#some of these are quite good i might upscale and paint over them.....

[1071png]

i really wanted to do fill out this template ^.^

[ramp-it-up]

Anything and Everything

Pairing: Chris Evans x Reader

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. RPF  Read at your own risk.

SMUT, Angst, long distance relationship issues, doting husband, massages, employer/employee relationship, the notion of cheating, talk of happy endings, cursing, graphic sex, a sweet surprise, and Princess behavior. 😉———————

As soon as you ended the sexy Facetime call with your husband, you burst into tears. It was common lately, with him being gone for over a month and under the circumstances, but he never knew.

Until he decided to call you right back because he missed you so much.

You tried to keep it together when you answered the call, but he knew you better than that.

“Hey, Princess. Are you crying?”

He sounded so earnest that you couldn’t hide it any more. You were snuffling and unable to control the sobs shaking your body. 

It tore him apart not being able to be there to comfort and hold you. Although he had some idea, he asked anyway.

“What’s wrong babe?”

You let out all of your words.

“I, I, I  just miss you so much. It’s so hard with you gone and not being here to talk to and hold me and run out to get me food and, and I don’t want electronic sex or a vibrator or my fingers or a dildo. I want your mouth and your hands and your dick.”

You took a second to breathe. “And I know I have that silicone replica of you but it's cold and not warm and alive and I just want you and your warm arms and your huge chest and your beating heart and a forehead kiss...”

You cried harder thinking of how much of a cry-baby you sounded.  You didn’t normally do this, but the separation was getting to be too much.

You sobbed while he tried to calm you down. He would give you the world to make you happy. Once you were able to listen, he spoke in soothing tones. 

“Listen Princess, I’m going to arrange something to make you feel better. I know you’ve been missing me…”

You were smiling by the time you got off the phone, your man always able to make you feel better.

Two days later, a huge box with the massage table arrived at the house. Workers came to set up one of the spare rooms for a spa/wellness room, and you were not allowed to see it until the appointed day.  

You did clock them bringing in the massage table, a counter/workspace/storage, a ton of essential oils and supplies, and an upscale extra wide sofa with lots of pillows. 

You were excited and distracted from your lonliness, and you couldn’t wait to see it.  

You talked about your in-home massage appointment excitedly every time you spoke with your husband.  He beamed to know that he was able to bring the spark of happiness back to your voice.

“This is going to be good for you, try this massage therapist out, we might keep them on staff indefinitely.”

You lit up again.  “You mean, I can have my own live-in massage therapist?” You smirked.  “What did I do to deserve this?”

Your husband grinned back at you through the camera and proceeded to tell you everything that made you Queen in his eyes.

-------

Almost a week later, you entered the dimly lit room, ensconced in your fluffy terry cloth robe. There was soft music playing.

The soft green tones of the paint and the bamboo floor looked amazing.  You took off your slippers and realized that the floor was heated.  You grinned wide. 

The massage table was set up and waiting as you took in the room and noticed all the details. There was a soft knock at the door and you spoke.

“Come in.”  You didn’t know why, but you were full of anticipation. 

The massage therapist came in and your eyes locked for a second. There was a sudden electricity in the room, but then he averted his eyes and stood beside the table, eyes forward, back straight, almost at attention.

You gave him the once over, he was tall, broad shouldered, very well built, and extremely handsome. 

His dark hair and beard were well manicured and his large hands clasped behind him. That allowed you to see his lean form, his flat stomach and the large hump in his pants. 

You raised your eyebrow. This man was packing. You smirked. You couldn’t see his eyes, as they were downcast, so you went and stood in front of him.  

You realized that his blue scrubs matched his eyes and you smiled as he gazed down at you.

His perfect pink lips parted and you gazed at them a moment too long. There was a hint of a smile, and then it vanished. You stepped back.

You took him in from his broad, muscular shoulders, to his wide chest and his slim waist and hips.

He shifted and brought his hands to rest in front of him, and you walked around him and got a glimpse of his ass. There were no flaws.

“What is your name?”

“Robert, ma’am.”  

His curt reply came with just a glance at you, and you proceeded toward the counter, setting down your iced lemon water.

Your husband knew what you liked. And he delivered. Today would be just what you needed to relax.  

You started to untie your robe, still facing the counter, and when you started shrugging out of your robe, Robert cleared his throat.  You stopped and looked at him over your exposed shoulder.

His eyes were on you, but he raised his hand toward the table. 

“I will step out for a moment to allow you to disrobe and get situated. Start off face down. Please cover yourself with the sheet and I’ll be back in.’

