#please ignore the other wips rotting in the corner

[gildedphoenix]

I’ll Be What You Need

“I just need you to be my little boy,” his mother said. “Just be little forever”

Danny could feel himself shirnking. Every breath out bringing him a little more inward. 

“Of course, Mom! But, um, I gotta go. I promised Tucker I’d meet up with him tonight.” Danny stammered, just trying to get himself out of his mother’s hold before she noticed his shrinking. 

“But Dannny, You just got back from Tucker’s… Didn’t you?” She asked in a tone that said he better have been at Tucker’s. That he’d better not have been lying. 

“Of course, Mom. I’m meeting him online. We were working out this new stragety on Doom and we wanted to try it out tonight.” He jumped backwards, making fast erratic shooting motions. He emulated his Doom character while also effectively breaking his mother’s grip on him and her suspicions. She rolled her eyes at his antics and he took that as his queue to run upstairs. 

In truth, he had not been at Tucker’s at all, but instead in the Far Frozen. As he got closer to graduation, he’d been having issues. Different peoples’ demands on him had been feeling less like expectations and more like required changes. And his body was obliging. Like his mother’s need that he stay little. Just last week, Sam had been hitting him in the shoulder and playfully remarked, “What? Can’t take a punch?” In a moment, his body had hardened and her next punch nearly broke her hand. 

All the changes so far had been small enough, subtle enough, to hide. Danny didn’t think he would be lucky enough that it would stay that way. The shrinking was the first example. And a confirmation of what Frostbite had told him. 

Frostbite had not had good news. Last time he’d had his core examined had been years ago. They’d thought it was an Ice core. All evidence pointed that way. But they really hadn’t had time to do a full examination. An in depth analysis. And it turns out, they’d been wrong. 

Danny’s core was not Ice or Cold. Not Fire or Plant. Not Love, or Loneliness, or Shadow. It was not tied to any element or emotion. Danny’s core was pure ectoplasmic Potential. 

[theclaravoyant]

AN ~ Version 1 of about 16 trillion WIPS I have of Ed and Izzy finally facing each other again. Did I write 1500wd and technically not use the prompt phrase? Yes I did, but in my defense I'm haunted by It's not your fault you're broken, you were just trying to do your job.

For @fictober-event’s Fictober 2023 prompt: “It's not your fault." Spoilers up to Ep 6, in which it's theoretically based.

Masterpost of my Fictober OFMD fics

Fandom: Our Flag Means Death Characters/Relationships: Ed Teach, Izzy Hands. Tags: Canon Typical Violence, References to Suicidal Ideation and associated mutually-destructive stuff that went down in the early eps. Angst with a Hopeful Ending and hopefully healing vibes.

Try

Ed recognises the voice before he turns the corner. It’s so familiar and beautiful and missed, his heart clenches. Because Izzy doesn’t sing. Not the Izzy he knows. Not anymore. And yet.

His feet carry him forward like they haven’t caught on that this is a stupid idea.

The bell around his neck announces him and he can hardly stand to hear the song strangle itself in Izzy’s throat. If there was a dance in his step it’s gone now. Izzy stops and stares at him for a long, miserable, terrifying moment.

“Edward,” he croaks.

In the silence, one can hear the other shoe drop.

“Izzy. I think we need to talk.”

-

Stede has the good sense, and the sense of drama, to usher the rest of the crew below deck. The abandoned party makes for a fittingly morbid setting; its rainbow lanterns bobbing in the breeze, beautiful food and rich aromas doing little to drown out the rotting wound they’re about to rip open. Neither of them speak for a long time. There’s too much to say.

Eventually, Izzy steps down off the little dias they’ve been calling a stage. He ignores Ed as much as possible, and sets about cleaning up instead. He marches to the nearest table and begins scraping all the food scraps onto one plate. Now that they’ve gone and ruined the mood, he might as well. But he feels Ed’s eyes on him, knows that stupid bell is swaying in the breeze a micron away from tinkling as he only moves just enough to watch Izzy. The heat pricks the back of his neck until he can’t stand it anymore.

“You’re the one who wants to talk, Edward. I’m fine.”

“Sure. You look fine.”

“I was, ‘til you got here.”

It hurts, but Ed swallows. He did walk right into that one. But it’s not the uncharacteristically camp make-up or the… golden… unicorn leg apparently? … that’s got Ed worried. It’s the tension in his shoulders, his gaunt face. The way that he carries himself around Ed - even though he’s well out of arms’ reach - with an air of hesitation, like he’s terrified he’ll be suckerpunched at any given moment and is trying desperately not to show it.

I wasn’t laughing, it reminds him. I was screaming.

He remembers the sound of the bullet too. He remembers thinking Izzy was dead and gone. He’d hardly felt a thing at the time, but looking back he knew it would destroy him. It should destroy him. That’s what it should feel like, to have somebody so close to you for so long and in so many ways that losing them feels like - 

Well, like losing a limb. Isn’t that how the saying goes?

But his traitorous fucking tongue refuses to form fucking words, at least not ones that mean anything, so all he can do is dare step a little closer. He reaches out his arm - slowly, hesitantly, - and he watches Izzy equally slowly close a fist around the handle of one of the butter knives he’s packing away. So he stops. Izzy’s fingers uncurl, but Ed’s pretty sure he’d rather have been stabbed. It hurts, everything hurts.

“It’s getting late,” Izzy says at last. “Think I’ll call it a night, actually.”

“Izzy. Please.” The words barely make it past the lump in his throat. If they don’t push through it now, they might never, and that’s just- well, that’s just not an option.

“Are you going to order me to stay?”

“No. I’m not your Captain anymore.”

Ed wishes he could be offended at the implication that he’d ever use his position in such a way, but he definitely would. He definitely has. And maybe, just maybe, he’s finally come close enough to admitting that for one of the worst people on God’s Green Earth at apologies, because Izzy finally stops doing busywork and looks at him. Really looks at him, like he’s trying to figure out the answer to his own question. What am I, to you?

“Still on probation, then?” he asks instead.

“Oh. Yeah.” Ed flicks the bell at his neck. “Crew says the vote has to be unanimous. So.”

“So you need me to tick the last box on your little form.”

“Oh fuck off, you brought it up, not me.” Ed bites his tongue. All this is going to do is get them riled up until they strangle each other. He tries to channel his crash course in healthy emotional expression and drag himself back on track. He takes a deep breath. “What I mean is. You’ve got a lot of them going to bat for you, Iz. They really care about how you feel about- about all this. You should be proud. I know I am.”

Izzy blinks. “What?”

Ed plays back what he just said. Is he finally making the words go?

