenever she moves her head. She conveniently diverts her attention to berate her companion, who is dressed as a rather childish approximation of (Arum needs to blink, he is convinced he is mistaken for a moment before he realizes, no, that is almost certainly-) his own mimic monster, recently killed and likely by this oaf, and Arum scowls as he uses the distraction of these fools to slip inside beside the rest of the cacophonous crowd without scrutiny.

Then, all he needs do is cross the ballroom and slip unnoticed deeper into the fortress.

(Arum is convinced, secretly, that the Senate chose to have him perform this task not simply because his body structure is close enough to these scrawny bipedal creatures to require minimal obscuring during a costumed party. If that were all that were required, one of those absurd nymphs would be the obvious choice. Humans never notice their strangeness until it is far too late, after all. No- Arum is convinced that the Senate chose him for this as an obscured punishment for the failure of his former projects. Acquire your own materials. He sneers harder under his thick mask, since the expression will go unseen. The timeline is fixed. Do not disappoint again, as a denial of the wishes of the Senate constitutes a denial of the wishes of the Universe itself. Arum knows when he is being humiliated, and the need to infiltrate not only this disgusting Citadel but to do so during such a foolish event- it rankles, to say the very least. If the Senate did not have the power to damage his swamp and his Keep, he would laugh in their faces. He wishes he could. If he had his own way, he would not be involved in this nonsense at all. The thrill of challenge wore off at least three failed experiments ago.)

So. Yes. All he needs do is cross the ballroom.

Unfortunately, the humans have already begun to dance. There is a clustering of musicians, or what passes for them in human society, playing their instruments up closer to the creature who must serve as their Queen. He can’t tell what she is disguised as from this distance, but he can see the vague silhouette of wings up behind her. Extravagant, of course. He should expect as much.

The dais upon which the Queen is perched is surrounded by knights, guards, decorated armor but armor nonetheless. With the entire Citadel welcome inside these walls tonight, this is to be expected. They cannot risk the safety of their little ruler, after all. And with so much of their fighting force dedicated to bodyguarding, there is likely very little left to haunt the halls of the Queen’s private chambers. Why would they bother with more than a cursory guard, when the much more obvious potential for danger lies here? Here, where any rabble rouser or - he could almost laugh - sufficiently humanoid monster could creep in unnoticed, could creep close enough to pounce?

Beneath her, between Arum and his goal, is a squirming mass of humans, and if those fools above are performing what passes for music with these creatures, this must be what passes for dance. At least the rhythm is sturdy, if obnoxiously predictable and unvarying. He could creep around the outside of the dancers, but at the moment there are very few doing more than lingering there for a few moments at a time. It is still early enough in the evening that none seem compelled to rest for any noticeable period of time, and besides that, the knights are dotted along each wall, keeping a wary eye on the crowd.

If any human were to see through his garb it would be one of those most trained to slay his kind, of course, and he would prefer to keep as far away from that risk as possible. His best option is to cross the dance floor itself, so he can make it to the other side, where he can either distract and sneak past a guard through a door to the more inner chambers, or alternatively slip out onto the balcony where he can climb up a floor and reenter. He is leaning towards the second option just this moment, if only for the chance to breathe properly in the open air for a half second without the radiant heat of a thousand mammals stuffing up his snout.

He sets his jaw, fists his two free hands at his sides, and ventures into the crowd.

He makes it approximately four steps before he is jostled enough to unbalance him, and his tail smacks the floor in an automatic effort to keep him on his feet, which thankfully does not appear to draw attention. It must have looked enough like the ‘false’ appendage simply wavering with his own steps. He barely has time to feel grateful for that, though, before a heeled foot steps immediately upon the end of his tail, and Arum’s snarl of shocked pain is too natural to suppress.

Ridiculous human dance, Arum thinks viciously as a pair of the creatures stop and take unfortunate notice of him, one with brow furrowed in confusion beneath rattlepanther face paint. Humans certainly do not snarl as Arum just did, and it is clear that these humans think they have heard something, even if they are not yet raising the alarm.

Arum freezes. This is incorrect, considering that every other creature in eyesight is in motion. More eyes turn to him, and Arum feels equal parts stupid and furious. Of course his stillness is suspect. He is on the dance floor, and he is the only one not dancing. If he wishes to shake this scrutiny he will have to follow suit.

There is only one human nearby not already coupled, a slight thing staring off to the side of the dance floor and bouncing lightly on his feet, and Arum seizes the opportunity and the human before he can think too long about it, because he would rather dance than die, despite the embarrassment. He spins with two armfuls of alarmed human, then, staring doe-eyed up at him out of a decently stylish basilisk costume, with the mouth of the creature framing his face rather than obscuring it, with fangs above and below. The human’s scowls and frowns, and he stammers hard for a moment or two before he finds his tongue.

“P- I beg your- I do beg your leave, I was not looking to be-” he squirms slightly in Arum’s arms, but he seems too polite to pull away entirely. “I am not unattached, I was merely waiting for my Rilla to return, and-”

Arum is still aware of the suspicious eyes of others upon him and cannot give up this shield just yet, cannot dip back into the crowd alone without arousing further suspicion, but if his new partner will not cease his thrashing then the suspicion will follow him into the dance as well. He will have to appease the human, if only for a few moments, just until those who noticed him grow bored.

So, Arum leans down (far down), and he murmurs (he won't sound so monstrous in a murmur), “I am only stealing you for one dance, little basilisk.” The human blinks in surprise, and Arum can feel the heat that flushes the human's cheeks, and he pretends that this strange mammalian quirk is not… interesting. He pretends, and he keeps whispering. “I promise to release you when your partner returns. You are the only monster here who has interested me in the least, and I would take what little time you will allow me. Is this fair?”

The human has long since stopped stammering, and after a long moment he blinks again, and nods, and his hands find their proper places on Arum for the dance. “I suppose, I suppose that a single dance would not be… that is to say, just one dance couldn’t hurt. Could it?”

It only takes a few steps for Arum to find his stride. Human dance seems predictable, to say the least, and he manages a passable imitation rather quickly with this human in his arms, and he starts to slowly maneuver the pair of them across the dance floor, inching towards his goal and away from suspicious eyes. Of course, once his trajectory is planned, it becomes rather difficult to ignore the attention of the creature he is holding, to ignore the heat of his body or the curiosity in his eyes or the skill in his footwork as Arum moves with him.

And, perhaps, Arum finds dancing with this particular partner to be substantially more enjoyable than he could have expected. So enjoyable, perhaps, that he forgets to focus on the reason why he is here, for a minute or two.

"Your eyes are-" the human stops, smiles strangely beneath the fangs of his mask, "quite beautiful," he settles on. "They look almost… almost violet in this light. Like amethysts, sparking in the lanterns' glow. They are quite enchanting."

Arum's face is hidden well enough that he needs not conceal the way that twists his mouth into a strange smile of his own, and he laughs just low enough to disguise the rattle in his throat. "I thank you for the compliment," he murmurs, leaning close again. "It was phrased as elegantly as your steps, little basilisk."

“Elegance-” the human inhales sharply as Arum spins him, and when Arum pulls him back he laughs, and Arum realizes quite suddenly that he is not merely being influenced by the nature of this party, by the jaunty song drifting down from the dais. This human simply has a voice that rings like music, in laughter and in speech. So much so that, once his breathless laugh subsides, his next words are not so much of a surprise. “One could say that elegance of phrasing is a part of my trade. I am a poet, you see.”

“A poet,” Arum echoes, and if that idea delights him, there is no one but the poet himself to hear the warmth in his voice, or see the spark in his eyes. He is merely playing the role, isn’t he? Pleasing the human to maintain his cover. Flattering by necessity, not because he feels drawn to do so. Of course. “Such a strange basilisk I have caught, then. Delicate as honeysuckle, and just as sweet besides. Is there any venom at all in those fangs of yours?”

“I suppose you will only find the answer to that question if you provoke me to bite,” he lilts, and then his face flushes with heat again, and he looks just as surprised by his own boldness as Arum is. “I- that is to say-”

“I will endeavor not to deserve your ire, then, honeysuckle,” Arum says, and all this deception and merry-making must be going to his head, because even to his own ears his voice sounds playful. “For the moment, at least,” he adds, and the human breathes another bright little laugh.

“Do I- forgive me, I do not know you already behind that disguise, do I?”

“I would be dearly surprised if you did, honeysuckle,” Arum says dryly. “And even beneath such frightening attire, I would certainly remember someone like you.”

It is flattery only for the purposes of acquiring his goal, Arum reminds himself.

“Oh,” the human says, as if realizing something, and his smile goes apologetic for a moment. “How rude of me, then, not to introduce myself. I am Sir Damien,” he says softly, and every part of Lord Arum where Sir Damien is not touching him goes cold.

A knight. Arum has been twirling and embracing a knight, and for all this little human looks and sounds like some gentle, sweet-spoken thing, he has almost certainly destroyed his fair share of Arum’s distant kin. His steps go on automatic, but his mind spirals away in something he recognizes distantly as panic. He will not be discovered (of course he will not, the idea is ridiculous), but if he is then he will be in the worst possible position. He does not know how he has managed to forget himself so thoroughly. Little basilisk knight with his honeysuckle nectar voice- what was Arum thinking?

Damien’s grip on Arum is soft as Arum leads him, his thumbs brushing light over Arum’s scales through his cloak, but now that Arum is paying attention he can see the subtle musculature of his shoulders and arms even through his costume, can feel the muted strength of his grip as the knight allows himself to be lead. Arum thinks, perhaps, that when Damien failed to pull himself away from Arum at the start of this encounter, it was politeness alone that kept him in Arum’s grasp. That idea is- it twists in Arum’s stomach. He does not know how he feels about it, besides simply that it makes him feel something.

“Though-” Sir Damien says, and the hesitant hope in his voice draws Arum’s attention back. “Though on the other hand, I suppose in revealing such I may have betrayed the spirit of the event.” He ducks his head, peeking up at Arum from beneath those shining false fangs. “You may continue to call me as you like, be that basilisk or honeysuckle. I find that I am enjoying playing the monster with you- er, playing such for the evening, rather, substantially more than I expected.”

Sir Damien is close. His skin is warm, the fangs of his mask are sharp, and Arum can hear the way his heart kicks faster when his words stumble.

playing the monster with-

Arum is rather enjoying playing the human. More so than he expected. Far more, in fact, considering that he did not expect to enjoy it at all.

And when Damien looks up at Arum from beneath his false fangs with a soft, shy smile, Arum wonders how a knight such as this could survive, when he displays his warm little heart so openly, so easily. Then without thinking Arum pulls him closer, and Damien is terribly hot, pressed against Arum’s front like that. Arum wishes he had his other hands free, to hold him more securely, to draw him even closer.

Arum feels his own heart skip, like a stone on still water.

Oh, Lord Arum thinks. Oh no.

He becomes aware, again, of the humans that surround them. Of their noise, of the way their bodies press in on all sides. He releases his grip on the knight, a cool shiver racing across his scales. He steps back, and bows. “I- I must excuse myself,” he says, clipped. “Forgive me.”

“But-” Damien takes a half step closer, lifting one hand to cover his heart, and his mask does nothing at all to conceal the way his expression has fallen into confusion and disappointment. “But the dance is not finished yet, is it?”

“Forgive me,” Arum says again, and he is surprised to find that he means it more earnestly than intended. “I- I believe you have a partner you meant to return to, did you not? I am sure they are missing you, honeysuckle.”

Damien’s mouth curls further, sudden guilt, and when he glances away to try to catch sight of his original partner Arum takes another step.

“W-wait-” Damien follows another step in turn. “Please, I hope I have not offended you-”

“No, honeysuckle. Nothing of the sort,” Arum says, and isn’t sure why. It would be much easier to escape if the human thought he had offended, wouldn’t it? “But I must take my leave.”

“Please,” Damien says, though he does not follow this time, and his voice has gone softer. Less certain. “I- I don’t even know who you are.”

And that truth is the only thing keeping Arum safe and alive, at the moment. So, Arum would not be able to explain, if asked, why he steps closer to the knight again, why he leans down close, why he breathes a few short words into Damien’s ear. “You may call me Arum,” he murmurs, “and I thank you for the pleasure of your company, for however brief a time.”

He straightens, and then imitates a gesture he has seen around the room many times already tonight. He lifts one of Damien’s hands, brings it to the mouth of his mask, and brushes the copper over his knuckles in a facsimile kiss.

Arum has no ready excuse for this action, either.

As Damien stares at him, lips parted but wordless, Arum does not give himself time to hesitate. He drops the hand. He sweeps away, taking quick purposeful steps, dodging artfully around the dancers now that he is intimately familiar with the motions involved, and he is outside on the balcony without a single human seeming to note him in what feels like the space of a breath. The other humans are all too enraptured with their own partners by now to pay him any mind, he thinks.