You nodded your head at him.  And smiled. He was quite handsome.

He closed the door and you fully stepped out of your robe, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door, then you situated yourself on the table, placing the sheet over you, covering your back and leaving your arms out. You put your face into the headrest and relaxed.  

Robert came back in, and you heard him going to the counter, opening doors and moving things around.

“Is the table a suitable temperature, ma’am?”

The heated table had been a nice surprise when you lay down. Another plus for hubby.

“Yes, it’s heavenly, thank you Robert.” You smiled and snuggled into the cushioned table.

He moved back to the counter, and then came and placed his hands under the headrest so that you could inhale the scent of a spicy oil on his hands.

“Peppermint oil, ma’am. Your husband wants you to be sure that you can breathe well.” 

You smirked into the cushion.

“Does he now?”

“Yes ma’am. Those were his instructions.”

You detected no humor, no sarcasm in his voice, just a matter-of-fact tone.  You inhaled deeply, staring at his thick fingers through the headrest, wiggling at the thrill you got between your legs. 

You knew very well why your husband wanted your nasal passages to be clear. You couldn’t wait for him to control your breathing with his hand or his cock again.

He moved away again and then came back, placing his hands on your shoulders and pressed a little, as if getting you used to his touch.

His hands were warm, and strong, but gentle. His fingers trailed softly, but firmly up your neck, stopping just below your hairline to your hair, which was piled on top of your hair in a very messy bun.

“Can I touch your hair, ma’am? Scalp massage.”

You nodded, smiling at him asking permission. “Yes, that’s fine.”

He threaded his fingers into your dense curls and into your scalp and started massaging, drawing a long shuddering breath from you. Your bun was coming loose, but you didn’t care.  It was so fucking relaxing.

The peppermint oil on his fingers made your scalp tingle and your back arch just a tiny bit.  If Robert noticed, he didn’t say anything.

“Your hair is beautiful, ma’am.”  His voice made you shudder and your nipples peaked.  

“Thank you.” Your voice was barely audible.  

Robert removed your hair tie, and smoothed your hair forward above you.

You thought of how often your husband insisted on your hair being loose during love making, and you obliged.

He loved to grab it, especially when he hit it from the back. You loved when he did that. And you loved him. You’d missed his touch.

“Do you mind if I sit, ma’am?”

“Oh no, I’m sure standing on your feet all day must be exhausting.”

Robert didn’t reply, he just grabbed the rolling stool nearby and sat at your head, rolling his legs under the headrest.  You could see the muscular thighs in his scrubs when you opened your eyes halfway.

Upon opening them further, you could clearly make out Robert’s dick print.  He was well endowed, and the tip of his member was deliciously thick. He wasn’t wearing underwear.

Now this was a development. You licked your lips and a drop of your saliva landed on his pants, right next to his dick print.  He stopped massaging your scalp for a second.

“Ummmm, sorry.  Lying face down is kind of awkward.”  You giggled as he cleared his throat.

You sighed as Robert finished up the scalp massage and went to get some more oil.

“Sweet almond oil, ma’am. Your favorite?”

You couldn’t stop smiling.  Your husband had thought of everything.

“Yes.”

He began to work on your shoulders while still standing at your head, and he bent over you as his hands traveled down your back. HIs fingers grazed the sides of your breasts, causing goosebumps to rise on your skin.

He moved nearer you, as he stretched his arms to reach the top of your sheet covered ass, long fingers almost cupping it, making you squirm a little. 

“Sorry ma’am.  Are you uncomfortable?’

He straightened up and there was something in his tone that you heard, but that you didn’t care to decipher at the moment.

“No, no. I’m good.” 

And you hummed softly in your throat, wiggling your ass a little. That was always the signal for your husband to slap it. And if he were here, he would have. You’d missed that for the past 5 weeks he’d been away working.

Robert ran his hands slowly down your back again and this time grabbed lightly with his fingers as they retreated, gently pulling your ass cheeks apart.

The sound of your slick was evident, and a little embarrassing.  This man had made you wet.

He did it again, and if you didn’t know any better, it was to hear that sound again. You were trying to compose yourself when something hard nudged you in the head.

It couldn’t be. You lifted your head a little bit and came face to face with Robert’s blue scrub covered hard on. You smirked at it and licked your lips.

“It’s okay ma’am. Just relax.”

“Are you uncomfortable, Robert?”  

You echoed his question from earlier. You twisted your neck and looked up at him. Damn, he looked good gazing down at you.

“I’m good, ma’am. Let’s continue. Your husband is insistent that we finish.”