“I am… proud of you,” he repeats. Tears spring to his eyes and he feels a bit sick and overwhelmed but there it is, he said it. “And grateful. I really am. I don’t know what I would have done if you’d really- I mean if you hadn’t-” 

He swallows. And maybe it’s because he’s still trying to spare Ed or maybe it’s because Izzy is allergic to the full spectrum of human emotion or maybe it’s because the memory is swirling around them like the storm did and they can both taste the salt water in the air but Izzy cuts him off.

“I was just doing my job.”

“Your boss fucking sucks then.”

He gets a tearful snort out of Izzy for that one. 

“Yeah, well. Pretty sure I started it.”

And maybe it’s good they’ve been making a point of avoiding each other since they got back on board the Revenge. Maybe they’re… ready for something. (Please. Please let them be ready.)

Ed waits with bated breath as Izzy looks away, touches his finger to his eyes in case he’s been crying, and deliberates. Ed watches, wishing, pleading, contemplating falling to the deck and fucking praying that a whip crack of vicious vengeance isn’t going to come for him. Once upon a time - hell, even this morning - he would have offered the man his pistol to shoot him back. It’s the pirate way of doing things, an eye for an eye, and maybe it’s not the healthiest or whatever but he’ll take it if it means making things square with Izzy. He's already got a bad knee, what’s a little more metal crunching around in there?

The silence lasts so long it itches under his skin. It burns the tip of his tongue and he’s on the verge of opening his mouth to suggest that the man fucking shoots him (again) after all, when Izzy finally speaks.

“Well,” he announces. “If we’re doing this, I’m going to need a drink.”

Speaking of knees, they almost give way beneath him.

“Amen to that.”

-

There’s a lot to untangle; so much that if they had the time-bending powers of the gravy basket they might still have not got through it all. But it’s progress, and the two of them end up lying close on the deck with their hair and limbs tossed every which way and a red glow to their cheeks that betrays how much they’ve imbibed. They’ve cried. They’ve laughed, frankly a surprising amount. They’ve almost called it quits and stormed out a half a dozen times each. Yet they’ve both stayed, and they’ve both let those walls down further than they have in years. The wound they’ve been letting fester isn’t healed. It’s a long way from that. But it’s been cleaned and wrapped in new bandages and as the morning light starts to make its way across their faces, there’s a gentleness to the ache in their chests.

Ed sighs.

“Be honest, Iz,” he prompts. “Do you think there’s a version of us where we don’t wind up killing each other?”

Izzy frowns, struggling to turn his fuzzy mind to the subject without getting bogged down again in I had a dream where you killed me and Edward better watch his fucking step and the Spanish and the English and the way their downward spirals have been happening harder and faster lately. Rising sun be damned, it’s hard to have hope in the face of that.

“I don’t know,” he confesses.

Ed swallows. It’s hard to take. But he said to be honest, and they’re being honest in a new way now. In a new old way that reminds him of the way things were before, somehow. It’s like a light at the end of the tunnel, shining into the dark sea. Like the morning breaking over them. The sun is warm, and it reminds him of the things that are worth holding onto.

“Do you think-” he asks, “d’you think we could try?”

“Stranger things have happened.”

“Like Izzy Hands stone-cold-sober letting someone put glitter on his face?”

With a cheeky, if hesitant, hopeful smile, Ed glances over at Izzy the best he can at this angle. Izzy, best he can too, angles his chin to meet Ed’s eyes, and smiles back.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Like that.”

[vampireninjabunnies-blog]

WIP Wednesday

Tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton @inafieldofdaisies @direwombat

Tagging @voidika @trench-rot @josephseedismyfather @redreart @beautiful-delirium @poisonedtruth @wrath-not-wrat @wrathfulrook @aceghosts @g0dspeeed @strafethesesinners @florbelles @madparadoxum @river-ward @ladyoriza and anyone else who has something to share

Home

The very first scene I ever imagined for this WIP

Pebbles and twigs cut her small feet as she ran through the trees, ignoring the sound of gunfire just ahead of her, ignoring the pleas for caution from Nick and Rorke as they tried to catch up to her. She'd been cautious the whole way here, been nothing but cautious for the last three years. Now she threw caution to the wind. Just a few more feet and the ranch came into view as she finally cleared the treeline.

Home.

She was home. She stopped, looking around, Peggies and civilians fighting all over the property. She heard him before she saw him. Yelling angry commands at the Peggies.

John

She ran toward the sound of his voice, running through the swirling violence. She didn't hear anything else but his voice. Oblivious to the bullets flying past her, to Nick shouting as he grabbed Grace from shooting at her. Confusion gripping both sides of the fight as her small band of rescuers tried to stop the fighting.

Recognition dawning on the faces of several Peggies as she ran past them turning toward the hangar. She screamed his name as loud as she could. Her normally small voices echoing over the noise.

"JOHN!"

Time stood still. The fighting around them finally coming to a halt. Silence hung in the air like a heavy weight as John turned. Anger, confusion, disbelief flashing across his face in quick succession, stumbling backward as she ran to hug him, his gun falling to the ground. For a moment he just stood there in shock before he pushed her away. His eyes closed tight, his hands going up to his head, clawing and tugging at his hair. Muttering desperately, jittery and shaking. Tears rolling down his cheeks.

"No...not again. Go away, go away. You're not here. You're not real."

John fell to his knees, rocking back and forth, shaking his head.

"Please just go away."

The crowd of Peggies and civilians watched in silence, none of them knowing what to do.

She knelt down beside him and gently put hand on his cheek to make him look at her.

"John... hummingbird I'm here. I'm real."

But she couldn't be, he knew it. He saw her too often, in dreams and from the corner of his eye. Too often she has just been a passing vision. A ghost haunting him. He finally opened his eyes and looked at her. In his dreams she'd always looked as she had when she was alive. Smiling sweetly at him, rosey and bright. Never like this. Dirty and too thin. Blood on her torn dress, her eyes tired. He stared into her big brown eyes and saw the same love for him he'd found there. His lip quivered as realization washed over him, and he slowly reached out to touch her face.

"Esther"

His voice barely above a whisper before he pulled her close and hugged her tight.

"You're real. You're alive"

Three years of grief and pain pouring out of them both as he held her. Both of them clinging to each other as they cried tears of joy and relief.

She was alive and she was finally home.

[ohthathurt]

So I’ve been struggling lately quite a lot with my writing (if a writer had a dime for every time they said/thought that lmao) and so many of my mutuals and friends on here have given me advice and a push to do further and I absolutely love them and cherish them for that x

But I also thought of all the WIPs living in my docs for a long time now. There’s a few in there that i know i will never post because, to me, they’re just empty words going nowhere.