The balcony is cooler. Darker. Quieter. Only a few scattered humans have come out to rest where the air is clear. Arum takes a moment, breathing as deeply as he can beneath the metal adorning his face, and feels his own inadequacy and embarrassment like the skipping stone finally sinking beneath the surface, down into the muck.

Just another foolish little human, no different from the rest of his kind. Just another human, all too soon to perish with the rest of his species in this poorly constructed termite mound. Just another human, another thoughtless monster-killer destined to a death that fast approaches.

A death Arum will have a hand in.

He glances back over his shoulder. He does not mean to.

The people inside cannot see out into the darkness of the balcony, but Arum can very easily see in, can very easily pinpoint his former partner, standing amongst motion, staring in his direction without seeing him. He looks very small, like that.

Underneath his robes, Arum presses his claws into his ribs. Focus. He has a job to be doing. Nothing else matters if his Keep is not safe, and it will not be so again until the Senate has their attention safely away from him, once he performs his task. However interesting this one human might seem at a cursory glance, he cannot possibly matter.

Basilisk, Arum thinks, somewhere between fascination and disdain. He had asked about what venom was in those fangs, and Arum, oddly, feels bitten. Like something strange and hot is flowing thought him in place of blood.

Ridiculous.

Ridiculous, and unhelpful besides. Arum walks purposefully towards the end of the balcony, where the railing meets the high wall of the central tower of the Citadel. He leans his back against the cool stone, and watches the small groups of people cooling off as they come and go. And when the opportunity presents itself, when none are close enough to see him, he begins to climb.

He will finish this task, and then he will return home, and then he will never need think of nectar nor venom again.

~

Rilla finds Damien standing, motionless among twirling skirts and cloaks, his hand over his heart and his face flushed, and she takes his hand in her own, raising an eyebrow.

“You looked like you were having fun out there,” she says, and Damien jumps, spins, and his expression goes guilty when he recognizes her beside him. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Rilla!” he squeaks, and his shoulders hunch in misery when she leans close to kiss the cheek of his mask, since she can’t actually reach his face. “You- you were- you saw-”

“I saw you get swept off your feet a bit, I think.” She grins. “It was cute. I didn’t expect tall guys to be your thing. Though… there was something odd about his gait,” she muses quietly, half to herself. Damien and the stranger had certainly looked lovely dancing together, and she could watch Damien make that dopey wide-eyed expression all day, but she had been distracted from the playful elegance of their movement by the way the stranger had moved in particular. Something about the way he stepped, about the way he seemed to counterbalance so easily with that fake tail- “Couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but… hm. Well, maybe if we stick around we’ll catch back up with your new friend later, yeah?”

“I- I- m-my friend?” he asks, looking even more flushed, more dazed. It’s pretty adorable, actually.

“I think it’s my turn for a dance now, though,” she says slyly, slinking closer and winding her arms around him, the red and gold feathers of her phoenix costume tickling his neck. “I wanna see if I can make you go that starry eyed for me,” she teases as she tugs him into motion, and that, at least, seems to snap him back to coherency as his own hands find their familiar places.

“Oh Saint Damien above- oh Rilla I apologize, I shouldn’t have-”

“Shouldn’t have what, danced?” She smiles, and squeezes his shoulders through her feathered gloves. “Damien, I’m glad you were out there having fun instead of wasting time waiting for me when you could be having fun.”

“But I should be dancing with you, not-”

“Damien.” Rilla tips back and Damien catches her without a thought, and she grins up at him. “You’re dancing with me now, aren’t you?”

“I-” he blinks, and when he pulls her back to his feet he laughs, just lightly. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

“Then dance with me, Damien,” she says, and if she presses closer to her fiance than is strictly proper for such a public event, no one is going to mention it. “Dance with me now, and maybe later on I might be convinced to share you with your friend again, if you promise to look that pretty every time you dance with him.”

“Rilla!” Damien squawks, cheeks delightfully pink, and then he laughs more brightly, and his hands settle upon her more securely, and Rilla wishes badly that his fangs weren’t in the way, because all she wants to do right now is kiss him.

Kissing can wait for now. After all, they have the whole night long to spend together.

In the meantime, in the low lantern light, they dance.

[thequeerblr]

by Brittany B. | 10/30/2019

The Queerblr is honored to present the cover art for Grimmer Intentions, the second installment of the Tales from the Grim series by Jodi Hutchins!

She screwed up. She broke protocol. She saved a life. Grim Reaper Margo Petrov may have resurrected a drowned surfer on the brink of death, but she isn’t earning any awards or receiving employee of the month from Corporate; she’s under more scrutiny from the Grim governing body than ever before. Since she has a massive secret that could spell disaster if revealed, she sure as hell doesn’t want to be in the spotlight, in any form.

Margo vows to keep her head down and stay out of trouble, reaping her quota of spirits lest she cause more problems for herself and the woman she saved with an illegal blood bond. She certainly shouldn’t be opening doors to the Fae lands or offering her neck to an Empusa woman suffering from bloodlust, but Margo’s laundry list of bad decisions keeps growing. With the threat of becoming decommissioned by Corporate looming in her periphery, Margo stumbles deeper into the politics of her people and soon realizes their intentions are far worse than she initially thought.

I MEAN LOOK AT IT!

I don’t normally talk about the cover art of a book in my reviews, but when I read The Grim Assistant in July, I remember really enjoying the cover art because it is vastly different than most of books in its genre. The wispy Grim Reaper on the horizon and the singular silhouette of a woman along the water is starkly different than often scantily clad, provocatively posed women of both the romance and paranormal genres. The cover is not only refreshing, but intriguing to new readers, too. The old saying goes “don’t judge a book by its cover,” but when the cover is refreshing to look at, chances are you’re going to be more inclined at least flip through the pages. And when you flips through the pages of this one (or read the excerpts available online), I promise you won’t be disappointed.

And when you place the cover art of both books side by side, it is abundantly clear that you’re reading the same series because we have the same wispy reaper and a woman silhouetted on the water’s edge and small details on both women that are crucial to their particular story arcs:

I’ve had the pleasure of reading Grimmer Intentions and, let me tell you, I thoroughly enjoyed it! The book takes place immediately after the ending of The Grim Assistant. Grimmer Intentions follows the perspectives of two characters that readers met in the first book who couldn’t be more opposite and they both have substantially different and dire circumstances they deal with throughout the book.

My two second review of Grimmer Intentions is that the tension is on point, the characters are unique and varied, the main two protagonists have distinct individual character arcs and organic chemistry that grows from frenemies to lovers with the help of some precarious situations. This book further develops the world the Hutchins established in The Grim Assistant and sets up the series for another installment and introduces a fun new cast of diverse queer characters. Grimmer Intentions isn’t even out yet and I’m already excited for the whatever book three holds for the Tales from the Grim series.

Without further ado, here is an exclusive excerpt from Grimmer Intentions:

  Grimmer Intentions Jodi Hutchins © 2019 Published by NineStar Press All Rights Reserved

A gentle breeze caressed her face, soft and rippling like the ocean that lay beyond the sandy beach. The sand nearly scorched the bare soles of her feet, and the sun poured warmth over her back. Glancing up, Jackie took in the otherworldly hues of the sky, visible brushstrokes lining the silver clouds.

A lucid dream, she realized. Months had passed since she’d experienced one, and the revelation along with the strange recent events of her life left her with a deep foreboding. Glossy water licked the shore, spilling over the sand before receding back. She’d been to this dream beach before, nestling herself under the ever-present warmth from the sun and enjoying the calm. Meditation brought her to the same place.

Serenity. Peace. Tranquility. These qualities kept bringing her back to the only place she could find her balance. She was free from the physical stressors of keeping her beast at bay, holding back the bloodlust associated with her being, and splitting her two lives apart. Nothing bad would come of her here in her safe place, and she didn’t have to veil herself in a disguise, depending upon who she was around.

A murder of crows flew overhead before dipping into the ocean. With each wave, they bobbed along with the oddly colored water. Streams of dark blue swirled with gray dappled with white brushstrokes. The painted landscape elicited a smile from Jackie, and she continued her walk down the beach. Puffy white clouds obscured the tangerine-tinged sun, causing thick rays to shimmer over the sand. Oh, how she wanted to paint the scene in front of her, to capture the elegance of the orange-glazed sand or the crows afloat on the water’s surface. Light flickered in her line of sight, and she yanked her gaze from the bobbing black birds to the assaulting ray.

Jackie squinted to see where the glint had originated from. None other than Margo the Grim lounged against an overturned lifeguard stand, shaving a piece of driftwood with a thick pocketknife. The sun reflected on the metal surface and shone into Jackie’s eyes again as she started toward the enigmatic woman.

The scenario was very similar to when the two women met for the first time in Brent’s home. Margo’s lip ring had caught a glimmer of light, shining directly in Jackie’s eyes. Shortly after that, Margo had accidentally called her a vampire, and upon Jackie correcting her, Margo’s response had been rude, leading Jackie to kick her in the leg. She assumed this is where her subconscious conjured the action from.

But this is different, Jackie thought. She’d dreamt of people before but couldn’t recall the last time she’d brought someone within her place of serenity. Of course, Margo was Jackie’s own doing, her own mental depiction of the Grim, dressed in red flannel pajamas, not that Jackie could ever imagine Margo wearing such an outfit to bed. Margo appeared so out of place but completely where she belonged.

“Hi,” Jackie said as she stopped next to the lifeguard stand.

Margo looked up and smiled wide. “Well, isn’t this fucking weird?” Her cerulean gaze was the strangest color Jackie had the pleasure to see. Margo’s eyes reminded her of a precious stone she found at the beach one day, the vibrant azure kyanite calling to her from beneath the tawny sand. She still had the rock, tucked away in the tiny tin box beside her pillow along with a few other gems. However, a fire shifted alight within the woman’s eyes, casting flames in the irises, something Jackie had never witnessed before meeting Margo. Whimsical. The last word Jackie would ever associate with the woman sitting on the ground had become the only descriptor relatively close to defining Margo in that moment.

“Sit with me,” Margo offered, scooting over.

Jackie settled beside Margo, who lifted her arm and wrapped it around Jackie. Surprisingly, she found the contact incredibly comforting, and she nestled into Margo’s side. This was definitely new.

“There’s something to be said about the beauty of a crow’s shadow,” Margo muttered, her voice far off.

Jackie smiled. “What does that mean?”

Turning to face her, Margo offered her a crooked smirk. “I don’t know but it sounded good, didn’t it? It makes about as much sense as me being here. I feel like I stepped into one of your paintings.”

The black bird hopped over, tilting its head to gaze up at Jackie. She held out her hand and the creature jumped onto the presented palm with a flutter of their wings. “I have to admit, I love crows. I think my background is to blame for that. Pretty sure all good Empusae have to love black cats and crows.”

Margo chuckled. “I think that’s a prerequisite, yeah?” The crow fluttered away.

Sighing, Jackie relaxed against Margo, placing her hand on Margo’s thigh, surprised when warmth spread through her from their contact. “Usually when I have these dreams, I’m the only cognitive individual. I mean, besides the occasional talking animal. Why are you here?” Jackie didn’t expect an answer because she didn’t know why Margo was here. Obviously, the woman beside her wasn’t really Margo, not in her dreams. The woman next to her was nothing but a figment of her own imagination, no matter how her subconscious rendered the real Margo.

“I don’t know.” Margo averted her gaze. “I wanted to be with you.”

“With me?”

Margo blinked, her lower lip disappearing between her teeth. “Yeah. I don’t know what any of this means. Fuck, maybe I’m having an existential crisis.” Margo laughed loudly to her own inside joke that Jackie didn’t get. “There’s just something about you, and I can’t figure out what it is. I don’t think it’s only because of the whole bitey thing, which is amazing, by the way.” She smirked, cupping her hand under Jackie’s jawline. “You’re incredible.”

Jackie flung her hair over a shoulder. “You’re just addicted to me.”

Sincerity passed Margo’s face. “Yeah, I think I am. I wanted to text you but thought that would’ve been too weird.” She smirked. “Not that this is any less weird,” she said, glancing around at the painted seascape in front of them.

Jackie also gazed out at the water lapping at the shoreline, noting the soft brushstrokes of white foam lingering on the water’s edge, the textured grains of sand at her feet. The calming rush of the ocean lolled Jackie into a comfort, one she sought when she came to this spot to be alone, to meditate. To share the intimate location with anyone besides the occasional talking animal was something she wasn’t accustomed to.

“Jackie.”

She turned to Margo again. “Yeah?”

“We can’t be a couple.”

A painful pang drenched Jackie’s brief serenity. “What are you talking about?”

Margo frowned, her expression uncomfortable. “I have to leave; well, I might have to leave the country.”

“Why?”