“Hmmmmmm.” You pursed your lips and put your head back in the headrest as he moved around to the side of you.

He massaged your shoulders and pressed down either side of your spine to your hips, stopping there and adjusting the sheet over your ass. He shook it out, lifting it high enough that he might have gotten a glimpse if he had been paying attention.  

But he was a professional, right?

He continued smoothing his hands down your legs, stopping at your feet and squeezing. 

“What kind of pressure, ma’am?”  He was awaiting further instruction.

“I like it hard and deep.” 

There was a noticeable pause, and Robert cleared his throat. You smiled down at the floor. 

“Deep tissue massages are everything.  Can you accommodate that Robert?”

He quickly replied. “Of course, ma’am.”  He situated the sheet so that your right foot was out. “Your husband told me to give you anything and everything you wanted.”

“Oh?”

He started massaging your foot, hitting all the pressure points with just the right way.

“Ohhhhhhhh! That feels good.”

He just hummed a response.  You relaxed even more, reveling in the human touch on your body that you had missed for so long.  He worked on both feet and calves, and you were almost putty on the table.

His hands moved up to your thighs, kneading and squeezing your muscles firmly.  He inched his way up your thighs to your ass, his fingers moving near your cunt.  He got oh so close to your lips, but never crossed the line. You were beginning to feel some kind of way.

“Do you talk, Robert?”

“If you need me too, ma’am. What do you want to talk about?”

“Do your clients ever…. ask you to do things…” 

“You mean, switch pressures? Use hot stones?….” 

If you knew him better, you would say he was intentionally misunderstanding.

You cleared your throat. ”I mean, do you ever give… happy endings?”

Another pause. “Ah.”  He continued up and down your legs with long, firm strokes.

“I’ve never had a client I would risk it all for.”  He never stopped moving his fingers up and down your legs, fingers almost giving you pleasure. “Until…”

“Until…?”

He cleared his throat again. “What did you want to talk about ma’am?”

He was intentionally evading.  You put the pieces together and you came to a conclusion.

You raised your hips a little and arched your back. Your ass was in position for him to easily go further if he wanted, and you knew he could see the outline of it under the sheet. Your man said it was the most gorgeous ass he’d ever seen.

Robert coughed to cover a moan. At least that’s what you imagined. 

“I need you to go further, Robert. Take off the sheet please.”

“Ma’am?”  He didn’t sound confused.  He was asking for confirmation.

“I need a deep tissue internal massage, Robert.”

The prospect of having this gorgeous man do things to you was making you soaked. 

“I’m already lubricated, you won’t need any more oil. I’m soaked actually.”

This time he didn’t cover his moan, he just pulled the sheet off and let it slide to the floor.

“Y-you’re beautiful Ma’am.  But what would your husband say?”

You turned your head around to witness Robert staring at your exposed cunt, his hands inches away from feeling all your glory.  He was licking his lips.  Then, his blue eyes met your brown ones. You arched your back some more and his eyes were drawn back to your most private places.

“Didn’t he tell you to give me anything and everything I wanted?”  

He moved his fingers a millimeter, and then looked back into your eyes. 

“Do your job, Robert.” 

You tried to keep the bitchiness out of your voice, but it was hard.  You wondered if he was still hard.

Robert looked back at it and moved his hands up, one thumb gently grazing the slick on the lips down there, pushing the viscous liquid around your fat pussy.  

He teased you, looking between what his thumb was doing and your face, as your eyes were halfway closed and your mouth was open, panting for your life.  He pushed in a little deeper inside you, not entering you fully, but just enough so your lips swallowed his thumb.  

He rubbed around the entrance to your cunt while holding your hips back with his other hand on your ass cheek.  You were trying to throw it back on his hand. It had been so fucking long since someone else had touched you.

He pulled his thumb out suddenly and tasted it, putting it in his mouth and sucking like a baby.  HIs eyes closed for a second, shook his head and then his eyes blazed at you.

“You taste so good ma’am.” 

He moved his hands back up to your apex and you expected him to put his fingers inside you again, but you yelped when he pulled you back and your ass met his face.

“Robert! Oh my! Oh shit. Yes!”

Robert was going to town. He licked his thick, wide tongue up your folds from your clit to your ass and back down again, swirling at each end.

“Fuck!” 

Robert had you impaled on his face while his strong hands gripped your thighs. He hummed, causing an electric shock to jolt up your spine.  You cried out again.

Then he started slurping your juices, and sucking your clit, stretching it out from between your lips with his own.  He slurped it between his lips and the sound was obscene enough to make you get there quickly.