And so I thought I’ll post the most vague one I can find that doesn’t have a definitive ending or beginning and someone, anyone on here can pick it up and run with it? A bold move I know lmao but I’m not being revolutionary I just want all of us to get writing again. And I definitely don’t mind if two different blogs pick it up at the same time, please tag me and I’ll reblog every single one of them! Here we go, under the cut:

“I’m telling you, it was the pug.”

Lydia blinked furiously at the man- no, at the suspect, in front of her before looking in puzzlement at her senior, who was sat beside her and not faring any better.

Detective Chief Inspector Grant was a man in his fifties, quite shrewd when it comes to cases like these and if Lydia could dig further in, she’d find a happy marriage and family behind that stern expression. It’s just how it is.

Detective Constable Lydia Stanton, that’s what they called her now. After years of acing all her tests and grueling hours of practice, she was finally sat here, in the interrogation room, observing a DCI investigate a possible homicide.

The suspect had arrived with four other accomplices at their holding cell and was uneasily charming since. Police Constables Ross and Miller had pulled them out of their house, only a few feet away from which were two rotting dead bodies that were peculiarly drained of all blood.

Since then, Lydia had whipped her notepad out, ignoring the snickering and dirty looks of her fellow trainees and started scribbling through, noting all the details as well as any specific behaviour the suspects portrayed.

The suspect leaned in again and whispered, “Have you seen those little things? They look calm, sure, but they’re vicious.”

His green eyes widened, “One bite and you’re done for it.”

DCI Grant sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. Lydia frowned at him; that was one sign he was breaking instead of the suspect.

“Let me get this straight, Mr. Styles. You claim you had nothing to do with the two corpses lying outside of the house we found you in. Furthermore, you are accusing the neighbour’s two pugs of the crime.”

Styles sat up straight, eyes twinkling and dimples deepening, “That’s absolutely correct!”

DCI Grant only turned to her and muttered a quick, “Bring in the next one.”

As thrilling as this job was, Lydia was more interested in a future as a behavioural analyst, hence her nifty little notepad and handy pen by her side at all times. She took note of the way Styles’ expressions were exaggerated, his smiles effortlessly charming and a wall of emotion between them every time the corpses were mentioned.

Yes, he very well could be a psychopath, she noted in her notepad.

The next suspect out of the bunch wasn’t any better on DCI Grant’s flustered nerves. He was flushed heavily by now; skin a glowing red despite the harsh winter cold biting into the metallic room. The suspect in front of them – Lydia consulted her case file – a Mr. Tomlinson, age 27, worked at the same company as four other suspects, brown hair, deep blue eyes and gorgeous cheekbones –

Wait, Lydia stuttered mentally and forced her inappropriate thoughts to a halt.

It wouldn’t do to lust after a suspect, as gorgeous as he was.

It was as if Tomlinson knew his own charm, mouth twisted into an amused smirk, sharp eyes darting over the room, fingers trailing through brown hair flopped over his forehead.

Lydia scribbled into her notepad, taking in all of these details in case she ever needed them again.

DCI Grant opened his case file and placed two photographs of the victims’ rotting corpses in front of the suspect. Tomlinson stared him down instead.

“Mr. Tomlinson, would you please take a look at these and tell me who they are?”

“I don’t know them.”

“You haven’t looked at the pictures.”

“I assure you I did.”

“When?”

“When I left the house in handcuffs.” Tomlinson turned his piercing gaze towards Lydia who tried her absolute best not to blush. He tilted his head and his smirk widened.

DCI Grant cleared his throat rather loudly, “Where were you at the time of – “

He was cut off rather abruptly by Tomlinson butting in, “Look, if you’re not charging me with something I’m walking out.”

“You can’t just walk out.”

“Why not?”

“We haven’t finished our questioning.” Grant looked like a smug little frog right at the moment, and Lydia noted the way Tomlinson’s jaw clenched in answer.

The suspect leaned back in his chair, arms wide open, “Alright then, do your questioning.”

Grant nodded smugly at Lydia and turned to Tomlinson, “Where were you at the time of the murder, which was approximately between midnight to 2?”

Tomlinson glared at him but kept his mouth shut.

Grant moved on, “Do you know the victims personally?”

Nothing.

“Do you know Sarah French and Bobby Hoffman?”

Not one word.

“Were you stalking them? Maybe you felt like a bit of fun at midnight, eh?” Lydia whipped her head round to stare at DCI Grant in shock, this was pure speculation and could get him into a lot of trouble.

She took the initiative quickly, “Will you comply with any more questions, Mr. Tomlinson?” Her first question at a suspect and she was so glad her voice didn’t shake.

But Tomlinson stared back at her with a bored expression. She sighed and looked at Grant who was now turning a furious shade of red. Oh, dear.

She quickly moved to have Tomlinson transferred back to the holding cell and have the next one in. This one was a blond, Irish, in his mid-20s, with laughter so loud she could hear it from where the holding cell was.

Absolutely baffled as to what could make a potential criminal laugh like that, she quickly made her way down. The scene that presented itself to her, was rather puzzling. They didn’t have any other pending cases so the five individuals brought in for questioning were the only ones in it.

Curly-haired psychopath was lying on the floor on his back being laughed at boisterously by blond suspect. Tomlinson was carelessly sprawled over the tiny bench on the side of the cell and the rest two were huddled in the corner. Frowning, she took a step forward to see what the two were doing and to her absolute surprise, they were –

Cuddling? Hugging? In a holding cell? The shorter of the two with black hair had his face hidden in the other man’s chest. Arms covered in tattoos, he held onto the other man who was swaying him back and forth in his embrace.

The taller of the two, she noted, was unbelievably handsome. Brown eyes that held a bit of danger and a face full of scruff, he looked like he’d fit the dangerous criminal sort quite well. Not that Lydia liked stereotypes.

She stood there quietly observing the two as the taller man then began pressing kisses to the other man’s head. Tired of not having any names for them, she fumbled with her notepad.

“Horan?” She called out and they all snapped their heads up to look at her. Curly only grinned at her as Tomlinson resumed his smirking. Even the two lovebirds turned towards the sound of her voice but all she could make out was hazel, teary eyes peering up from a red plaid shirt-covered chest.

The blond Irish piped up, “That’s me!” Like he was being called over for a party game, he hastily climbed over Curly and went over to where the holding cell door was. A shout of ‘stand back!’ and Horan was let out. Lydia noted he wore an easy grin and his body language was rather loose and casual for someone arrested for homicide.

She sighed internally as she guided Horan towards the holding cell, where hopefully a much calmer Grant sat.

She opened the door and let him in and he settled quickly into the chair, smiling just as big at Grant. Grant, she noticed, had a steely gaze on him. Still, it was eons better than him losing his calm.