Leaning forward, Margo wrapped her arms around her knees, bunching up her pajama pants. Jackie never imagined witnessing fear on Margo’s features, but she couldn’t deny the dread marring her expression. “I can’t tell you, but I have to leave America. There’s so much going on with Corporate, and leaving might be my best option, for everyone’s sake.”

“You have to leave here?” Jackie whispered. No, she rationalized, this all stemmed from the talk she had with Ezra—the conversation about weird things happening with the Grim. Jackie shook her head, as if to shoo away the weird dream. It didn’t work.

Margo peered up at the textured sky as a cotton candy cloud drifted by, her face pensive. “Yeah, maybe. Probably.” She lowered her head and looked at Jackie. “If it comes down to it, I won’t have a choice, Jackie.”

“Yes, you do, there’s always a choice. Why can’t you just stay?”

“Seriously, you have no idea. That’s not your fault; it’s mine.” She paused, shaking her head, then parting her lips as if to speak again but glanced down at her hands instead. Firelight twinkled in her eyes before she vanished from Jackie’s dream completely, a vapor of mist left in her wake. A chill crept into Jackie’s being, and she wrapped her own arms around herself as the cloud where Margo sat dissipated.

“I have some sick sense of creativity,” she said to the crows meandering in the sand a few feet from her.

One of them bobbed its head at her and winked a black button eye. “I concur,” the crow rasped.

Jackie withdrew her flip-flop from her right foot and threw it at the crow, rolling her eyes as she forced herself to wake up.

Grimmer Intentions will be released on December 9th and is available for pre-sale on NineStar Press. If you choose to pre-purchase the book through NineStar Press, you’ll get access to the book three days in advance (December 6)!

The Grim Assistant has a second book for the Tales from the Grim series! Come on over to thequeerblr.com to see our book cover reveal and exclusive excerpt of Grimmer Intentions, by Jodi Hutchins! by Brittany B. | 10/30/2019 The Queerblr is honored to present the cover art for Grimmer Intentions…

[someobscurereference]

oh ok so fun fact! u totally have multiple fe anons now! XD theres def at least 2 of us, maybe more tho. im NOT the anon from the last ask, but dragons gate idea! holy shit. this is the Dream Scenario, tell me more. like i think the trio would be way more comfy staying knowing they could visit home whenever they wanted. how do encounters with the other future kids go? i imagine that tho they bicker they actually care about one another quite a bit? do the royal sibs get shovel talked?

Multiple!!! Anons!! I guess I’ve been suspecting that for a bit now but it’s finally been #confirmed and I’m still as surprised as if it were day one, lol. I’ve been addressing some asks as though they’re all from the same anon when they’re probably not. Whoops! At least I can be more careful from here on out ;)

Dragon’s Gate Scenario (where the timelines between Nohr and Ylisse actually match up) is best scenario because allowing the Trio to visit their family and and friends without leaving Nohr behind makes my heart warm and happy. I agree that they’d be wayyyy more comfy with this ability.  (Also buckle up bc we’re about to talk about some timeline stuff right here)

I’m pretty convinced most the fe13 crew thinks the Awakening Trio is dead by now, tbh. Which makes me so sad!!! And I don’t want it to be true!! But from what it seems, Anankos showed up right when all the future kids were gonna split ways and was like “please save my kingdom” and threw a paper with where to meet (probably wraped around a brick or something and it nearly hits Inigo, lmao) and then he left. So Owain, Inigo, and Severa go off to check it out, but?? They probably didn’t except to be gone for literal years? Because it’s definitely been years. 

I think Selena makes some comment that implies she remembers Corrin as a young child but that feels a little too long for me/they still look pretty young in-game, so to me, the Trio has probably been in Nohr for like five (5) years or so? That’s just personal opinion. That number can change, but it’s for sure been years.

When they meet, Anankos is pretty explicit about the fact if they’re going to help him, they have to leave Right Now. No time to send a letter or say goodbye or anything. Instant decision. And the Trio makes the mythical heroic one, the sacrificial one, but at what cost?

It takes a month to travel from Yllise to the meeting place, so all the parents were probably expecting to hear back from their future kids after like a month. And then they… didn’t. 

Some of them probably keep hope. Lissa insists that she’d know if her son were gone, she’d feel it, and most believe that she thinks so but Maribelle knows she worries. And with how close Maribelle and Lissa are, Owain and Brady probably grew up together, practically brothers, and Brady’s doubts eat at him like a black hole and he cries practically every time he thinks about it, about the letters he’s never gotten, about the travels they didn’t get to have together now that the war was over, and Owain’s dead, probably, because of something stupid or heroic or both and Brady wasn’t even there to heal him, couldn’t even do that, so useless and—

Sometimes Cynthia sits with him and doesn’t try to cheer him up when he blubbers and at least once she mentions that they aren’t her kinds of heroes, but Owain always liked the type that showed up at the very last second. She’s kinda hoping he’ll still jump out at some point. Who knew being a lone hero was so lonely? She doesn’t say anything after that, and then Brady’s all out of tears. 

Olivia practices dances that require two people and waits for her grown son to come home, knowing he probably won’t. Her baby isn’t big enough to dance yet, and that’s amazing and she loves this little bundle of joy and the future she’s going to have with him that another version of her didn’t reach, but she still misses Inigo. Gerome wanted to live a life of solitude with Minerva and the other wyverns and he got it. He sees the other kids the least out of anyone and he knows better than to expect anything good out of the world even with the cruelest future averted, but even he sometimes catches himself staring at his open palm, trying to remember how Inigo’s hand felt in his own when the fool was trying to convince Gerome to come back in time, please, and then when Gerome relented, in the new world Inigo was always pawing at him anyway to come visit these women or that event and— 

Gerome has been stuck in the past long enough. He has to look ahead. His hand aches. 

Noire was friends with Inigo and Sevena both, and maybe she had a crush on both of them, maybe. Or at least the potential for a crush. Or something adjacent to one. She loved them both so fiercely, the way only dying things loved (because they were all doomed from the start up until they weren’t), and at some point it didn’t matter if she teetered on the edge of romance or not, she loved them. Inigo always flirted with every girl under the sun but her, but it never mattered because in the end she always worried over him anyway. He never learned. And she misses the way Severa would fuss over her too. Sometimes she still wakes up in the night and wishes Severa were there to guide her, even though she’s long since past any need for hand-holding or fussing. She still wants it. 

(Sometimes she makes a cake and wonders what Owain would have named it. The sugar always tastes sour those days.)

Cordelia knows better than anyone how greedy war can be, what it can take within seconds. The problem with that is that the war is supposed to be over, but she seems to have lost her daughter anyway. She’s broken her promise never to leave her daughter alone again. Maybe it’s fate; maybe Cordelia is always meant to be the lone survivor. She wishes a lot of things. 

Kjelle hasn’t touched makeup since the time Severa tried to teach it to her and she forgot more important things, like how to hold a shield. Sometimes she catches herself staring at the lines of kohl on other girl’s faces and wondering what Severa would have thought, though. Usually that leads to chopping wood and practicing stances for hours on end until she can’t feel her fingers anymore. Kjelle’s never been much for words or contemplation outside the material—what would this move do against that one, is her armor the proper weight still—but she catches herself wondering what Severa would say about trinkets in the store windows more often than she would like. Laurent and Severa have always been opposits, but it worked, somehow, for them, even if it led to bickering more often than not. She forced him out of his comfort zone, and he tempered her, or so he thought. Perhaps Severa would have matured naturally with age. Laurent can come up with a thousand hypotheses now, but he’s never going to know the truth. Not anymore.

And it’s not just them, it’s everyone. It’s Nah missing chasing Inigo around when she got mad at him, though she didn’t really mean it. It’s Yarne missing Severa’s perseverance, her constant push at him to do better. It’s Lucina missing her cousin, who she always admired with the imagination she didn’t quite have and the bravery she shared with him. It’s everyone. They all miss each other in a hundred different ways, and the Trio misses them and home like a drowning man whose adapted to the ocean but can still taste the salt. 

—

Uhhhh, that got sad, but anyway!! You’d bet everyone would be ECSTATIC  to find Owain/Severa/Inigo alive and well. There would be many a tear. Kjelle would probably punch something. Brady would try to yell at them but he’d be sobbing too hard to actually say anything. Nah would roar with all the power of the dragon she is, and everyone’s parents would hold them hard and not want to let go. Lucina would beam and Gerome would let go of the little string of tension that had been wrapped around his heart for the past few years and Laurent would have to compose himself and Cynthia would be doing flips, and you know there’d be so much yelling. So much. The story would have to come out in bits and pieces because they’d constantly be interrupting one another, on both sides. 

I’ve definitely been focusing on the sadder parts of this idea and not the happier ones, so while this answer is getting long, let me try to fix that real fast. 

There’s guaranteed to be a lot of fussing over the Trio, who are now like 5 years older than when they last left and maybe? possibly? still disguised with Anankos’ magic? Maybe also that vanishes when they step through the Gate. Unknown. What is also guaranteed, however, is how much fussing the Nohrians get when visiting officially as a mixed group of royals and the Trio’s BFs/GFs.

Xander charms the pants of Olivia, hands down. He’s genuine and kind and charming, and when his back is turned, Olivia looks at her son and blushes because hot damn. Inigo picked a catch.  Inigo sees her look and wants to sink into the floor, but she’s not wrong. Also he feels 12 all over again. Olivia offers to dance for him and Inigo wants to join in and he also wants to watch and he’s also too shy to want to dance in front of anybody, even just Xander and his mom, and it makes for an interesting visit for sure. 

Leo passes Aunt/Other Mother Maribelle’s Scrutiny Test, but Niles, for all the effort he’s putting in to make a good impression, probably doesn’t. Owain insists Niles isn’t really that bad, he’s loyal like nothing else, and that’s at least a benefit in Maribelle’s book. She’s still suspicious of his seemingly shady character and all the effort he’s putting into looking good for her (because the fact he has to put in effort at all is suspicious to her, and it would have been suspicious if he were a prince or a farmer or anything other than a thief turned royal retainer. The only reason she can’t pin anything on Leo is because he keeps pulling out obscure knowledge to answer all her probing questions and has only the utmost manners. She’s waiting for him to make a cultural faux pas), but Owain is grown now. He can make his own decisions.  Besides, if Lissa isn’t complaining, she can’t either. Lissa loves Niles and Leo both. Lissa maybe catches them unawares with the old “bucket of frogs over the doorway” trick, though. She hasn’t changed. 

Cordelia’s happy to meet whoever her daughter loves, so long as they give Severa the love she deserves and pretty obviously craves. Not that Cordelia can talk, since she’s been absent from Severa’s life long enough too. She just worries like any normal mother. That Beruka girl is a little stony, but Camilla seems to have enough love for the both of them combined, even if she is a little intimidating too. Cordelia is mostly satisfied. She tries to keep her back straight when they’re looking at her, though. She’s never been one to be intimidated, but she wonders how Severa’s been faring in the seemingly dark land of Nohr. Well, if Severa has people she cares about there, she figures her daughter must be doing pretty well. 

(P.S. I can do more specific reactions if there was something you had in mind! I’m not sure anyone would give a Shovel Talk because I’m not too much a fan of that trope? I feel like it disregards the agency of whoever the Talker is trying to “protect”. I’d say Kjelle might give one, but she might just end up admiring Camilla’s muscles instead. Henry might (for whoever you picture him the father of), albeit unintentionally. I think it’s canon Henry would do Literally Anything asked of him for those he loves, so I can see that fact slipping pretty easily into conversation, even accidentally.

The one most likely to intentionally pull a Shovel Talk move is Noire, probably. Against Xander, even though she likes Xander. Because Inigo never really did learn in the army, and she doesn’t know if Laslow’s learned anything yet. Probably not.)

tl;dr the Kids all Love each other So Much. They grew up together in a destroyed world and at the end of the day, they all know they always have each other, and the Trio being missing is like a hole in their hearts even when the rest of the fe13 kid cast are all on their separate travels

[trickstercaptain-archive]

modern verse outline.

       this is ridiculously long so I’m sticking it all under a cut, but here is my official outline for Jack’s modern verse! it only took me three years to write lmfao, although I have had the majority of this planned out for a long time, it’s just taken me until now to organise all of my thoughts coherently and actually write them out. and this will also be linked to under my modern verse on my verses page :’))

       trigger warnings apply for child abuse/neglect, violence, drugs, human trafficking, alcohol -- you know, the usual when it comes to this man.

        Born of a former trainee nurse and one of the most prolific crime bosses in the country, the first seven years of the young Jack Sparrow’s life were anything but ordinary. Homeschooled, his mother attempted to create as stable an environment as possible for their small family, but Edward Teague’s criminal enterprise was only growing in influence, and the birth of a child soon became an irreparable fissure in the two parents’ relationship. This tension, along with the increased arguments and danger Teague was putting his family in, came to a head seven years later, during a car chase that would end with Maria dying of a gunshot wound in the backseat, her head resting in her son’s lap.