He started humming again when you started to quiver, and he worked his head back and forth, taking your clit with him. He worked it up and down, back and forth until the coil of pressure in your belly contracted and snapped, delivering your juices to this man’s face.

Your orgasm was hard and relatively fast.  He smiled, watching you spasm when he pulled back. 

“Look at that delicious cream.  Your husband is a lucky man, Ma’am.”

He held you open so he could watch your arousal and cum drip down your folds. You watched it drip down his beard. You twitched at the sight. 

He shook his head again, grabbing a towel from the counter, wiping his face and washing his hands in the sink. You thought you saw a smile.

You were unable to speak for a minute.  He came around to your side and gazed down at you, smile gone, placing his hand on your shoulder and looking deep into your eyes.

“Are you ok, ma’am?”  You nodded yes, and then he made a turning motion with his hand.  “Turn onto your back.”

You obeyed, not thinking too hard about what was happening. You were beneath him, exposed. Watching him. You noticed that he was indeed still hard, and even bigger than you’d peeped earlier. You reached for him and he moved away.

“I’m here to serve you, ma’am.”

You put your hand back down to your side and moved your head to watch him go get the bottle of almond oil and come back to your side.

He raised the bottle above your breastbone and began to pour a thin drizzle down your body, ending with him dripping it slowly and methodically on your clit.  You were still sensitive, and the stimulation made you throb anew.

He finally stopped and used both hands to smooth the oil into your skin, his left hand stroking it into your chest and spreading it to your breasts, grabbing your fullness and pulling your nipples through his fingers firmly, but gently, making you wet all over again.  Your breasts were very sensitive.

“You are so, so beautiful ma’am. “ 

He leaned down and used his tongue on your nipples, swirling and lightly biting. When he started suckling, your pussy clenched, and as if sensing that, he then used his middle finger flat on your stomach and smoothed the oil downward toward your pussy, parting your still throbbing lips again.

He played with you lengthwise, the sloshing sound of your wetness simultaneously embarrassing and erotic. You were at the brink immediately, especially when he pushed his finger inside you and curled it.

“Ohhhh.  Feels so fucking good Robert.”

At that, he inserted another finger, and then another, until your cunt was stuffed full of his thick fingers and you were stretching out nicely around them. You were not disguising your moans or your desire for him. 

You didn’t know exactly what you wanted, but you wanted what he was giving. He worked you toward your next orgasm swiftly, squeezing and flicking your slippery tits, looking up and down your body appreciatively.

You turned your head toward his crotch, which was situated near your head. You looked up at him. He met your gaze. He knew what you wanted. You now held him captive to your wants.

“Anything and everything Robert. Stuff your cock in my mouth while I cum.”

His reserve snapped at your comment and he couldn’t help but groan. He kept fingering your cunt while he quickly undid his scrub pants with his other hand and pulled them down so his cock could spring free. You managed to catch it before it slapped his stomach and you tugged him toward you, your mouth wide open.

You quickly licked your lips as he pushed it toward you, and you gladly accepted the wide organ, his girth almost causing you to split your lip around him.  His movements at your clit turned into circles as he pushed deeper into your throat.

“Now, just relax ma’am. I know it’s a lot.” 

He smirked down at you as you relaxed your throat and tried to breathe around him.  That peppermint oil really helped open your nasal passages, but you still spluttered as he filled your throat, and saliva and tears wet your face. You knew your throat would be sore later.

He pulled out and you choked and gasped for air for a bit before he tapped his dick on your mouth and you opened up again.

Your face was a mess but still beautiful. He didn’t push as deep this time, allowing you the space to swirl your tongue around his fat tip and down the vein underside of his cock.

The circles he was drawing on your clit were more insistent now, and you came yet again, moaning around his cock, sending vibrations up his back this time. He threw his head back and moaned, all the while managing to keep you from running from this orgasm with his hand.  

“Fuck!  Ma’am. You’re very good at that. Too good.”

He pulsed a little into your mouth before he pulled out, making your mouth pop off of his thick head loudly. You whined because you wanted him to come down your throat.

“You wanted everything, ma’am?”  

You caught his meaning as he moved around toward the foot of the table. He took his pants all the way off and stripped off his shirt. Your eyes took in his tattooed torso as he stroked his cock, knowing full well that you were watching him. Damn, he was so beautiful.

Then, he stood at the end of the table, rubbing up your legs to the apex of your thighs, which he pulled down so that your ass was almost hanging down off the table. He took himself in hand again and swiped his cock up and down your cunt, teasing as you whined for him.