“Mr. Horan, I’ll be quick with this one.”

Horan nodded amiably, “Sure, sure.” Grant looked at him with narrowed eyes and Lydia held her breath hoping he didn’t say something inappropriate again.

But soon the DCI turned back to the file and repeated the same motions and questions he did for the other two before them. Surprisingly though, this one showed emotion.

[halleiswriting]

A Strange Magic Excerpt

Here’s a scene of the first chapter from my WIP, Strange Magic. 

Maybe it was insensitive, or maybe a little stupid, but Amantha Waller spent the first night of the apocalypse at a mortal’s Halloween party.

    If you didn’t know anything about the impending doom of armageddon, then you would probably think that she, and the other two dozen witches crashing Craig Erwick’s rager, were heartless, and probably very lonely. If you did know about the impending doom of armageddon, then this decision didn’t sound so strange. After all, the end of the world had been stopped five times before in the last three thousand years, and the savior was being called upon in just a few days.

     Besides, the party-crashing hadn’t even been her idea. Her older brother, Cain, had shown up at her doorway at nine o’clock with a juul between his teeth and a fake stethoscope around his neck. He, just like the prior year, was outfitted in a sexy nurse costume, and had persuaded her to wear a vintage witch costume (not ironic at all) with a pointy hat and broom and everything. And then they, joined by friends Eran and Sinclair, left for the party a few blocks from Sermyce, their school.

     Cain and Eran had disappeared an hour ago, leaving Amantha and Sinclair alone in the kitchen to be ogled by future frat boys dressed in dumb costumes such as “Nudist on strike,” made clear by the sign hanging around his neck. Ignoring them, they watched at the chaos surrounding them. Beer pong in the dining room, Never-Have-I-Ever by the coffee table, and god knows what upstairs.

     “They’re going to notice we snuck out,” said Amantha, sipping on her spiked Hag’s Brew punch.

     “Who cares?” Sinclair shrugged, costumed in Slytherin robes. “It’s not like we’re the only kids from Sermyce here. See—!” She pointed to a group in the corner of the living room. “Polly and Geoff are here. Candace and Taylor, too. Oh, look! Marian came. When did she dye her hair? Wasn’t it black in class today?”

     Amantha’s eyes widened as she scanned the house, stopping at a small group by the stairs and focused in on red hair and a short, white dress. “Is that Stacy?”

     “Stacy? At a party? Doubtful.” Sinclair laughed, looking closer, and then abruptly stopped. “Oh, shit! That’s Stacy fucking Blankenship! Am I in the right universe right now?”

     Anastasia Blankenship, or Stacy, as she was better known by, had been Amantha’s arch-nemesis since their first year at Sermyce when a harmless game of Truth or Dare got out of hand during a sleep over. Ever since then, she and Stacy had competed for everything. Top grades, favoritism from teachers, even stupid things like getting the last bag of each other’s chips from the vending machine. And of course, the Sermyce Elder Board chosen position of Samhain speaker for the holiday festivities that next day.

      Thinking about tomorrow’s assembly only made her blood boil, and whenever she saw Stacy, she could only think about how she had cheated her way into being chosen to deliver the speech.

    “I don’t understand.” Amantha sighed, staring as Stacy tipped her head back laughing at her roommate, Lily-Rose’s joke. “Why is she getting trashed at a party the night before Samhain? I mean, the lengths she went to so she could deliver the damned speech, and now this?”

    “Yeah, she’s worse than Satan,” said Sinclair flatly.

     Amantha gulped the rest of her drink, then tossed her plastic cup into the overfull trash can across the room. “I know, I know. I’m insufferable. But she took it too far with the speech—I mean, she took my voice from me! Who does that?”

     “Look, Amantha, either you can keep complaining about the injustice of it all, or you can get off your ass and do something to make it right.”

     “Principal Becraft will never listen,” she said.

     “That’s not what I said.” Sinclair jumped off the counter to face her. “I’m saying that we teach her a lesson ourselves. Cut out the middle man.”

     “So, what? We hex her or something?”

     “Yes, that’s exactly what we should do,” she agreed, taking a handful of chips from the bowl.

    Amantha laughed. “We can’t just hex her. You know the rules. Absolutely no jinxing or hexing allowed outside of school lessons. If we got caught, or if Stacy reported us, we could get detention until graduation.”

     “Stacy is a lot of things, but she’s no snitch,” she said. “She deals with her own shit, and so should you.”

     She shook her head, taking an orange frosted cupcake from the snack table. Amantha watched as Stacy stood and made her way in their direction, angel wings bouncing behind her. She raised her eyebrows at them as she refilled her cup with tap water from the sink.

     “What are you two staring at?” she asked, her voice saccharine sweet.

     “Oh, just a conniving, two-faced twat, is all,” said Amantha.

     Stacy turned and took a sip of her water, rolling her eyes. “Sticks and stones, Waller. The only one you’re hurting with those insults is your cerebrum. You should really give it a rest sometime. It works hard enough with that mediocre spell casting you do. Don’t want to trigger any migraines. Did you know that stress can be fatal for the weak-minded?”

     “If you think so low of me then why did you feel the need to literally take my voice from me during the speech auditions, Stacy?” she asked. “Or are does my ‘mediocre spell casting’ threaten you after all?”

     “Are you accusing me of something that warrants expulsion, Waller?” Stacy covered her agape mouth with a melodramatic palm.

     “Please, Stacy.” She scoffed. “I felt fine all day. Then I just happen to lose my voice? I don’t think so.”

     “We live in a strange, strange world,” said Stacy.

     “Not that strange,” she disagreed.

     Stacy didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, “I like your costume. Very cute. Did you steal it from my ten year old sister’s closet? I think she wore the exact same one two years ago. Hat and all.”

     “Did you find your costume in the bargain bin at Party City?”

     “Alright ladies! How about we cool down, yes?” Sinclair interrupted. She tugged on Amantha wrist, but she stayed where she was.

     Stacy laughed. “Really, Waller. What are you going to do to me? Report me?”

     “I was thinking something a little bit more exciting than that,” said Amantha with a shrug. “I don’t know, I mean, I’ve always been a believer in the eye-for-an-eye punishment. Reporting you seems like letting you off the hook, right?”

     “So you’re going to steal my voice before the assembly tomorrow?”

     “No, you’d be expecting that,” she said. “I was thinking maybe turning you into a rat. Maggot? Maybe a tapeworm.”

     She raised an eyebrow. “Well, which is it then?”

     Amantha laughed. “It’s not called a surprise for nothing, Anastasia.”