       Everything changed after that. Swearing off crime, Teague relocated with Jack, turning him over briefly to his own mother until he realised, with the help of a sober mind, the extent of the torment he’d subjected his son to at her hands. Eventually, the two were reunited in a home of their own, where Jack would stay for the remainder of his childhood and adolescence, and slowly come to loathe. School took adjustment of its own but, in spite of the bullies and, as he grew older, his habit of letting his sharp tongue get him into trouble, he at least thrived in his academic pursuits. 

      Personally, however, was another matter. When he was nine, Teague left the home one night with the intent of going out drinking, and Jack heard nothing more from him until he returned three days later, nursing a headache and having left his son to fend for himself in the interim. From that point onwards, Jack would depend only on himself; he taught himself to cook, would spend hours cooped up in his own room studying, or reading, or teaching himself to play the guitar, and was intent on making success enough of himself to finally leave the family home as soon as he was able. Acing his GCSEs without too much difficulty, he opted for A level History, English Literature and Spanish and, with the support of his teachers, aspired to university study -- but that ambition, too, ended up derailed.*

       Little did Jack know that his father had gone back into crime, this time keeping it very much under the radar. The truth only came out after a hostage attempt; shortly after turning fifteen, Jack was minding his own business before being kidnapped by a group of thugs intent on using him as leverage against his father. With Teague’s help, Jack escaped with only a few cuts and bruises, but the betrayal left its own mark and quickly pushed him into the company of another in his final few years of school. Christophe was also a man ensconced in crime, but of a far more tempting variety: it was he who first introduced Jack to petty theft ( along with a variety of other vices, including alcohol and drugs ), grooming him in his own image only to threaten to discard him later on. 

        A heist aimed at damaging another crime syndicate: the one run by Teague himself. When Jack discovered the identity of their mark, he tried to pull out, but by then it was already too late. He was offered an ultimatum by Christophe: pledge complete loyalty to his gang, or be set up and thrown to the wolves, painted as the instigator in a plot to betray his own family. With little choice in the matter, Jack went with them, leaving school several months early and forced to work for a man who had thrown his trust and affection back in his face.

       He then kept his head low for several weeks, looking for an opportunity to get his revenge. Compiling as much evidence of their illegal activities as he could, he arranged a set up of his own, inviting police to the crime scene and offering his own testimony to ensure they were sent down. With Christophe’s blackmail of him come to light, Jack is spared prison, but he’s still ordered community service and the whole experience makes him vow to clean up his act completely.

       Knowing that academic study was no longer in his future, and too ashamed to remain in his familial home, Jack moved into a modest flat with his longtime friend and mentor, Joshamee Gibbs. In the next seven years he took up a number of jobs to break even and make a living, from bartending to serving as a lifeguard at a public swimming pool and working at the local dockyard. In this time, he turned his life around, largely kicked any unpleasant habits from his youth ( except his one true vice: alcohol ), and even had time for a first love, a budding actress on holiday in London, and who he would remain in contact with when she returned to New York.

       But nothing good ever lasted in his life, and during his work at the London Docklands was when he got involved in an enterprise that nearly cost him his life. On paper, it had seemed ideal: managing the shipping of cargo into London, a job with a reputable employer and the prospect of advancement beyond the menial employment he’d been able to find thus far. But it had a sinister underbelly. Scarcely a year into his newfound partnership with its head of operations, Jack discovered that the distribution of materials and products was merely a veneer to disguise the true heart of the business: human trafficking. Appalled, he set about trying to expose the organisation for what it was, dismantling some of the trafficking rings and succeeded in weeding out a few of its members, as well as casting media scrutiny and doubt on the organisation. 

       In the meantime, a ghost from his past was rearing its ugly head again. Five years behind bars and Christophe-Julien de Rapièr was free once more, and out for vengeance on the man who put him there in the first place. His path to Jack culminated in one dramatic final showdown. The Frenchman wasn’t pushed, but he did lose his footing as he made one last push to murder his quarry -- and for the first time Jack Sparrow knew what it was to have someone’s blood on his hands.

       Meanwhile, his employer had begun to discover Jack’s apparent betrayal of the company, and utilised its unscrupulous connections to rid itself of its newest problem. A planned arson attack on Jack’s block of flats. He managed to save the lives of a few as the building went up in smoke ( fortunately Joshamee wasn’t home at the time ), but ended up injured and passed out before the firefighters arrived and found him. When he woke, he was in a hospital bed with scarring on his arm from being burned and the effects of smoke inhalation, and knew even before he was visited by his best friend that London was no longer safe for him. It might have been reported in the press as an accidental fire, but Jack knew who was responsible, and knew that if word got out that he’d survived they’d no doubt try again.

      He was resolved to leave the country,** and as soon as he was well he headed for Dover and crossed the English Channel to France. For the next few years, he backpacked across Europe, his new goal being that of seeing the world and experiencing it. Sometimes he stayed in the local hostels, other times he’d earned enough money from both honest -- and dishonest -- employment to stay in a hotel, but he lived out of a mere suitcase, never staying in one place for too long.

      After the Champs Elysees and the Colosseum, the French Riviera and the Canary Islands, experiencing yachting and wine drinking and everything in between, Jack moved on to the Far East, residing in Singapore. It was there that he was exposed to a culture very different to his own and fell in love with it. He remained for two years before finally resolving to move on ( only after upsetting the wrong sorts of people ), and made for the next place on his bucket list: the Caribbean.

       He stayed in Kingston, Jamaica for a while before the longing for home began, realising just how long he’d been away from London. Now in his thirties, he returned to the city that had been the source of so many conflicted feelings, very much changed from the man who had earlier left it in such a hurry. He moved back in with Joshamee and settled back into an ordinary life, but the need for excitement and danger in his life led him back down an avenue that he’d narrowly avoided ten years prior: con artistry. This time, the crime was on his terms, targeting those most corrupt and susceptible to his schemes, while avoiding the innocent and anything as morally reprehensible as what prompted him to leave the city in the first place. After a few years, Jack had made a name for himself in criminal circles independent of Teague, and with the help of his best friend was making a reasonable profit for his time, too.

       The default for this verse is after this point, where Jack is in his late thirties and living in Soho, London, having already travelled and experienced a lot of the world and already enjoying success as a con artist in the city. There are also rumblings from members of the same organisation that Jack escaped and nearly dismantled thirteen years prior; when he’s not gaining valuable contacts in the city by targeting specific individuals' reputations and purses to damage, he’s preparing to take down his former employer once and for all.

extra notes: *in two alternative modern verses, Jack never meets Christophe and is accepted into university, studying to become a university professor and lawyer respectively. **in an alternate arc, Jack moves to New York and in with Esmeralda, giving up crime completely.

[prepare4trouble]

Star Wars Rebels fanfic - Out Of Control (2)

Part of the Little By Little AU

(part 1)

Ezra half-ran into the room with a look of angry bewilderment on his face.  Hera saw him notice her a moment too late for him to be able to turn and leave again without it being obvious.  Instead, he made an abrupt turn and skirted around the edge of the lounge, not looking in her direction.  When she finally managed to make eye contact with him, he immediately glanced away and made himself appear interested in something at the other side of the room.  A tactic that would have been successful if not for the facts that, firstly, there was nothing there of interest to anybody, and secondly, she wasn’t an idiot.

She had been on her way out, heading back to her quarters to go over some mission reports, but that could wait, for a little while at least.  Whatever was happening here was more important.  Even if it was nothing, if he was just having a bad morning, right now it took precedence.

She folded her arms and turned in his direction expectantly, waiting for him to notice her pose.  He didn’t, or at least appeared not to.  She waited a few seconds longer, expecting him to turn around at any moment to tell her that he didn’t want to talk about it, but when he didn’t, she realized that was probably down to his sight; the lessening of his peripheral vision making it impossible for him to see her out of the corner of his eye, and thus grow uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

That realization sent a shockwave through her.  It was the second thing she had noticed, the first being the time he clearly hadn’t been able to read the text on a datapad; the second time his condition had made a difference to something.  It was going to happen more and more often now, seeping slowly into all of their lives until the idea of normal shifted, became something else.  It had happened before, that slow shift into accepting a new reality, different circumstances, but more times than she could count, and every time it had hurt.

She pushed the thought out of her head.  She wasn’t even sure, now that she thought about it, that the whole thing hadn’t been in her imagination; perhaps Ezra had seen her just fine, and was deliberately ignoring her, hoping that she would just give up and go away, but she didn’t think so.  She stepped a little closer, moving further into his central vision as she did.  He definitely did attempt to ignore her then, but she caught the exact moment that he noticed what she was doing, and she knew now that until then, she hadn’t been seen.

“What?” he asked, when it became obvious that she wasn’t going to give in.

“That’s funny,” she told him.  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

He frowned, puzzled.

“What I mean is, why are you pretending to be interested in that access panel?”

Ezra glanced at the panel in apparent surprise, as though he had only just realised what he was doing.  Finally, he folded his arms defensively and turned to look at her.  “I talked to Sato,” he said, then left that statement hanging in the air as though it were some kind of an an explanation.

Hera waited expectantly for a continuation, but none came.  Instead, Ezra turned and walked across the room, turned again and paced back.  Whatever it was, he was clearly agitated.  His footsteps reverberated loudly on the metallic floor as he walked, and his body radiated tension, visible in the way his hands clenched in and out of fists, and his arms folded and unfolded, as though he didn’t know what to do with them.  His eyes were on everything, darting around the room from left to right, up and down.  It was as though no part of him could settle for even a moment.  

“Ezra,” she tried, speaking calmly.  She followed his progress back and forth across the room with her eyes.  “What is it?  What about Sato?”

He turned to face her suddenly, spinning on his heels and fixing a glare in her direction, blazing with barely suppressed fury even as his eyes glistened.  “He grounded me, Hera!”

“He…” She frowned, trying to make sense to the words.

“Grounded me.  Banned me from missions.”  Ezra turned and paced the room one more time, before spinning to look in her direction again.  “Removed me from active duty.”

It was something she had considered.  Something that she hadn’t mentioned to Ezra, of course.  Or to Kanan, yet.  Not to Sato either.  It was something to keep in reserve, for later.  If… when things got bad with his sight, if he wasn’t able to compensate, if he wasn’t coping and was putting the team at risk.  Not now, while he was still more or less okay.

But, was he?  She thought of those moments earlier, when she had known that he couldn’t see her.  If she had been the enemy, what might have happened?  She sat down, hoping that her lack of activity might convince Ezra to follow suit.  He turned to look at her, slowing but not stopping his ongoing march across the room.

“What did he say?” she asked.

“He just walked straight up to me, said that I was off active duty, and left.”

She frowned.  Sato sometimes seemed to struggle with the best way to handle difficult conversations, but that sounded a little extreme, even for him.  “That was all he said?”

Ezra paused in his pacing and turned to look at her.  “Pretty much,” he said.  “I mean, there was some other stuff, mostly just awkwardness, apologies and not listening to a word I said.  But that was the gist of it, yeah.  He didn’t mention this when you spoke to him?  You didn’t mention this, did you?”

“Me?” Hera frowned.  She hadn’t.  She was beginning to wonder though whether she should have.  “Of course not.  Look…”

“He never did this to Kanan!’

She sighed.  In Kanan’s case, he hadn’t had to; Kanan had made that decision himself, taken himself out of not only the fight, but everything else besides.  “Will you sit down?  Please, Ezra?”

Ezra glanced at her, and then at the seat on the opposite side of the table.  He approached reluctantly, slouched into the seat, and fixed his gaze on the top of the table between them.  “It’s not fair,” he said quietly.  “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I know.”  Hera touched his hand.  Ezra flinched, but remained where he was, still very deliberately not looking at her.  “I’ll talk to him,” she said.  “Ultimately, the decision is his, but I’ll see what I can do.”

The worst part was, she understood where Sato was coming from.  The move was premature, and depending how Ezra progressed, might not even need to happen at all, but Sato was a leader, and leaders sometimes had to make unpopular decisions in order to keep their people safe.  She just wished he had warned her ahead of time.  Maybe let her speak on Ezra’s behalf, and if the decision remained the same, let her break the news.

“Anyway, ‘off active duty’ could mean any number of things,” she added.

He shook his head.  “It doesn’t, Hera.  He was pretty clear about what he meant.  And he’s not even going to think about it again until all the missions to the Cathonie system are finished.  Who knows when that’s going to be?”

“I’ll talk to him,” she repeated.  “See if I can speed up the process.”

Ezra sighed pointedly, then nodded.  “Thanks.”