“Each and every part of you is so beautiful ma’am.”

He stopped at your hole and pushed just the tip in and then pulled it back out, making you mad.  

“Nnnnnnhhh.”  You keened.  

“I want to wreck this beautiful pussy, ma’am. Want to feel you squeeze my dick until I paint your walls white with my seed. It will look so beautiful. We look so good together, see.”

You leaned up on your elbows so that you could observe. 

“Take it, it’s yours…”

You were open-mouthed panting, and although you didn’t think you could get any wetter, you were.

“But what would your husband say?”  He was smirking at you now.

“Anything. Everything.”

He pushed back into you, a little more this time, and you thought he would bottom out, so you threw your head back in ecstasy, but he pulled back again, causing you to snap your head up and glare at him.

“Please, it’s been so long for me.”  

Robert was panting now.  “Me too.”

Your eyes found his as he pushed inside you, this time moving slowly toward his goal.  

“You promise?” 

He felt so good stretching you out.  No fingers, no dildo, nothing could compare to him.

His hips stuttered as he stuffed you full.

“I’ve only had my hand for over a month. Nothing, no one comes close to this.”  He opened his mouth and outright panted, jaw slacked and eyes glazed.

He looked down at where you were joined together. 

“It really is magnificent.” He gasped at the sensations of you. Liquid satin. “Fuck, you aways feel so fucking good wrapped around me.”

He pushed both thighs up to your face and he started fucking you hard. You pussy was pulling him in deeper.

“I was planning on flipping you over, fuck… and… and hitting it from behind...shit!”

You started palming your own breasts and pulling your nipples while moaning wantonly. It was the best erotic movie he’d ever seen.

“Gat damnit…”

He puffed, watching what you were doing. His hips were getting off-rhythm and he shook his head to clear it. 

“But I just had to bend you in half and fuck the shit out of you.” He groaned, completely lost in the sauce. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

He reached up, licked his thumb and moved it to your clit, hitting impossibly deeper with each thrust.

“Cum for me one more time Princess.”

It had been so long since you heard that command in person.  You let go with abandon.

“Fuck! Yes Mr.Evans!”  You came again, gushing all over him. 

“Yes, baby, yessssss.”

Chris looked down and licked his lips.  “I’ve been wanting to feel this for forever.” He pulsed and came and mingled his liquid with yours.

He released your thighs and massaged them as he stared down at you, smiling as you came back to earth.

You looked at him. “Hi.”

“Hi.”  He winked and leaned over to give you a good kiss.  

“Welcome home, Baby.” You beamed up into his eyes.

“What a welcome….”

He grunted as he pulled out of you and you watched as he grabbed a towel and turned on the hot water, soaking some in the basin while taking one and cleaning himself up.  

Then, he grabbed his scrub pants, put them back on and brought a warm towel to clean you up gingerly. There was only love in his eyes as he completed the most intimate of acts. 

When he was done, he picked you up bridal style and moved you over to the sofa, arranging the pillows to cradle you as he crawled between your legs again. He sighed deeply, finally home.

You held him as he laid his head on your breasts, playing with his hair.  

“I missed you so much.”  You were so happy that your husband was finally home. 

“Mmmmm. You know I missed you too.”  He looked up at you, blue eyes large.  “Are you ok?  I didn’t hurt you did I?” 

He looked down at your body, and placed his large hand on your abdomen, beaming down at it. 

“How are you? How’s the little one? You look gorgeous. I can tell your body is changing already.” 

It was the same thing he asked every day over the phone, but in person, it hit different. The felt a lump in your throat.

“We’re great.  I can’t feel the baby yet, so I’m glad you’re home before I do.”

You were so afraid Chris was going to miss the major milestones of your pregnancy, but so far he’d only missed some faint morning sickness and you sleeping all the time.

You were nine weeks pregnant. You and Chris found out that you were four weeks along right before he left to film in Romania.  That set you off on an over-emotional rollercoaster that he tried to staunch from 5,000 miles away.

“You’re gonna have to pry me off of you until after the baby comes, and probably every day after that.” Chris looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. And you were. “Wherever you go, I go, and vice versa.”

You started to cry, because you loved this man so much. Or maybe it was because of hormones.  Chris lovingly kissed your tears away.

“I love my present, this room, the decor, the oils.  And especially my massage therapist. I might have to bring Robert on staff permanently at the Evans household. He’s fine as hell…” 

Your tears had turned to a sultry look. He chuckled at your mood swing.

“I almost broke character so many times, from the first time I looked in your eyes, to when I saw your ass under that sheet, and when I finally touched you.”  