     Stacy paused, then began to whisper something unintelligible with her eyes closed. She opened them and smiled. “I can’t wait to see what you decide on. Now enjoy that cupcake, Waller.”

     With that, she strut off back to her staircase.

     Amantha looked down at her cupcake, now wiggling with large, brownish worms.

    She let out a scream as she dropped the cupcake onto the floor and jumped back onto the counter. “I fucking hate that girl.”

     “Tainted space shall be empty space. Mess is no mess at all. With my breath, rid this mess beneath us all. Tainted space is now empty space,” Sinclair whispered, her words fast, as she clung onto her charm bracelet.

     Risking a glance, relief washed over her as the rotting cupcake vanished.

     “Thank you,” said Amantha.

     “No problem.” Sinclair readjusted her robes. “So. What’ll it be? Pretend this all never happened? Or make her regret ever bad thing she’s ever done to you?”

     Amantha looked back at Stacy, now whispering into Nisha’s ear, tuning out the non-unique rap music and weighing her options. She could either a) report Stacy to the school administration and get ignored, b) do nothing, or c) listen to Sinclair and teach Stacy a lesson with a harmless hex.

     Hexing did seem like the best option. And the most fun.

     She turned to Sinclair and grinned. “Tell Cain and Eran to meet me in the alchemy lab. Witching hour. We’ve got a witch to hex.”

@lady-redshield-writes @dreamwishing @aschenink

[imaginejamesandsirius]

Hello, I'm drowning in prongsfoot feelings and I desperately need a "James comes back to life" story please? With a lot of hurt/comfort? Pretty please? Thank you so much :)

((A/N: This fic was sitting in my WIP’s just waiting to be finished, so thank you!))

Sirius was trying to ignore the call of the Archway. He wanted to blame how off kilter he was on that alone but couldn’t. It was that he was out of that house he hated for a brief taste of freedom and he already knew that he would have to go back soon; it was Harry being in danger; it was Bellatrix, his once beloved cousin trying to hurt good people; it was this fucking Death Room that neither he nor Remus could stand to be in but could stand even less to let Harry be here; as always, it was the loss of James, crawling in the back of his mind like a parasite.

He laughed at a spell Bellatrix sent his way to stop from losing it. All he did these days was laugh to keep from crying. “Come on! You can do better than that.” And she did. Not a killing spell, not even after all this time, all that’s happened to them, but it knocked him back, and Remus, Merlin- Remus tried to stop him from falling into the Archway but all it did was drag him in too.

He thought it would kill them. Instead, a sensation like walking through a ghost and they were landing on the other side of the Archway, but there was more than just him and Remus. Sirius was laying on a body he was intimately familiar with. It couldn’t be but- “James?” he asked, eyes wide and jerking back to look at his face.

Oh Godric it was James. Sirius knew him better than he knew himself, and it was him. He thought of and dismissed ideas as quickly as they came. Not an imposter, not a ghost or a poltergeist, not a hallucination, not the afterlife. It was just- James.

James smiled at him. “Hey Si, fancy seeing you here. I’d love to talk but er, battle.”

Sirius blinked, and the sounds that he didn’t know he’d been numb to came back. He leaned back, helping James stand and saw Remus and Lily doing the same beside them.

Fortunately they weren’t needed because Sirius could only take his eyes off James for a scant second before he looked back. His fingers itched in need and as soon as the last Death Eater beat a hasty retreat he yanked James into a hug. “Don’t disappear,” he begged him.

“I won’t,” he promised.

Harry stepped towards them uncertainly. “Sirius? Remus? Wh-what’s going on?”

James and Sirius only half let go of each other and out of the corner of their eyes they could see Lily and Remus doing the same. “Oh wow,” James said enthusiastically, “he looks just like me. Not a copy of course, but still. Wow. Do you think I’ll look like my dad soon? I hope so.” James waved at him with a wide smile. “Hiya Harry.”

“He looks better than you,” Lily said. “Much better in my opinion. Hi Harry. You look good.”

The light-hearted banter squeezed at Sirius’s heart, and he tightened his grip on James. Don’t disappear. James gripped back. I won’t.

“Let’s get out of here before there’s trouble with the Ministry,” Alastor said, and while it was in his usual growl, there was no hiding that he was surprised.

Harry hovered between the four of them and his friends as they made their way out, unsure who he wanted to be around most. He settled between Lily and James, exchanging chit chat even though he obviously wanted more. Sirius understood the feeling.

He kept a vice-like grip on James, and James was holding him back just as tightly. It wasn’t until he noticed some of the kids staring that it hit him– they didn’t know. They had no bloody clue what was going on. To them, he and James were best mates and that’s it. He didn’t even know if they knew that Remus and Lily had been close, let alone together. They just… had no idea. It was the most important aspect of Sirius’s life, and they didn’t know.

Harry, in particular, looked confused, glancing between James and Lily like the situation wasn’t adding up and he couldn’t figure out where the equation had gone wrong. Merlin, poor Harry. He’d been told stories of parents, and no one was going to tell him that Lily and James were barely friends at the end of their Hogwarts years; it didn’t make a good story. In Sirius’s opinion, two best mates from the moment they met, that fell into a relationship a few years later made a much better story than the one everyone ‘knew’ about James and Lily.

When they exited the Department of Mysteries, James said, “Wait, why are we in the Ministry?”

“Because our Harry here broke in,” Tonks answered with a proud grin.

“You what?” Lily said, at the same time that James said, “Yes!”

“You’re- what, fifteen?- that’s even better than we did, Pads.”

“You and Sirius broke into the Ministry?” Harry asked.

James nodded and Remus said, “In sixth year. They, on the other hand, didn’t get caught.” He raised a judgemental eyebrow at Sirius and James that they ignored. They knew that Remus was just peeved he hadn’t been invited along in the original trip.

“It was just the two of us, Harry, I’m sure you would have been fine if there were only two of you,” Sirius assured him.

“Could we maybe not encourage my son to break the law?” Lily said, her tone making it very clear that she wasn’t asking.

“C’mon Evans, who do you think you married?” Some of the people around them smiled or smirked, and all Sirius could think was that they didn’t get it; they didn’t get what the real joke was. They didn’t know that Remus and Lily were married and that’s why it was funny, because Remus was a Marauder, and no matter what everyone else thought about his role in the group, he broke the rules (and occasionally the law) just as much as the rest of them.

“Why did you break into the Ministry?” Ginny asked.