He still slumped unhappily in his seat.  His refusal to look in her direction did nothing to disguise the layer of unshed tears filling each eye. She had rarely seen him look so utterly dejected, and she had been with him at some of his worst moments.  “Is there something else bothering you?” she asked.

Ezra shook his head, but she could tell he wasn’t being truthful.  She could see right through him.  How he had managed to keep his secret for so long was a mystery to her.

Sensing her scrutiny, Ezra finally glanced in her direction, and then away again just as quickly.  “I think everyone knows,” he muttered, finally.  “So that’s… yeah.”  He slid out of his seat and turned to head for the door, but paused after a few steps and looked back in her direction.  “I have to go, Kanan wants me for a lesson about now.”  He grimaced, as though the thought were an unpleasant one, then turned and fled.

As far as she knew, Kanan was still with Rex, sharing the news and, if it went anything like their usual get-togethers, probably a glass or two of whatever drink one or the other of them had managed to get his hands on.  But maybe the lesson was later, and Ezra was making up an excuse in order to get some time to himself.  She knew from her experiences with Kanan that that wasn’t necessarily the best thing right now, but she also knew that any attempt to talk him out of it would probably be rejected.

Instead, she allowed herself a few precious moments to sit and breathe before the next crisis hit, then got up, and went to look for Sato.

[idornaseminary]

Chapter One-Hundred Twenty-Six: Natasha

Natasha knew one thing for sure, and that was that she had to get back to Idorna. Even if she had to risk her life to get out of here, she wasn’t going to spend the rest of her time stuck in this room, waiting for Reinhard to decide a worth punishment for her. Unfortunately, her options were so limited that it seemed as though trying to run or Disapparate were her only choices, and they each came with their own dangers that she didn’t like the idea of trying to face.

It had been quite awhile since she spoke to Reinhard, made her “confession”, and now she was just waiting for the punishment. Frankly, she was starting to get impatient. It would be nice to at least know what fate he intended for her, so that she could know what the best option for escape would be. But Reinhard was either having a hard time making up his mind, or just enjoyed torturing her by leaving her dangling like this. She certainly wouldn’t put it past him, not after everything else she’d seen him do lately.

Thankfully, he didn’t let her stew for any longer. The door finally opened to reveal the tall man, a grim look in his eyes. Natasha put on a smirk, situating herself in the dark, plush armchair; she crossed her ankles and rested her chin in one pale hand, trailing her brother’s movements with her dark eyes. “Hello, brother dearest,” she murmured, the tone high and mocking. She wasn’t even sure what the point of this was anymore, although the way his face creased with aggravation was amusing.

“Natasha,” he greeted, schooling his voice into a neutral tone that she might have actually been able to believe was devoid of emotion, if she couldn’t see his face. The lines in his face spelled anger, especially the curve of his lips and the tension in his forehead, but his eyes, those glistened with pain. Natasha didn’t know if the tears were ones of sadness, of grief, or something else, but he was clearly trying his hardest to restrain them.

“Have you determined my fate?” she asked him, the jest at the drama of the situation clear.

Reinhard shook his head a little. He didn’t understand how Natasha could take this all so lightly, but that wasn’t what he was here for. It wasn’t his job to understand her. “Yes.” He took a deep breath, as if to draw strength from the air. “I’m sending you away. Funny enough, to what I believe is the same asylum Mom and Dad tried to send you to.”

Natasha couldn’t help but allow her guard to drop slightly at that. She’d expected him to want to hurt her, or maybe even to send her away, of course, but not for him send her to the exact same place their parents had tried to. “W-What?” she stammered.

A small smirk appeared on Reinhard’s face when Natasha’s pale features fell from the smug apathy and into what could almost be described as despair. “They are sending two representatives tomorrow to take you. I sent them the tapes and they agreed that you are too dangerous to allow to go free.” He eyed her for a moment, and Natasha suddenly felt the discomfort of scrutiny under the same dark shade as her own eyes. “I will warn you, running would not be a good idea. I will not hesitate to stop you from hurting anyone else. Do you understand?”

All Natasha could do was nod mutely, still trying to understand, to figure out what she was going to do. She was being sent away, just like she’d feared with her parents. She didn’t even look up at Reinhard when he exited the room, once again leaving her by herself. What was she going to do? He would be looking for her to run, to try to escape, and maybe that was what he wanted. His conscience was probably keeping him from just executing her, but after seeing how he handled that gun, she could only imagine that he was itching for the excuse to kill her. And she didn’t want to give him that chance. But what other options did she have?

Without a wand, trying to apparate posed a large risk of splinching, which only increased the further she tried to go. And if she wanted to stay away from the man for long enough to get back to Idorna, she would have to go quite far. She had no doubt that he would tear Starnberg apart looking for her if she disappeared now.

Natasha was interrupted from her thoughts about her escape. “Come to gloat some more?” she asked with the door opened, barely turning to look at the varnished wood.

She was surprised when she got no response, and instead only heard a pair of muffled footsteps, quieter than Reinhard’s were. This was enough to make her look up, and she was honestly shocked to have her eyes land upon Franz. “What are you doing here?” she asked him, not bothering to disguise her surprise. There was no advantage in her being one step ahead of him here, and she honestly had no idea why he would be here to see her.

“Reinhard...Reinhard told me,” the blonde boy mumbled softly, ducking his head down nervously. He was shifting back and forth on his feet, toying with his fingers. His shoulders were hunched forward slightly, making him look much smaller than he was. “He told me what you did.”

Of course. Franz had already been afraid of her, and Natasha knew he’d suspected the same thing as Reinhard, even if the older man believed it more staunchly. It wouldn’t have taken much convincing to make Franz think that Natasha had in fact killed their parents, particularly once there was a recording of her admitting to the crime.

“Alright,” Natasha said, the word traveling slowly from her pink lips as she attempted to decipher the reason why Franz was here. “And did you want your own revenge? Is that why you’re here?”

Apparently, that was incorrect, because Franz’s eyes went wide with fear as he practically jumped and looked at Natasha. “No, no, not that!” he insisted, breath picking up at just the thought of hurting someone else. Natasha didn’t really understand why Franz was such a timid soul, although she couldn’t help but wonder if it was in part her fault.

“Then why are you here? Reinhard surely doesn’t want you to see me.”

Franz bit down and glanced at the door again, as if considering fleeing, before he shook his head at himself and shuffled further into the room. He took an agonizingly long time to decide what he wanted to do, although he eventually seated himself across from her, in the chair usually occupied by Reinhard. He clearly was trying to fight for words, and Natasha decided to just wait, to let him get there in his own time.

“Did you really do it?” was finally the quiet question that came from the teenager. Natasha frowned a little, wondering what kind of question that was. Surely he had already made up his mind about her.

“What do you mean? You heard the tapes. You heard Reinhard,” she told him.

Franz looked up slowly, his blue eyes searching her face, eyeing her more directly that he had in probably years. “I did hear them. But I want to hear it from you,” he told her, slowly building more confidence. Or not so slowly, Natasha noted, as she saw the way his posture was slowly straightening and his voice was gaining more of an edge.

“I already did this once, Franz. I don’t want to do it again,” Natasha said, holding his gaze.

The boy shook his head again, leaning forward a little, actually moving closer to her. “This should be easy for you. All you have to do is tell me whether or not you killed them. Natasha, did you do it?”

There was a hitch in her breath when he effectively called her out for what she was doing - avoiding the question. For some reason, it was much harder to lie to Franz than it was to Reinhard, much harder to tell him that she had been the cause of their parents’ death. He didn’t deserve it, and she didn’t want to give him her false confession.

“I…” She practically choked on the word, and Franz looked more and more earnest as he waited for the response. Finally, the dark-haired woman had to admit defeat. Out of everyone in the world, Franz was not the person she expected to break her. He’d always been so easy to take care of, a pushover. It never took more than a gentle suggestion for her to get him to do what she wanted, likely more out of his fear for her than anything else. But now, in this moment, for some reason he was the most powerful force against her; there was just something in the innocence of his face, the look of someone who just wanted to know the truth about his sister and his parents.

“No,” she breathed finally, ducking her head down and allowing her dark hair to form a curtain around her face.

Franz was quiet for a long moment after that, probably trying to process, to figure out which time she had been telling the truth. She’d been very convincing during her confession, certainly, but there was so much more emotion in the single word she’d just uttered, emotion that couldn’t be faked even by the greatest actors.

“No,” he repeated, his voice muted as well. “You didn’t kill them.” As if somehow, saying the words would help him to process them better.

Natasha caught her bottom lip between her teeth, working it slightly. She didn’t know what Franz was going to do with the information, or if he even believed her, but she was nervous. Finally, the blonde looked at her again. “I knew you couldn’t have done it.”

She couldn’t help but wonder how Franz would have known that, or why on earth he would have had that kind of faith in her. Based on both of their actions around each other the last few years, there was no reason for him to have any kind of belief that she was a better person than others thought. “What?” she asked finally.

It was Franz’s turn to duck his head, although this time it was more nervous and embarrassed. “I knew you couldn’t have killed them. It just didn’t seem like something you could do.”

Natasha couldn’t help shaking her head, still utterly confused. “You were terrified of me, Franz. You wouldn’t even look me in the eye. You barely will now. Surely you must have believed that I could be capable of something like that.”

Franz sighed a little, running a hand through his hair and ruffling up the careful style. He clearly didn’t care about looking disheveled right now, though, because he didn’t bother to try to fix it. “I...I don’t know. Something just felt wrong about it,” he said, not meeting her eyes as he gave a noncommittal shrug. “You’re my sister. I couldn’t imagine you killing our parents.”

A sigh escaped her at that. If only Reinhard held the same sentiment. But that didn’t matter right now. “And, what, you want to believe I’m good? That I’m not a bad person?” He nodded a little in response, and she slumped back in her seat; it was her turn to run her fingers through her hair, thinking. “I’m not good, Franz.” That got his attention, got him to look at her. “I’m not a good person. I’d argue that most people aren’t, but I’m worse than most.”

“But you can change!” Franz insisted. “You can stay here, you can learn to handle things like everyone else, how to not manipulate them and control everything. You’re already changing, already different. I don’t know what it is, but something about you isn’t the same. Can’t you see that?”

Natasha was well aware that he was right, that she was different. Was it really that obvious? But she didn’t think she was ready to just give up having control over people, didn’t even know if she could. It was part of who she was, and she liked seeing what she could make them do.

“And what if I don’t want to change?” she asked him. “What if I go back to it?”

Franz leaned forward a little, another hand dragging through his blond locks and further mussing the style. “Natasha, please,” he begged. “Reinhard is going to send you away. I am trying to help you!”

“I don’t need your help!” Natasha shot back, before realizing that that was very, very wrong. Help was what she desperately needed, because, while she may have had plans, there was no way to pull any of them off without at least a little help. “I can take care of myself, thank you. Maybe you should go.”

Franz looked at her for a long time, then sighed and shook his head. “Okay,” he mumbled, standing up. He rubbed one of his arms, clearly contemplating words before he left. “Just don’t forget that you’re still a person, Natasha. You’re still one of us.”

He shut the door on the way out, the click of the lock reverberating in Natasha’s head along with his words.

[osimint]

Is Russia Practicing a Dry Run for an Invasion of Belarus?

Russia does military exercises regularly, but this year’s version, underway right now, deserves especially close attention. It’s called Zapad (“West”) and involves thousands of troops doing maneuvers on the borders of the Baltic states and Poland. The motivating scenario is to defend against an imagined invasion of Belarus by foreign-backed extremists. One of the fictional enemy states, “Vesbaria,” seems to be a thinly disguised Lithuania; the other, “Lubenia,” looks a bit like Poland. There will no doubt be the usual low-level provocations, with Russian planes buzzing borders, that will make the whole passive-aggressive show of strength look more like an invasion of the West than the other way around.

One extra element this time, however, is that these are joint exercises with Belarus, and not everyone in Belarus is happy to play host. The exercises are being staged in the northwest of the country, given the name of another fictional state, “Veyshnoria.” This is the historical heartland of real Belarusian nationalism, where Belarusian activists in the early 20th century competed with Poles, Lithuanians, and Jews to claim the old Tsarist administrative region of Vilna. Unfortunately for the Belarusians, much of this became Vilnius, the capital of modern-day Lithuania. But the rest remains in the northwest of modern Belarus, with the division testament to the long-standing love-hate relationship between Baltic peoples and Belarusians. Hence the Baltic-style spelling of Veyshnoria.

But the region also voted for President Aleksandr Lukashenko’s main opponent, the nationalist Zianon Pazniak, the last time Belarus had a real competitive election, back in 1994. So Zapad is directed as much against an “internal enemy” as against NATO powers, namely nationalists backed by the West. And that, worryingly, is the same scenario that Russia claimed to detect in Ukraine in 2014.