Chris took a deep breath and kissed your collarbone, then laughed. 

“I can’t believe you drooled on my pants. That was a great test of my acting skills.”

You laughed with him.  “Well, you got skills, baby. You’re a great actor. It was a great experience. Say, did you ever do adult film?”  

Chris raised his eyebrows at you.  “The only ‘adult films’ that I’ve ever done are in a google drive that only you have the password to...”

“Don’t forget IG, when…” Chris started tickling you to get you to shut up.

After a few minutes of laughing and talking and getting reacquainted, your eyes started getting heavy. The excitement of your reunion, combined with great sex, and first trimester pregnancy, was about to do you in.

Chris picked you up and carried you down the hall to your master suite.  You loved that he was so much bigger than you. 

You snuggled his neck and started playfully biting him. His little moans and the slight swelling of his dick against your thigh as he carried you told you he wasn’t playing.

“Don’t start anything you can’t finish right now, Mrs. Evans. I can tell you’re tired.”  He lay you on the bed and you got under the covers, warm and happy. 

“What do you want right now? Food? Sleep?.....Anything else?”

He stood at the side of the bed, blue scrubs slung low on his hips, hair messed up. His blue eyes were blazing, his abs on point and the trail of soft dark hair on his stomach was pointing to happiness. 

You watched him as he subtly flexed for you. You realized that you were getting moist again. And judging from his smile, Chris realized it as well. 

You bit your lip and looked him up and down.

“I want all of that.” 

You pointed to him, circling your finger around his form.

“Everything.”

You giggled as Chris moved to give you whatever you wanted.

————————-

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[kestrelvylbrand]

FFXIV Write 2: Bolt

Master List (Coming Soon)

“You’re killing me with these prices!” Kestrel sighed dramatically. The store owner did not look impressed. She was a middle-aged elezen woman, her iron-grey hair tied up into a neat bun. A pair of half-moon spectacles perched halfway down on her narrow nose. Her clothes were immaculate, as one might expect from an upscale store in Ishgard.

“These are newly imported from Radz-at-han,” she said with a sniff, pushing the glasses further up her nose so she could look Kestrel up and down. Kestrel struck a pose, then leaned sideways against the table with the fabrics rolled out. The conclusion of the woman’s examination clearly didn’t come out in Kestrel’s favor.

“They are handmade, very exquisite. I try not to judge a book by its cover…” She tilted her head, giving Kestrel another look. “... But if the price is too high for you, I am sure we can find something more in your range.”

The woman’s tone had softened slightly, perhaps at Kestrel’s expression. “I have some rather lovely organza, how does mauve sound?” She left the bolt of clothes on the table as she turned to find the mauve organza. Kestrel played idly with one of the pearls of the delicate fabric that had caught her eye from outside the store. It was a delicate, translucent fabric, fading from soft blue into a deep purple, like the sky right after the sun has set, before it truly gets dark. Pearls of various sizes dotted the fabric like stars. She didn’t usually pay much attention to fabrics but this one, this one had caught her attention immediately when she passed by.

She flicked one of the pearls, then smoothed out a fold with a defeated expression. Normally, she would not have hesitated to just grab the cloth and bolt, and when the shopkeeper had first eyed her with that hawkish, disdainful expression Kestrel knew all to well, that was exactly what she had planned to do. But now, another feeling crept in, keeping her nailed to the floor as the woman fussed over various fabrics. Was it guilt? Despite her initial impression, the woman had not turned Kestrel away at the door, and had in fact barely hesitated to bring the bolt of pearl-studded fabric out to show her, despite the fact that Kestrel knew it was all too clear she didn’t have the kind of money one would need for this kind of store. And now, she was trying her best to find something else, something just as good, even if she wasn’t quite succeeding. The old woman turned around with a few bolts of fabrics in her arms, the mauve organza, a soft, cream colored fabric that looked somewhat silken texture. A spring green fabric with a delicate white pattern. She placed them all on the table next to the blue fabric. Kestrel inspected them. They all looked nice enough, and she honestly didn’t know much about this stuff anyway. She could patch a shirt if she needed to, or maybe hem a pair of paints, but that was about as far as her skill with a needle went. The real artist was… 