James laughed, shaking his head. “Merlin, I don’t even remember. It was fun though.” Sirius wondered if anyone else could tell he was lying. The answer wasn’t exactly group-friendly, so all he could do was hope someone didn’t call him out on it in front of everyone. There wasn’t an easy way to say that they’d snuck in to shag on some blood-purist arsehole’s desk, and even if there was, no one here knew he and James were together. Sirius still had the polaroid they’d taken afterwards as proof, not that they ever planned on telling (or showing) anyone. They hadn’t even told Remus and Peter what they’d done there. It was in a locked box in Sirius’s old room right now. He hadn’t had the strength to take out the pictures in the tin and look through them, look through all the memories he and James had shared.

“How’d you do it?” Ginny asked, face perfectly innocent in a well-practiced manner that they instantly recognised.

“Don’t you dare,” Lily warned, glaring at them.

James held up one hand in surrender– the other still firmly on Sirius– and said, “Wasn’t going to.”

Lily scoffed and rolled her eyes, clearly not believing him, though this time James was telling the truth.

“How did you get together?” Hermione asked, looking between Lily and James, a small frown of confusion on her face.

Sirius and Remus tensed, but were too slow to stop Lily and James from reacting. “What?” Lily asked.

“We’re not together, never have been,” James said. The group stopped moving, the half in the front turning around or angling towards them.

“What?” Harry asked, and the poor boy looked like everything was falling apart around him. He looked at Sirius, hurt clear on his face.

Sirius winced, decidedly ignoring the looks James and Lily and- gods, everyone but Remus were giving him. “Albus thought it was a good idea,” he defended, and it sounded weak, even to him.

Fortunately, Remus came to his rescue. “There wasn’t much point in correcting everyone when both of you were dead.”

“Wait,” Lily said, “so you’re telling me that you two raised Harry and just- what, never told him the truth?”

“Let’s talk about this later,” Sirius said loudly, motioning for the people in front of them to start walking again. Slowly, they did, but there were numerous back glances by Harry, his friends, and some of the members of the Order. It was beyond clear that everyone wanted to know what the fuck was going on, but thankfully they didn’t ask. Yet.

Lily, for her part, looked disgruntled at not being able to get answers and getting them now.

“Black!” Moody called from the front. “Go ahead so the Ministry doesn’t see you here.”

Sirius hesitated, looking at James. “Why-” James started, but stopped when Sirius shook his head.

“I’ll keep an eye on him for you,” Remus said.

Sirius nodded in thanks at him and gave James a tight hug, then ducked into the floo before he could attach himself to James and never let go like he wanted.

Everyone was brought back to Grimmauld Place, but Sirius suspected that was because James had kicked up a fuss at the idea of not immediately seeing him. Molly had certainly tried to usher everyone back to the Burrow after ‘such a traumatic experience’ and- Gods. Sirius shook his head and clasped his hands together tightly so he wouldn’t reach for a drink. Harry was here, and that, alone, was enough reason to keep the bottle in the cupboard. James being alive again negated his most common reason for drinking anyway. He didn’t need to numb the pain of loss when James wasn’t lost.

Sirius surveyed everyone that streamed into the large dining area. Molly was here now– which was not something Sirius was thrilled about– Alastor wasn’t, and neither was Kingsley or Tonks. Great. Just Molly, Remus, and a bunch of teenagers– and James and Lily, but they didn’t really count because of course they were here.

“So?” he asked, knowing that James (and Remus) would know what he was asking.

“Me and Lily are officially alive!” James said, throwing himself in the chair beside Sirius, scooting it closer, and putting his arm around Sirius’s shoulders. “Well, not yet. They’re officially considering saying we’re alive, but it’s just some bullshit thing about testing our cores tomorrow and then we’re alive! With heartbeats and wands and all that rot. Albus said he’d be by when he could.”

“James,” Lily said sternly. “Language.”

“He’s fifteen, not one, Lils. Believe me, he’s fine.”

She put her hands on her hips indicating that from where she was standing, it was definitely not fine.

“I curse in front of him,” Sirius added helpfully. Of course, all that did was make her glare at both of them, though that was hardly new.

Molly made a loud, dismissive noise, turning their heads her direction. Except Sirius and Remus, the former keeping his eyes on the grain of the table in front of him, and the latter still staring at Lily like he couldn’t believe she was there.

James raised an eyebrow. “Something you want to say Molly?”

“Just that I’m not sure you should trust the raising of Harry to someone like him,” Molly said, her voice deceptively light, like she wasn’t jabbing at Sirius’s weak point.

“‘Someone like him’?” James repeated, his voice gone dangerous, a fact she didn’t seem to pick up.

“James,” Sirius tried, but Molly spoke over him.

“He’s a wanted criminal, he’s in no position to be raising a child with that status and whatever effects Azkaban had on him. I know he’s innocent, but he’s still not the sort of person Harry can look up to, and he needs that! Really, James, what were you thinking naming him godfather?”

James was very carefully keeping his breath measured. “Molly. I suggest you leave before I do something everyone insists I should regret.”

The room was deadly silent. Sirius was tense in his chair. He usually fought back, told her where she could shove her opinions, but he just couldn’t tonight. James was staring at her evenly, letting her know beyond the shadow of a doubt that she had crossed a line and she had better not give him an excuse to get out of his chair.

Finally, Lily broke the silence. “Come Molly, let’s get the kids settled.”

Awkwardly, they followed her out, Ron and Hermione tugging on Harry’s hand to get him to follow. “They’ll still be here tomorrow,” she whispered. Harry hesitated a moment longer, then nodded, but came back for hugs from all of them.

“See you in the morning sprog,” Sirius said, trying to give him a smile.

Remus left alongside Lily, leaving Sirius and James in the large room by themselves. When the door swung shut, James said, “Azkaban?”

Sirius didn’t respond. He just kept looking at the table. How old is it? It had been this smooth since he was a child, and it was obviously aged. Probably some antique, one of the many throughout Grimmauld, but at least this one was harmless. It was just a table.

“Sirius. You didn’t raise Harry did you? Remus didn’t either did he.”

“No.”

James let out a long breath, resting his forehead on Sirius’s shoulder. “How long?”

“What?”

“How long were you in Azkaban?”

Sirius swallowed and just shook his head. He didn’t want to talk about this and at the moment, he refused to. “I’m knackered. Let’s just- go to bed.”

James sighed, but nodded. “Okay.” He lifted his head from Sirius’s shoulder and kissed his cheek.

Surprised, Sirius jerked away from him and to his feet on the other side of his chair.

James blinked at him, still awkwardly frozen in the position he was in before Sirius moved. “Er, sorry- is there.” He stopped, chewed on his lip, and averted his eyes. “Is there someone else?”

A harsh laugh left Sirius before he knew it was happening. “No. You surprised me is all.” He walked to him and held out a shaking hand.

James took it slowly, careful not to spook him. “Are we… sharing a bed?”

“Unless you object.”