Some Belarusians have had fun with this. Veyshnoria now has its own Twitter account. You can buy T-shirts and mugs. Some 7,000 people have applied for its passports.

But there’s a serious aspect to all this, too. Russian exercises have a habit of becoming real. The Kavkaz (“Caucasus”) maneuvers in 2008 were basically a dry run for the invasion of Georgia. The last version of Zapad in 2013 preceded Russian action against Ukraine. The most notorious exercise of all was in 1981, when massive maneuvers were used to intimidate Communist Poland into suppressing the Solidarity movement. The fear this time is that Russian troops might manufacture an excuse to stay behind. In which case, the same scenario of nationalist extremists could be used as an excuse to “save” Lukashenko or even depose him. The official figure of only 12,700 soldiers involved would not be enough to occupy Belarus, but other estimates are 10 times as high.

Other neighbors are equally alarmed. NATO now has revolving forward deployments in Poland and the Baltic states. The U.K. has 800 troops in Estonia, the United States up to 1,000 in Poland. Ukraine’s official statement declares that “such exercises have been used repeatedly to achieve hidden military-political goals.… Transition of the state border and military invasion into the territory of Ukraine is not excluded.”

But Belarus bears the closest scrutiny. Tensions between Belarus and Russia have been growing acutely since 2014 — if not yet by enough for Belarus to dare to pull out of Zapad completely (though it has invited in neutral observers). In observing the exercises, the West would be wise not to treat Belarus as a potential belligerent but rather as an increasingly reluctant ally of Russia.

Lukashenko’s priority has always been survival. Belarus’s priority has always been protecting its sovereignty. The close relationship with Russia used to help on both counts. Now it is seen as laying Belarus open to the same kind of “hybrid war” or “active measures” used by Russia against Ukraine, especially as Moscow’s definition of “loyalty” has grown ever more demanding since 2014.

Lukashenko has taken elementary precautions to try to ensure that his security services are more loyal to him than the Ukrainian equivalents were to former President Viktor Yanukovych. But this has proved a Sisyphean task, as they are so closely institutionally connected with Russia. Senior Belarusian officers and KGB (a name Belarus is still proud to use) still do their training in Russia.

Lukashenko has maneuvered to appear diplomatically neutral. The capital of Belarus has hosted the Minsk process on peace in Ukraine. Belarus has not backed Russia militarily over Crimea or in eastern Ukraine and has resisted fierce pressure for several years to host a Russian air base on its territory.

Lukashenko has tried to balance Russia by expanding his options with the West. Belarus had been under sanctions since a rigged election in 2010 and subsequent crackdown against protests. But all political prisoners were released in August 2015. The EU then lifted its sanctions in February 2016 (though the United States was unable to follow, as its hands are more closely tied by the Belarus Democracy Act, passed in 2004). Lukashenko has sought loans, flirted with the IMF, and deepened relations with any organization that won’t lecture him too hard about his democratic credentials. This year, Belarus took the chair of the Central European Initiative, and the city of Minsk hosted the Parliamentary Assembly for the Organization for Security and Cooperation in Europe. EU officials have explored ways to make Belarus a real, rather than nominal, member of its flagship Eastern Partnership policy. In just two days in July, no fewer than four separate EU delegations visited Minsk.

Lukashenko, who was indifferent or even hostile to traditional Belarusian nationalism before 2014, has quietly pushed a program of “soft Belarusianization.” He has rejected Russian President Vladimir Putin’s pet idea that Belarus is part of the “Russian world.” Schoolbooks are being rewritten.

Lukashenko has endorsed pre-Soviet historiography beloved by nationalists, like the ancient history of Polatsk (in the north of Veyshnoria), as “our historical cradle … a peaceful, hard-working, and friendly state,” independent of both Moscow and Kiev. Lukashenko has even used Belarusian in public speeches, which is a first.

Peace has become Belarus’s new brand. It appeals to a very conservative population and gives Belarus another card to play with the West by posing as a “donor of security in the European region.” On a visit to Minsk in August, the streets were lined with state-sponsored billboards proclaiming, “We Belarusians are a peaceful people,” which is also the first line of the national anthem.

Lukashenko doesn’t want Ukrainian-style revolution either, but this is a tougher task. Traditionally, Lukashenko, who has survived in power as a dictator since 1994, has bought political acquiescence with economic growth. For 20 years, Belarus was not booming exactly but avoided the extremes of social dislocation, corruption, and oligarchy seen in Russia and Ukraine. The economy grew fairly solidly until 2008. Its initial wobbles thereafter could initially be blamed on the global economic crisis, but severe systemic problems set in in 2014. GDP fell by 3.9 percent in 2015 and 2.6 percent in 2016.

The secret of Lukashenko’s success was Russian subsidies — namely cheap oil and gas, though the benefit of these schemes was often split with Russian oligarchs. But, reeling under sanctions, Russia could no longer afford to be so generous. Moreover, it didn’t want to be, so long as Belarus was not playing ball over foreign policy. Russia also had to sort its own economy out first, via a sudden and unilateral devaluation in 2014 that hit Belarusian exports hard. Both countries have also struggled with lower oil prices. Lukashenko’s other main lifeline is the two modern oil refineries he inherited from the Soviet Union.

All this has undermined Lukashenko’s social contract with his traditionally passive population. Outside of Minsk, provincial towns depend on big state employers, which now only offer lower wages and part-time work. Migrant work in Russia has collapsed. The new reality is that there are two Belaruses: Minsk has a booming IT industry, but in the regions people struggle by on average wages as low as $150 a month.

This was the background to the unprecedented social unrest the regime faced this spring. Big demonstrations attracted thousands of people — and in small towns like Polatsk and Vitebsk, not just Minsk. The trigger was Lukashenko’s misguided “parasite tax,” a ham-fisted attempt to relieve pressure on the beleaguered state budget by forcing the economically “inactive” to pay a poll tax of about $250. But the definition of “inactive” was extremely broad, including young mothers and those looking after relatives, netting about 450,000 people in a workforce of 4.5 million. The result was a revolt of “his people,” rather than the traditional opposition, which Lukashenko had to allow breathing space. The decree was suspended but not withdrawn — a revised version is due in late September. Hundreds of people were eventually arrested and given administrative fines, but there were no serious sentences, unlike in previous protests. The long-term problem wasn’t solved.

Russia was reluctant to throw Belarus a lifeline. Compounded economic disputes have festered since 2014. The best that Lukashenko could get was a belated deal with Putin at St. Petersburg in April but with all sorts of strings attached. An additional loan of $1 billion was promised. Gas prices were discounted through to the end of 2019. Crude oil supplies to Belarus’s refineries were increased. But the hidden strings were unknown; Lukashenko spent most of the meeting alone with Putin. Belarus admitted that it had to pay arrears of $726 million in gas payments. Putin suggested that Belarusian refined oil should be diverted to Russian rather than Baltic ports. Rumors flew of an unknown security agenda or of unfinished business due to be completed by pressure during Zapad. Putin himself has taken a moderate line, but Russian nationalist critics of Lukashenko are being given a lot of media space.

How should the West respond? There should be contingency planning if Russian troops do outstay their welcome. The West should be better placed than it was over Ukraine in 2014 to detect fake scenarios (attacks on Russian troops, incursions over Baltic or Ukrainian borders) or invented excuses to impose a de facto Russian base in Belarus.

In the longer term, the West should remember that supporting dictators for reasons of realpolitik doesn’t always work out well. Whatever Lukashenko’s desire for a more “balanced” foreign policy, he hasn’t liberalized his country’s domestic politics. (It has even maintained the death penalty, the last country in Europe to do so.) But Belarus has to change. Its economic model is unsustainable, its security strategy extremely fragile. The West should encourage Belarus to take every small step in the direction of reform and proper sovereignty. The West should also encourage Russia not to overreact to such steps while preparing for it to do just that.

http://foreignpolicy.com/2017/09/18/is-russia-practicing-a-dry-run-for-an-invasion-of-belarus/?utm_content=buffer7b2b6&utm_medium=social&utm_source=twitter.com&utm_campaign=buffer

Andrew Wilson 18SEPT2017

[winterinhiding]

Winter in Hiding

Chapter 1 of ?

Synopsis: Tony isn’t the only descendant of the geniuses behind the super soldier program to be targeted by Hydra for their talent. After adapting to generations of Hydra captivity, Lillian has finally been assigned to stabilize the subject of her family’s legacy project, The Soldier. If she can manage not to condemn them both in the process.

Rated: M (eventually, it’s an intro chapter on a slow burn so...)

An unusual number of lab coats lined up expectantly, an air of anticipation filling the usually cynical and sterile environment, while still more paced around habitually monitoring essential equipment. Today’s increase in their ranks was accompanied by an increase in guards, who stood around the edges of the room, surveying the pool of white coats somewhat contemptuously.

One leaned in to counsel his newly assigned shift member. “She’s nice that one, don’t let her use it to get under your skin. Got it?” he indicated a white lab coat clad woman with her hair braided up in an intricate but professional arrangement. The rest of her was equally beautiful without calling too much attention to herself, except for her heels. Her stilettos were at radical odds with the stodgy comfort footwear her all male coworkers shod themselves in.

After pausing a moment to admire her, the new soldier asked “What do you mean?”

“I mean in this lab she gives the orders, but outside of this lab she falls under working prisoner protocols. Same as the old man there.” He waved the barrel of his gun in the general direction of a stooped man who looked far too old to be in this high tech environment.

A red alarm light began to flash on a control panel monitored by a younger man in a white lab coat. Just as he was beginning to panic the old man in question calmly leaned in around him and clicked a few buttons. The lights went green again and his younger coworker looked at him in awed relief, receiving a kind smile and nod from the elderly gentlemen. On closer inspection his aged eyes bore a noticeable resemblance to the woman previously under their scrutiny.

“They’re not part of Hydra?” the guard asked.

The first guard’s voice lowered bitterly as his eyes flashed around the room “Only as long as it keeps ‘em in one piece.”

The new guard contemplated her again for a moment before a wry smirk twisted his lips “gave you the cold shoulder, eh?”

The soldier on his second year of lab detail took a deeply annoyed breath that was confirmation in and of itself, but he never uttered his retort, using the breath instead to keep his chest out at attention. He looked straight ahead as a shift in the posture of all present announced the entrance of someone important.

The new arrival exuded a calm familiarity at odds with the tension in the room, he smiled at some of them like he considered them family, but he walked with the confidant air of a man who is fully aware he owns the room with his presence.  

The receiving line of white coats greeted him nervously and he made polite and brief acknowledgments, but it was clear he had a destination other than them in mind. Unfortunately this went unnoticed by the woman and elderly gentlemen as they were now deep in hushed conversation while they made a show of noting data on her clipboard.

“On your best behavior, Lillian. This isn’t one of those times when you can play your little technological surveillance evasion games Fjodor taught you. They’re calling it an inspection but he’ll be coming to see you personally and he’ll see right through any insincerity on your part.” He paused and adjusted his lapels, his tone taking on a contemptuous note “They’re all crowing that it’s a historic occasion.”

She grunted in aggravation. “If one more person says that to me... Why would anyone celebrate generations of coercion? “

Her grandfather further lowered his voice in warning “I think you mean subjugation, and easy darling, you know how they like to pat themselves on the back. “

His fidgeting was contagious and she smoothed her pockets in a nervous gesture before adding irritatedly “It’s not as if I haven’t met Pierce before. “

From the corner of her eye she caught the man of the hour smiling wolfishly from behind her, having escaped the formalities and apparently indulged in a moment of eavesdropping.

His persuasively perfect voice joined in “Yes but now you’re working on this project as a fourth generation pioneer. It’s a historic occasion for Hydra.” He smiled grandly and squeezed her elbow in greeting. She mentally evaluated the amount of pressure his hand was exerting in an attempt to discern how much he’d overheard. His grip was possessively firm but not enough to bruise.

The smile plastered on her grandfather’s face was for Pierce’s benefit but she knew it for the frantic warning it was when his eyes flitted quickly from her to Pierce. A silent reminder that they were always watched and to take more care.

Since her childhood she’d seen her grandfather kick himself for little slips only a handful of times. She’d finally managed to reach The Soldier’s inner circle and already she was potentially on the wrong foot.

Pierce greeted her grandfather so warmly any onlooker would have thought it was a reunion of old friends, but long acquaintance had taught her and her grandfather that there was a ruthlessness lurking beneath the congenial surface of the man. Amiable sincerity was Pierce’s special brand of manipulation.

His hand remained on her arm, but it was a liberty she was familiar with him taking and she held her composure, a mix of professionalism and submissiveness with a little naivety thrown in that always kept her in his good graces. The humorous twinkle in his eye told her he’d heard her kvetching about ‘meeting’ him before this forced display, but nothing more.