Without even thinking, her hand had moved from the green fabric back to the blue. The woman sent her a sympathetic look. “Do you need it for something special?” she asked, her eyes once again inspecting Kestrel’s attire. From the bowler hat to the suspenders, to the worn, thigh-high boots, Kestrel wasn’t unstylish, but “delicate” and “pretty” was probably not words anyone would use to describe her, unlike the fabric she seemed so taken with. Kestrel glanced at the woman and pulled her hand back with a small sheepish nod. “Yeah, just a gift,” she mumbled with an apologetic smile. Why did she feel so awkward? The woman nodded. Then her brow furrowed, and with a surprising speed, she reached out and snatched Kestrel’s wrist, turning it over in her hand. Kestrel barely had time to react as the woman pushed the sleeve up to expose more of the tattoo that had peaked out under the white fabric. Crude, somewhat faded lines depicting a wolf in a stalking position appeared. The woman regarded it with an iron expression until Kestrel pulled her hand back and annoyed pulled the sleeve back down. She needed to be more careful now that she was back in Ishgard. In Limsa Lominsa or Ul’dah, the tattoo would likely have meant nothing to most people, but here, it was another story. “You run with the Ice Wolves?” she asked, her tone unreadable. Kestrel sighed. If the woman had hesitated to throw her out before, she probably wouldn’t for much longer. “Not anymore…” Kestrel’s tone was dismissive, her shoulders raising as she pushed her hands into her pocket. Maybe she should steal the fabric after all. Tonight perhaps, or another day. She blinked as the woman reached out and tilted her head up to look at her closer. “My... Graham’s sister, are you? Yes, I’ve heard of you.”

Kestrel blinked, surprised. They were well outside of the Wolves’ usual territory, and she doubted Graham would be able to demand protection money in this part of town. The woman’s expression softened. “Well, it was years ago,” she said. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen him. But you do look so much like him.” She let go of Kestrel’s face, inspecting her for a moment. “Tell you what. I owe Graham a favor, he was good to me once. Why don’t I give you a few yards of the blue fabric and you tell him to stop by for tea when you see him, yes?” Kestrel blinked again, stunned. This was not the kind of people she expected owing Graham favors, if that was what this could be called. She finally caught herself and nodded eagerly. “Of course. Thank you, if there’s anything I can ever do for you…” she rambled as the woman pulled out a pair of large, elegant silver scissors decorated with vines and flowers, and cut a line through the fabric. Then she folded it neatly, wrapping a piece of silk paper around it and putting it into a neat, rose-colored box before sending Kestrel a small smile. “Thank you, dear, I will keep that in mind, I am sure you are a person of many talents.” She handed Kestrel the box, and for a moment, Kestrel could have sworn she winked. She took the box with a sense of reverie, looking at it before sending the lady a wide grin and tipping her hat. 

When she left the store, it had started to snow.

Fabric Source

[captainderyn]

22. From the 101 ways to say I love you ♡

Thank you so much for the ask @elveny ! I was very excited to take on this prompt for Ryn and Garrus lol.

(This is cross posted on AO3 (CaptainDeryn) )

Prompt 22: "Let me fix your hair."

--

Ryn didn’t make a habit of looking fancy.

She already put in enough effort every day putting on her armor and dealing with the stress of one mission after another. In the off chance she got a day to relax, she wasn’t going to waste precious time and energy on looks.

If she could get away with sweatpants and a crop top, her hair thrown up into a messy bun, then she damn well would. It didn’t matter where she was going: if they could handle Commander Shepard in her armor, then they could handle her in these civvies.

Maybe, if others were lucky, she would put on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. Maybe a sweater if she was feeling crazy.

The rare exception she made was for Garrus. For him, and for their planned date with two full days of shore leave, she dug through her meager clothes she had with her on the Normandy to pull out something exceptional.

Garrus, she decided, as she wrestled herself into something far beyond what she usually considered acceptable for off-duty, was the luckiest of all aboard the Normandy.

Together they’d decided their date night was going to treat the other right. In reality, they’d both suggested the same upscale restaurant when they’d been brainstorming ideas. Supposedly it had the best view on the Citadel, and if Shepard gave away all the cards in her hand: she wanted the chance to see Garrus clean up nice without the stress of a formal gathering.

Of course, after some bickering back and forth about who was treating who right, they’d settled on splitting the check fifty-fifty. And most likely getting one of the food vendors on the lower levels, the real best food on the Citadel, as the night wore on.

Ryn made a face at herself in the mirror as she finished her eyeliner. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had the chance to willingly put on a full face of makeup and her eyeliner showed it. If she wiped off her attempt one more time no amount of concealer would hide the red blotchiness that would stain her pale skin.

Good enough, she decided, doing one final inspection in the mirror.