James shook his head vigorously. “Not at all. I missed you,” he added in a whisper, and it was then that Sirius remembered. James hadn’t been able to really spend time with him in over a year, the war keeping them apart except for stolen visits here and there, and he didn’t have the luxury of thinking it was a permanent state of affairs.

Hand shaking slightly, Sirius threaded their fingers and breathed. It felt like the first real breath he’d taken since seeing Harry again, and before that it had been years.

James took in the decor as Sirius led them to where he was staying now. His eyes lingered on the door of Sirius’s childhood room, remembering times when he’d snuck in, sometimes for the night, sometimes just to get Sirius out. Why was he staying here? It was easily the most hated location in Sirius’s life and he was living here? James knew he was missing fourteen years worth of information, but how was there anything that would explain this?

Once the door was shut behind them, Sirius locked and silenced it. James was tempted to make a quip about them having some fun, but the atmosphere was too solemn for that. Instead, James wrapped his arms around Sirius. “I think I need to borrow some clothes. Resurrection didn’t give me any pyjamas.”

“D’you really need clothes?” Sirius asked, fingers plucking at the bottom of James’s shirt.

James blinked in surprise. “I didn’t think you’d be in the mood.”

“Fourteen years, love.” He slid his hands under James’s shirt and felt his stomach. Warm, warm skin that he’d practically forgotten. “Fourteen years.” He tucked his face against James’s neck and breathed him in for a long moment before kissing the skin there. “Do you still love me?” he asked shakily.

“Yes,” James said immediately. “I love you. I love you so much Sirius.” He threaded his fingers through Sirius’s hair and tilted his own head to the side to make more room for him. “Do you remember our wedding?”

“Yes,” he breathed, hands moving to James’s back. His nails marked red lines against James and he shuddered. “Tell me anyways.”

“I spent five minutes telling you how much I loved you. Then I said words are inadequate and the only reason you know how I feel is because you feel the same way.”

“Do you remember our vows? What I said?” His hands were grazing James’s body, hungry and wanting, but also savoring.

“You said I was the piece of you you couldn’t stand to lose,” he recalled quietly. “I’m sorry Siri, I’m so sorry.” He leaned back, pulling Sirius’s head from his neck. “I’m here now. Again. I’m not leaving you ever again, I swear baby, I’m with you forever now.”

“You’d better be,” he said, finally slotting their mouths together.

[vrylium]

WIP Preview

Aria/Tevos 

Premise: Aria has assembled a consortium of eventual subsidiaries in response to a lush world within asari space being greenlit for colonization, but she quickly encounters some complications from rival interests vying for the same plots of land. Coincidentally, these same rivals have challenged the asari councilor’s goals for the planet’s future, and the pair reach a mutually beneficial arrangement in countermeasure. But even when their business concludes, Aria can't stop thinking about her. Once the obsession becomes mutual, the pair are left to wonder whether it was all just another Nevos mirage - a temporary escapist fantasy in paradise - or something with longevity.

Effectively replaces the story Confidentiality. This preview is still pretty rough, skeletal, and lacking ambient detail, but it’s just to give an idea about what the story is. Also, a cameo of Parem Igrahal, but here she’s young, around 30. The most notable features of this story are the fact that Aria and Tevos are never antagonistic to each other, Liselle is a year or two younger than she was in Confidentiality, and Tevos’s character is less self-critical, but still as cautious.

I.

There was an indulgent sense of tradition in meeting on a lush world to apportion another. The matriarchy had spent the last few years echoing the potential of Ryasus, their precious emerald glistening under the mists of interminable waterfalls and giant dew-heavy aroids. In the right hands, they said, Ryasus would become a second Nevos within half a century. Its exotic vistas would attract renowned filmmakers, mountain peaks penetrating the canopies would stroke egos of business executives opening new branches, and tourists wading into the shallow crystalline oceans would rather lose themselves than turn back to shore.

Aria’s judgement of the generous optimism was it being a bit out of proportion. She only agreed with their rhetoric insofar as expansion onto that beautiful, yet undefiled planet was discussed as a symptom of corporate success, and therefore encouraged. Beyond this, all the commotion had simply inspired too many interested parties to flock to petition the asari government for permits. In consequence, the competition had considerably grown. It seemed as though every household name company in the galaxy was vying for the largest chunk of untamed tropical splendor they could get their hands on.

The elevator Aria and her two bodyguards stepped into was a cuboidal space, strictly glass on every side save for the floor and the wall attached to the lifting mechanism that sent it crawling up the spine of the tower hugging the cliffside. It was commodious enough to transport a dozen individuals comfortably, and was furnished with a square arrangement of low sofas and palmed plants in each corner.

Aria led her guards to the furthermost window. While they faced the room, Aria stood gazing out at the river-cloven forests of Nevos, to where its green was engulfed by hazy gold at the horizon. She could see one wing of the building curving along with the cliff at her left; countless glinting windows on stratified white.  

She could also faintly see reflected in the glass the overwhelmingly asari population periodically entering and exiting during their ascent. Tourists and businesspeople alike. But upon noticing the surly batarian and asari accompanying Aria’s mysterious figure, they would fixate on the identity of their charge. Aria’s civilian apparel, however expensive and expertly tailored, kept them guessing. None could divorce her from the powerful iconography she had established, and none dared approach her for a better look.

After a few minutes, Aria saw a few matriarchs superimpose themselves on the idyllic scenery. They were looking at her, saying nothing aloud for fear of being overheard, but Aria could tell they recognized her. She fitted her hands on her hips, content to ignore them.

Aria was not enchanted by their dreams of paradise. She dreamed not of velvety flowers and beaches, but of rich, dark soil. She dreamed of fragrant batarian tobacco fields stretching on for endless kilometers, to be one day rolled into a new brand of luxury cigars with whom she would partner.

II.

“So, Aria.” Parem rested her cigar against her plate and folded her hands together on the table. “Be honest with me. Do you really think our people are going to be able to woo the matriarch panel?”

Aria exhaled irately. “They’d damn well better.”

“The girl Senaya doesn’t have the stomach for tobacco. She takes no interest in it. And [X] is afraid of his wife. Afraid of her!”

“I know.”

“[Y]’s going to have his partnership within several years when he expires,” said the batarian woman. “Is that really who we want to work with? Maybe we should do something.”

“We can fire her and keep her from taking administrative actions, but we can’t take away her partnership. We’d have to buy her out of it, and that’s only if she’s willing to sell.”

“Don’t we have a more... traditional option of solving this problem?”

Aria subtly shook her head. “It’s not that easy here. The Republics are liable to investigate something like that. And how much effort are we willing to put in to keep it looking clean?”