“Well, let’s get the pomp and circumstance out of the way so we can get down to business” Pierce smiled affably and shifted his hand to the small of her back as he escorted her toward the entrance of the subject’s holding area. Her sense of anticipation on finally being permitted access to The Soldier got the better of her and she had to be prompted by Pierce’s fingers pressing into her waist to remember to stop in the doorway and turn with him to face the rest of the anxiously observant room for a few words of inspiration.

He smiled at her indulgently, mistaking her tunnel vision for enthusiasm, just as she’d always disguised it to be “As you all know, Dr. Markov here is an impressive fourth generation in a line of remarkable scientists that have helped further Hydra’s research immensely. Our organization has had high hopes for her since she was a little girl”.

A chorus of proud chuckles ensued and Pierce pulled her a little tighter against his side. She suppressed a shudder and smiled shyly around the room instead.

Pierce warmed to his subject “The great granddaughter of Josef Reinstein is going to help us sort out some unforeseen issues with her great grandad’s legacy. While her grandfather bridged his father’s serum research with cryopreservation improvements, and her father addressed the detrimental effects of cryotolerance by adapting a vitrification process for our Asset, Dr. Markov is going to help us further our cause by doing away with her family’s legacy of short term cryo solutions and bringing it all back to the vision of her great grandfather. Her research methods may allow us to keep him stable and available for immediate and regular deployment over longer periods without mental deterioration”.

There was a notable sigh of relief at this prospect and a smattering of applause. The soldier was commonly acknowledged to be a highly dangerous assignment among the ranks of their organization. Lillian continued to smile, but it did not reach her eyes as she held her grandfather’s stoic gaze throughout Pierce’s mention of their family. It was the only acknowledgment of their loss they allowed themselves.

Pierce shifted from grandstanding to a more serious tone “Hydra has never been closer to achieving its goals then we will be in the next few years, and with his continual help we will reach those objectives much quicker. This family has a very high rate of success with this program, a special touch no other scientist with Hydra has been able to compete with in nearly eighty years. They are every bit as much of an asset to us as the soldier is”. He gestured behind him at the corridor where the soldier was currently contained.

Lily forced a touch of pride she did not feel to show. She didn’t need Pierce to remind her that she was as much a prisoner of war as the soldier was. His cryostasis had kept him in Hydra’s possession for over 70 years, hers was a legacy of loss going back four generations.

Pierce’s smile faded before he continued, making marked eye contact with many of those he addressed “I believe you are all aware that I am particularly vested in the outcome of this project, and I expect you all to provide Dr. Markov with as much assistance, and respect, as if she were carrying out direct orders from myself at all times”.

Lillian almost couldn’t stifle the sound that rose up in her throat at this last bit of hypocrisy, both in amazement at her good fortune and disgust at the depth of his ability for duplicity. The steely narrowing of her grandfather’s eyes kept her silent before she turned to acknowledge Pierce’s gracious exhibition with her own display of naïve gratitude by grasping his hand to shake it. Pierce covered her fingers with his own, subtly changing the gesture from a handshake to something more intimate.

Lily forced herself not to withdraw her hand until he let go. When he did it was only to place his hand at the small of her back again and turn them both toward the corridor, ending his address to the lab.

This facility wasn’t as depressing as the rusting walls and aging tech in the Siberian facility, but it wasn’t far off. The long curving concrete hallway that lead down to the soldier’s cell was wide enough to drive a dump truck through and seemed more suited to a parking garage than a lab. Orange sodium-vapor lamps clicked on slowly at intervals of their progress. Windows and doors were set in the concrete wall to their right at regular intervals. Some were weapons and equipment storage for the asset’s deployment, others revealed guards behind the glass. The guarded areas were heavily fortified and intended to be a stopping point if the alarms went off or the asset left containment without authorization. All it took was a nod from Pierce to continue past the checkpoints without them even having to break stride.

The sound of her heels seemed obnoxiously loud in her ears as it echoed back at them. From the corner of her eye she could see Pierce glancing down to admire them and following the line of her legs until they disappeared beneath her lab coat. “I see you took our conversation about sensible lab PPE seriously”.  

It was spoken with sarcasm but she knew it was his way of hinting he was pleased. Their ‘conversation’ had really just been him mentioning how little pride women in the lab seemed to take in their appearance, specifically with their hair slicked into tight buns, their unadorned faces drained of all color by the bright lighting, and their clunky safe and sensible shoes.  She smiled sweetly at him in response as they continued walking, her lips carefully painted with stain to keep them from looking washed-out under the lab’s fluorescent lighting, as requested.

The cell was deep inside the facility and progress down to it seemed to be taking forever when it required her to remain alone in Pierce’s presence for so long, and not just because she knew he was hesitating to say something to her. She courted his affection warily, through innocent innuendo and never openly, recognizing it for the double edged sword it was. Her allure kept him blind to true suspicion and opened doors for her but there was always a chance she could get trapped alone with him behind closed ones.

Finally they came to a door that bore more resemblance to a bank vault than it did to the previous doors along the corridor, so heavily reinforced it didn’t even require a sentry. Beside it ran a long narrow observation window made of thick blast proof glass. Lily frowned at it “That’s a security risk. Was it necessary?”

Pierce held a biometric security badge up to a panel beside the lock that changed from red to green “It is if I read your procedural summary correctly. I don’t want to depend strictly on cameras if you’re in there alone with him and your safety comes into question”.

Lily squeezed her eyes shut at the reminder of the danger she was placing herself in. Unbidden childhood memories came, of five vicious Soldiers rendering death all around them with little effort. It wasn’t the first time they’d turned on those around them but it was Hydra’s last attempt to control them. They had appeared stable, until suddenly they weren’t. She could still hear the battle that raged beyond the concrete walls to subdue them back into cryostasis. The sound of the lock disengaging snapped the distraction from her mind.

Steel cylinders the size of Lily’s arm withdrew from the metal door paneling into the thick reinforced walls, releasing the door to swing open on its hinge.

Pierce chose this moment to finally speak up. “Lillian...” She was so eager for her first chance to glimpse the soldier in person, she was hardly listening to Pierce, but his next words stopped her in her tracks “… about your father”.

She’d been somewhat prepared for him to say something of this ilk in the hall, now that they were about to enter the room it was a distraction that took her by surprise. She tried to rein in her emotions and focus on smiling benignly so she wouldn’t slip up and betray herself.

He took her silence as an invitation to continue “I wanted to apologize to you for the way Colonel Karpov handled your family, your father in particular… Yours’ and your grandfather’s loyalty means a great deal to us and I’d like to make it clear that the way it was handled… was not on my orders.” He paused before adding suggestively “I’d like to be sure that never happens to your family again”.

Lillian felt her smile turn brittle at his mention of her father. She reached out and laid her fingers over the back of Pierce’s hand, giving it an intimate squeeze. His gaze moved from her eyes down to her fingers, giving her time to collect herself and hide her emotions. She softly forced out the only response she could give him. A phrase long practiced to achieve an imitation of unquestionable sincerity “Hail Hydra”.

Hoping she’d convinced him his veiled threat was so unnecessary it had gone right over her head, she switched back to the role of eager to impress ingénue and withdrew her hand to pull the door open. It began to swing outward forcing them to move, effectively ending the moment by bringing another person into it.

Said person sat half dazed and seemingly oblivious against the far wall of his cell. He was surrounded by three men with short barreled machine guns aimed directly at him. Their combat gear and hyper alert vigilance was strikingly at odds with the aloof disinterest of the unarmed barefoot man slumping forward on the cot. He’d been removed from his cryo gear and dressed in Hydra’s exercise livery, black sweat pants and a thin dark t-shirt that strained around his biceps, the bright silver of his prosthetic metal arm reflecting the lights in the room, even the small green indicator glows from the bevy of security and IR cameras.

He glared at his arbitrarily chosen focus point, deliberately oblivious to the novelty of the situation as she and Pierce entered.

Pierce addressed him without preamble “I’d like you to meet someone” he deliberately pitched his voice as if he were an old friend. The soldier raised his head and looked up at him with robotically cold blue focus through the tangled curtain of brown hair that had fallen forward over his face.

Lillian understood now why it wasn’t just the intelligence community, but also the lab, that referred to him as a ghost. She’d seen many POW’s but this one had no recognition, no life behind his eyes. Her heart was so heavy for a moment she didn’t trust herself to speak.

Pierce watched her for a moment as she regarded the soldier, then pocketed his hands and smirked as he rocked back onto the balls of his feet in that affable manner of his that disarmed others “He’ll be needed soon. We’re leaving it to you to decide how to prep him, for now. I know scientists can become… possessive about anyone tampering with their subjects and affecting their results…”

In an almost automatic response to his slight change of mood an alarm bell went off in her brain telling her she’d done something to arouse a hint of suspicion and he was testing her. She wiped the sympathetic expression off her face and went coldly clinical “I just want to avoid wiping him whenever possible. My research indicates it interferes even with the Faustus method, and I can’t usher in a more stable technique if…”

He interrupted in anticipation of her next words “The memory suppression is necessary.”

“It WAS necessary, it won’t be anymore.” she corrected him, a risk unless he believed her impertinence came from a passion for the project’s success “the techniques your new lead scientist proposed would not only have ended in antiretrograde amnesia, it would have damaged his hippocampus…”

Pierce cut in, quoting from memory “Damaging his spatial memory, rendering his training useless and even removing his ability to deliver mission reports. Yes, you made that very clear in your counter proposal. Which is why you’re here”.

Pierce regarded the soldier a moment “It’s important to me that this succeeds. He’s an invaluable resource, and specifically an asset we cannot afford to do without right now. I can’t promise you we won’t wipe him if it becomes necessary.”

Lily turned to face down Pierce with every ounce of confidence she could muster “I can enforce the retrograde amnesia without the mind wipe machines and stabilize him without the cryo. If my technique works the serum research would be worth pursuing again and the Winter Soldier program could be resumed.”

Pierce smirked, but she knew she had him. “If I can stabilize him we might even be able to use what we learn to bring the Winter Soldiers in Siberia to yoke”.

Pierce’s smirk vanished, his expression betraying him and exposing his desire for such an outcome. It was a rare sight. He leaned down to speak to the ghost seated before them “Soldier this is doc…

Lily cut him off with a grunted reminder, her eyes flaring briefly and prompting him to remember she didn’t want to be introduced as a doctor for this particular subject.

… Lillian” Pierce corrected himself “She’s here to help us with our great work. Here to help you focus better on doing your part”.

He’d spoken almost cajolingly to the man staring right through him, but his voice changed to unquestionable authority as he issued orders “You will not harm or injure her in any way and you will follow her orders… unless they contradict with mine”.

Surprise made Lily’s eyes snap from the man on the cot to Pierce before she heard her grandfather’s voice in the back of her mind, reminding her that her face was an open book that would get her killed if she didn’t learn to keep up her mask. She lowered her eyes demurely.

Satisfied, Pierce turned to leave. Lily indicated the guards “you can go too”. They hesitated and Pierce turned in the doorway, intrigued more then angered as he waited to hear her reasoning. “If I’m going to make any progress he needs to trust me, just like you need to trust me. You know I’m right, you’ve worked decades to make the progress with him that you have, I don’t have that kind of time. I need to build a working association with him now. You can see me right there on the cameras the whole time, there are a dozen guard stations nearby. And you have your window” she gestured towards the glass.

Pierce mulled it over a moment and nodded to the guards. As they left Lily added “One more thing” and Pierce leaned against the doorframe with an amused smile prompting her to continue “The reprogramming is based in part on audio cues. Anyone listening could be affected.”

Pierce’s smile faded as he thought of the repercussions that could create. Lily held up a small audio scrambling device. “When I am in this room I’m placing this, as a precaution, on the intercom to prevent the guards from falling into a suggestive state, or worse.”

Pierce hesitated and she plowed on “Time restraints have made this is a very fluid situation Mr. Secretary, I need to be able to think and react on my feet at a moment’s notice if this endeavor is to succeed in time to assist your pet project. If he is in a suggestive state and I have to interrupt the moment to apply this measure” she paused to emphasize her point “it would tip him off to enter a dissociative state as dependably as Pavlov's bell affects a dog and I won’t get anywhere with him”.

She knew she was asking too much and silently cheered inside when she saw the moment he decided to trust her. He nodded and headed for the door, but hesitated again “You aren’t planning on removing the Faustus measures, are you?” he turned in the doorway, his eyes expressing true worry to her for the first time “Because if that’s what you intend we’ll scrap this whole…”

It wasn’t hard to answer sincerely, since her answer was complete truth “Mr. Secretary, I wouldn’t begin to know how to remove the Faustus programming, and even if I could, I am fully aware that without it I, and everyone else in this building, would not survive the fallout”.

She saw the reassurance in his eyes as her words reminded him she had a great deal more to lose here then her freedom if she failed.