“Getting rid of her may be worth any cost. You’ll see, Aria, once she’s rotting us from the inside.” 

[...]

“I’ve been receiving requests from suitors,” said Parem.

“Anyone you like?”

“None. I hate looking at their faces. They only remind me of people like that salarian who would surrender his life work to the woman he doesn’t even sleep with. I keep wondering, what if I mistakenly choose an insect like him? It will be a colossal waste of my time. I can have sex with as many strong and beautiful men as I want without having to marry them. They only thing they have ever offered me that I cannot obtain myself is children, and still, I do not need to be married for that.”

“Well, I think you’ve got the right idea about things. You seem sure of what you want.” She crossed her legs beneath the table. Nearby, their personal security dealt another hand of cards.

Parem slowly nodded. Then a curiosity struck her, but it was charged with dissatisfaction when she asked, “I know you usually prefer the company of women, but have you ever slept with a batarian man, Aria?”

“Are we that familiar now?”

“Humor me, please.”

Aria turned away to face the other tables arranged across the balcony, her expression neutral and unchanging as she considered her answer. There was a wind chime mounted above the door leading back into the warmly-lit restaurant, softly ringing. “I might have.”

“They’re selfish. Greedy. They touch you like they touch a marinated roast.”

Aria’s shoulders shook with soundless amusement. With a lingering smile, she replied, “Then I guess I’m lucky,” and lowered a hand to roll the cigar’s head of ashes against the side of her plate.

III.

“I’m afraid you’re occupying my seat.”

The crispness of the northern Thessian accent, along with its mindful elocution and lack of hostility despite the declared grievance, nearly annoyed Aria. She neglected to afford the stranger so much as a glance, and instead dismissed her with a flat, “Move along.”

“I need to ask you to relocate.”

The persistence riled her. “And who the hell is asking?" When Aria at last regarded her harasser in contempt, she found a face embellished by stark white tattoos and austere cheekbones only made amiable by the serene set of her eyes. She was carrying a portfolio.

“Well, would it impress upon your opinion at all to know the asari councilor is asking?”

Aria settled on a passing insult before turning back to the stage where the panel was assembling. “I think Idras would turn over in her grave if she knew about the state of her office.” 

“Idras would have never granted someone like you a visa,” said the councilor. “I see you’ve made good use of the referendum I introduced.”

“Yet I still can’t own land.”

“A necessary compromise.” Accepting the fact that Aria was as immovable as a ton of stone, she sat down with a single seat between them. “Asari space is the collective inheritance of our people, and all of asari descent should have easier access to our homeworlds regardless of citizenship. At the collateral expense of inviting people like yourself - I believe only due to your high profile mitigating your risk factor - I think we’ve done a great thing. But you raise an interesting point. Coincidentally, your landowning ability has been the topic of multiple conversations this morning.”

For a time, Aria said nothing. 

The councilor continued, “The matriarchs are trying to figure out which jockeys you’ve bet on, so to speak.”

“And I’m supposed to thank you and tell you what I’m doing?” She scoffed.

“I don’t expect you to. I’m only sharing what I’ve heard.”

“Trying to make friends?”

“Avoiding making enemies, rather.”

[...]

Tevos analyzed the region Aria highlighted in the face of her datapad. “Unfortunately,” she said, “there are multiple groups interested in that area. Most notably, a mining corporation. Preliminary surveys have documented a large deposit of palladium less than a kilometer beneath the surface. Despite the inevitable environmental damages, extracting the ore is tempting to the panel because of the tax revenue it would generate.” 

“Shit,” Aria hissed. “Are you serious? We’re not already out of the race, are we?”

“It appears to be the case. They’re a behemoth. They will easily eclipse any smaller outfit by name alone. If I were you I would advise my associates to prioritize other plots of land.”

“I can’t fucking believe this... We’re interested in that area specifically for its soil quality. There’s nothing else like it on that world - it’s an integral part of our branding and if we can’t get that land, we’re dead in the water.”

“If it’s any consolation, most of the matriarchy are also displeased about the probable outcome. They wanted to keep the planet pristine for tourism and ecological studies. The way this is headed, another Nevos isn’t looking very likely.”

Aria lifted a hand to rub at her temples. While she had made a point of staying for the land petitions, she had only done so as a formality in good faith for Parem’s cousin. Actually needing to take initiative to solve a problem of this scope would delay her departure by at least two or three days, and with a baby at home and her station led by her eccentric lieutenants, it was not an ideal outcome.

IV.

[In a smaller auction house in the larger building]

After placing her exorbitant bid in the console beneath the twisting marble sculpture, Aria turned to find amused incredulity dashed across the councilor’s features. Her arms were folded across her middle and a hand concealed part of the lower half of her face, as if to hide her expression. 

“Do you even have a use for it?” Tevos asked her.

“Maybe I’m just an avid patron.”

She shook her head at her, glancing back to the sculpture.

“I'm going to take you to dinner,” Aria said. “Belaisa at seven.”

Despite her supreme confidence, the moment Tevos seemed to process the offer, the jovial climate between them soured and became grim. 

“Aria, I appreciate the offer, but - ”

“But?”

“I don’t think it would be appropriate.”

Aria was not yet discouraged. “Then I’ll send over a bottle of something to your room. Tell me where you’re staying.”

“I’m not giving you my room number,” Tevos replied. A vein of humor was present in her tone, but it was overshadowed by remorse. “Listen to me for a moment. The matriarchy expressed their... concerns about me speaking with you.”

“I’m sure they understand that you’re entitled to your own personal decisions.”

“Yes, but, even if our interactions are innocuous, it’s not good publicity if people start taking notice. I’m a councilor, Aria. Professionalism always comes before my personal desires. And what we did at the petition toed the line enough; although the matriarchy is pleased, they want no more of it. No more of... you. Especially if it can be avoided. You’re watched, you realize. We watch everyone in the galaxy of note, and you in particular make them very nervous.”

“And they should be nervous,” Aria asserted. “But not about what you do.”

They were quiet for a time. Aria hoped they had kept their volume low enough to not be overheard by both their personal security, who they had left at the entrance of the auction gallery, always within sight.

Tevos reached into her coat’s interior pocket to produce a small paper notepad and attached pen. She wrote something down, presented it to Aria, and said barely above a whisper, “I'd like you to call me tonight.”

She accepted the paper and gleaned what it contained: a long string of characters Aria recognized as the access to a well-encrypted line. But before Aria could lift her gaze and provocatively compliment her decision, Tevos spoke again in warning.

“If you ask why, I may suddenly regain my senses and reconsider.” She stepped away from her once, then altogether as she retreated toward the exit, only delaying to say, “Goodnight,” over her shoulder.