Pierce gave her a curt nod “do what you need to do” and left with the guards as the door sealed.

Lily didn’t bother with the scrambler, if the next moments made people watching the tape inexplicably sleepy, so much the better.

She tuned back to the soldier, her senses screaming that there were a thousand ways he could kill her without effort and there was nothing she could do about it. She focused instead on not letting her movements give off the impression of fear as she approached him.

She cautiously knelt down before him, so close her knees were between his feet and his face was inches from hers. She hadn’t expected him to be so handsome beneath that curtain of hair and scruff. The only time she’d seen him up close he’d been in cryo, his face obscured by his hair and protective gear.

She whispered up at him “There’s so much I want to tell you, but it’s going to take some time before I can make that happen. Please trust me until then” louder for the intercom she added “I want to help you”.

She whispered again, more to herself then him “I bet you’ve heard that loads of times from Hydra” as he continued to look through her.  

She took a shaky breath and slowly lifted her hands to his face, running her fingertips over his chiseled cheeks and up to pressure points on his forehead. She reached around to the back of his neck and shoulders, continuing to work pressure points, her face so close to his that his breath warmed her cheek. When she reached his ears a muscle in his jaw clenched and she nearly backed away, but it only lasted a moment and suddenly all his muscles finally began relaxing.

His eyes finally stopped looking through her, and instead vaguely expressed wary confusion at what she was doing to him, but he also ever so slightly began to lean into her touch. She focused on effusing a sense of calm and a hypnotic tone “I want you to lay down and sleep for the next 8 hours” she added quietly “Stay in the same position, no big movements” before raising her voice for the audio again. “Do you understand?”

It was more of an order than hypnosis, but she knew she had to make it look good for the cameras. He hesitated a moment before giving her unusual request a slight nod and allowing himself to drop onto his side on the cot, drawing up his feet and curling into a fetal position that made her heart ache as she left the cell. She spontaneously turned back and drew the standard issue brown military blanket over him. Mentally adding it to the list of props she would have to remember.

The door to the soldier’s room was surprisingly quiet as it closed behind her. Pierce was still waiting in the hall to walk her back. “That was quick. A good sleep before the real work begins. Makes sense. Impress me with this Lillian, and I have big plans for you”.

All she could think about was the lost and helpless look in the soldiers blue eyes as he lay down. She knew that feeling, knew it in her soul. She answered almost robotically “Thank you sir. I have no doubt I will impress you”.

Pierce smiled proudly and added “Just think, one day your children’s children will be here pioneering new frontiers for us.” He didn’t notice Lily’s gait hitch and added “Hail Hydra” before he quickened his step, his mind already off to his next important meeting. He didn’t notice her face drain of all color before she ducked into the nearest restroom.

She was usually alone in the ladies rooms here, this high risk wing had always been a boys club. She breathed deeply while she pretended to check her hair in the mirror, but when she met her eyes in her reflection she felt the tears burning. Pierce’s words echoed in her head. If she ever had children they too would belong to Hydra, the nightmare would never end. She quietly entered the last stall and managed to bolt the door just before her legs gave out and she found herself quietly weeping on her knees.

The next morning she came in early and headed straight for the security office that held the ‘taped’ footage of his cell. This internal security footage was not considered a high security risk and was easy to get to with the maintenance badge her ex-boyfriend had inadvertently provided her. She’d already used it to decommission the camera that monitored this area so she wouldn’t be seen going in and out.

She was relieved to find the soldier on the screen lying just as she’d left him and a fast rewind of the recording showed he’d done exactly as she’d told him to, hardly moving at all. In a few short minutes she had the last 8 hours of footage on a usb drive in her pocket and was heading to his cell for their first session, with a fresh file ready to capture and upload the upcoming recording to her.

[hannatricox-blog]

FMP: Week 4

The Photographers Gallery:

Over the weekend, I went to The Photographers Gallery to see a collection of artists shortlisted for the Deutsche Börse Photography Foundation Prize 2017, which is a annual £30,000 prize rewarded to a living photographer, of any nationality, for a specific body of work in an exhibition or publication format in that year. Photographers included, Sophie Calle, Dana Lixenberg, Awoiska van der Molen, and Taiyo Onorato and Nico Krebs. 

(Above) Sophie Calle. (Left) Portraits of young offenders used as targets during training of police officers in the city of M.United States. (Right) Iconic portraits mutilated during the Spanish Civil war.

I was intrigued by the different series of work, and found a lot of it very relevant to my project. Some images immediately sparked some ideas for my project, for example a lot of Sophie Calle's work from her series 'My All', which explores the death of loved ones around her, and the grief it left behind. I particularly liked her work 'My Cat' (1953), which was a photograph of her deceased pet, 'Souris', laid out in a tiny white coffin, his face peeking out from under what looks like an embroidered tablecloth. 

(Above) Sophie Calle - Here her tone is more elegiac, with photographs housed in small wooden frames that recall holy icons, such as 'Silence' (2012).

Souris the cat looks serene and slightly ridiculous – anthropomorphised by the human he has left behind, now his nine lives are exhausted. Above Souris, a framed text recounts his passing and details his funeral service, similar to her works 'My Mother', 'My Father', which are also accompanied by text, giving the photographs context and making them more personal.

Awoiska van der Molen:

(Above) ‘212-7′ (2011) – Photographic Meditation of Volcanic Landscape in Canary Islands

Awoiska van der Molen (b. 1972, The Netherlands) was nominated for her exhibition Blanco at Foam Fotografie Museum, Amsterdam. Van der Molen creates black and white abstracted images that revitalise landscape photography. Spending long periods of time in solitude and silence in foreign landscapes, from Japan to Norway to Crete, she explores the identity of the place, allowing it to impress upon her its specific emotional and physical qualities and her personal experience within it. I liked how the enlarged images are mostly completely black with hints of white, making them powerful and confident, although they still project a feeling of solitude and quiet.

Taiyo Onorato and Nico Krebs:

(Above) Taiyo Onorato and Nico Krebs

Taiyo Onorato and Nico Krebs (both b. 1979, Switzerland) were nominated for their exhibition EURASIA at Fotomuseum Winterthur. EURASIA playfully draws on the iconography of the road trip constructing experiences drawn from memory and imagination. Onorato and Krebs’ journey begins in Switzerland, continues through the Ukraine, Georgia, Azerbaijan, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Russia, and ends in Mongolia. Throughout their travels the duo encounter landscapes and people in a state of ongoing transition from ancient traditions and post-Communist structures to modernity and the formation of an independent identity. Using a mix of analogue media and techniques including 16mm films, large-format plate cameras and installation-based interventions, Onorato and Krebs compose a narrative that is as much fiction as documentation.

Roger Mayne:

(Above) ‘Guy Fawkes, North Kensington’ (1956)

(Above) ‘Boys on the Hyde Park estate, Sheffield’ (1961)

British photographer, Roger Mayne is best known for his seminal and pioneering body of work on community life in London’s Southam Street in the 1950s and early 60s, which document the seismic period of postwar social change. Mayne’s humanistic approach to his subjects has influenced subsequent generations of photographers and made a significant contribution to post-war British photography. I was especially interested in Mayne's work and thought it was very relevant to what I'm working on, as these scenes from a lost city radiate history and absence, and he captures this desolation and pain in his photographs. I found his work, which was mostly of children, had a very bleak and dismal atmosphere, and was shot in a way that it felt as though he wasn't there.

Dana Lixenberg:

(Above) ‘Tish’s Baby Shower’ (2008)

The Dutch born photographer and filmmaker, Dana Lixenberg, was selected as the recipient of the £30,000 prize for her bold, un-sentimentalised black and white portraits of the residents and community of the Imperial Courts housing project in Watts, Los Angeles. 

(Above) ‘Untitled VII’ (2013) 

Lixenberg pursues long-term projects with a primary focus on individuals and communities on the margins of society, such as Jeffersonville, Indiana, a collection of landscapes and portraits of the small town’s homeless population photographed over a seven-year period, and The Last Days of Shishmaref, which portrays an Inupiaq community on an eroding island of the coast of Alaska. I found her works, ‘Untitled VII’ (2013) and ‘Tish’s Baby Shower’ (2008) from the exhibition particularly interesting, as I saw a strong element of desolation and isolation in the simple compositions. The lack of people in the photos, which contrasts the focus of her other photos which are mostly portraits, speak more volumes to me about the way of life for people there and could even be metaphors for how they feel, hopeless?

3D Box Sculpture:

Following up from my ice sculptures, I wanted to experiment using a different medium and chose cardboard to create a box like structure, made of many boxes inside each other. Inspired by the idea of feeling like you are trapped in your own world or are sinking deeper and deeper into progressively worst place, I wanted to convey these ideas with a simple architectural design that is almost interactive. The structure didn't take long to make, and I really like the design, as it's simple and doesn't necessarily need a context, as it's about the feeling it creates and the way one interprets it. 

I think this design could be more powerful with more layers of boxes, or if made in a larger scale like human sized. I thought the way the boxes couldn't be separated or taken out of each other was interesting and almost frustrating, linking to the idea of being trapped, like being stuck in a cage where the bars of the walls are just to narrow to escape through. It also made me think about layers of barriers we create, perhaps made over time,  to keep others away, the first barrier made to keep strangers away, the second made to keep friends away, and then family and so on, until all contact with the outside world is severed.

Louise Bourgeois:

Identity, self-scrutiny, memory and trauma are the core themes of Louise Bourgeois’s art. Bourgeois has often referred to her works as a means of “liquidating the memory of traumatic episodes”, and her art is generated by personal experiences.

(Below) ‘Cell XIV (Portrait)’ 2000

Bourgeois is acclaimed as one of the most innovative artists to have emerged in the United States in the second-half of the twentieth century. She was especially prolific from the early 1980s, and from 1990 producing a vast series of ‘cells’. These were dioramic, standalone sculptural forms using objects from Bourgeois’s childhood (plaster casts, text and drawings); as well as spiders, all within the confines of cell-like structures (usually penned in by doors or steel cages). Through them, she was able to analyse and express her pain, anxiety, fear of abandonment and isolation, which are themes that appear consistently in her art.

(Below, left) ‘The Last Climb’ 2008. Steel, glass, rubber, thread and wood.

(Below, right) ‘Cell XXVI’ 2003. Steel, fabric, aluminium, wood.

The artist described the role of fear and pain in the ‘cells’ in 1991:

“The Cells represent different types of pain: the physical, the emotional and psychological, and the mental and intellectual. When does the emotional become the physical? When does the physical become the emotional? It’s a circle going round and round. Pain can begin at any point and turn in either direction. Each Cell deals with fear. Fear is pain. Often it is not perceived as pain, because it is always disguising itself. Each cell deals with the pleasure of the voyeur, the thrill of looking and being looked at. The Cells either attract or repulse each other. There is this urge to integrate, merge or disintegrate”.

(Quoted in Marie-Laure Bernadac and Hans-Ulrich Obrist (eds.),Louise Bourgeois: Destruction of the Father, Reconstruction of the Father: Writings and Interviews 1923–1997, London 1998, p.205)

(Below) ‘Spider’ 1997

Staging the uncomfortable: Three Cages Pieces

Following up from my interest in Louise Bourgeois' cage work, I found an online article about artworks that explore, physically or metaphorically, the nature of confinement places, which I found gave me some new ideas for my project.

Double Steel Cage was an installation created in 1974 by the American conceptual artist Bruce Nauman, consisting of two cages one within the other with a narrow corridor in-between. The spectator is invited to enter the installation, but the walkthrough proves to be an uncomfortable experience: while the inner cage is visible, its interior area is inaccessible. The corridor itself becomes too narrow to fit so that the viewer finds himself in the impossibility of physically crossing the room. The staged space is offered and denied at the same time by the artist.

(Above) Bruce Nauman: ‘Double Steel Cage’ 1974

“What I want to do is use the investigative polarity that exists in the tension between the public and the private space and to use it to create an edge”

Alfredo Jaar‘s “Infinite Cell” (2004) is a steel cage reflected in mirrors on two sides to appear as an infinite sequence. The cell is not to be physically experienced by the public, but it refers to the prison where he Italian marxist thinker Antonio Gramsci spent six years of his life since 1926. The works of the Chilean artist usually deal with the desensitization of the public to images and to the representation of tragic contemporary and historical events.

(Above) Alfredo Jaar: ‘Infinite Cell’ 2004 The third example is “Impenetrable” by Mona Hatoum (2009), a cube composed of hundreds of barbed wire rods dangling from fishing wire. From far away the installation looks like a delicate cube levitating in the space of a gallery, while it reveals its menacing nature once the spectator approaches it. The strict grid of lines allows the viewer to gaze through the cube while the dangerous nature of the barbed wire repels him.

(Below) ‘Impenetrable’ (2009) Mona Hatoum