A full face of makeup was probably a strong word. She was too rusty to do anything too exuberant and she hated hiding her freckles too much to cake on enough foundation to hide the realities of being an N7 and fighting a war on her skin.

She’d managed a smokey black and gold look to make the grey of her eyes pop and piercing and put on a dark red lip without too many makeup wipe casualties to fix mistakes, that was a win in her book.

There were, of course, a few bruises from their last mission to hide on her face from where she’d so elegantly cracked her helmet into a rock in a graceless throw from a biotic. They weren’t perfectly covered, but she hoped they would be good enough in the harsh lighting of the Citadel to avoid any questions.

The real struggle was figuring out what to do with her hair. Her go to hairstyles were down and messy, a messy bun, or a messy ponytail. The most refined thing she’d done with her hair over the last year since Saren was put it in a bun that fit Alliance marine regulations.

She’d spent far too long after her shower laying on her bed in a towel scrolling the extranet for inspiration. She’d finally settled on something she figured was within her rusty skill set.

As she’s taken a curling wand and elastic bands to her hair, she’d missed the days when she was in her twenties and going out every few nights, where her makeup and hairstyling skills had become second nature.

Now, at thirty-two with more combat tours than nights out under her belt recently, she was thrilled with the simple curled half up-half down look she pulled off.

She didn’t look too shabby, and she gave herself a confidence boosting smile and thumbs up.

All she had to do tonight was be a civilian.

She pulled her black heels on and called Garrus up to her quarters. It was better than roaming around the ship looking for him and dealing with the rabblerousing of her crew. While she’d gone through the attempted effort of painting her nails, another luxury she hadn’t had in a long time, she didn’t want to show them off by flipping off her crew.

It didn’t take long for Garrus to knock on her door, and she let him in, stepping back to admire him.

Blatantly so, not trying to hide the way her eyes roamed.

He did in fact, clean up quite nice.

Quite nice indeed.

She hummed in approval, eyes drifting over the well fitted trousers and dark navy shirt that hugged his body. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the shirt unbuttoned at his collar.

Garrus gave her a charming smile as he walked up to her, eyes also roving across her body in turn.

She would be lying if she said she hadn’t dressed to get a reaction. Where was the fun in wearing the same old business-formal black and red dress she wore for formal functions? The whole point of tonight was to be civilians.

And this dress certainly was not in regs.

While the dress was floor length, both sides were slit up to her hipbone, revealing a scandalous amount of her skin. The dress had sleeves yes, but the neckline dipped down to below her breasts.

And Ryn had spent far too long finagling the dress so that she wouldn’t accidentally reveal them to the public. The potential headlines had tormented her for the entire time she’d been getting ready. Not that Garrus needed to know that.

Garrus leaned down to kiss her, innocent enough, but his hands ran up her hips, catching at the slit fabric and pulling it up. He made a noise somewhere between excitement and surprise and pulled back enough to look at her again.

“Is this a human’s way of seducing?” he asked in amusement.

“Perhaps,” Ryn shrugged, crossing her arms over her chest to accentuate the lack of fabric there. Turians, of course, would not have the same reaction as humans to her show, but that didn’t matter. Too much confidence was coursing through her veins to really care. She was reveling too much in her own self-image to particularly care about his reaction. “Is it working?”

“Oh, there are multiple things about you right now that are working.” There was still a slight rumbling chuckle in Garrus’ words, and she shot him a look, “You want something.”

She contemplated and then gave him a wicked smile, “I want you to kiss me.”

Garrus’ hands curled more tightly around her hips. A small thrill went through her as he ducked his head, pausing just before their mouths met, “Do you?” his breath whispered across her skin and goosebumps prickled on her arms.

Breath catching, she licked her lower lip, “I really do.”

She reaped the energy that she sowed as her back connected with the cold glass of the wall length fish tank and Garrus’ mouth met hers in a fiery kiss. His hands pressed her back against the tank and a gleeful laugh broke from her between breaths at the thrill that went through her.

She draped her arms across his shoulders, her hands resting against the back of his neck and pulled him closer.

They could miss dinner; she really didn’t mind if they missed dinner.

A date night in was as much of a date night.

Garrus gave her one last long kiss and went to move back. Ryn caught him, her arms tightening around his shoulders, and yanked him right back for another kiss.

He laughed, the sound bright and merry in her ears before he wrestled himself away. When her grabby hands went for him again, he grabbed her wrists, and pinned them above her head.

From the sly grin he gave her, it was entirely intentional. Ryn squirmed against his grip.

“You are causing trouble.” His attempted sternness failed to meet its mark.

Ryn looked him up and down once, “Yeah.” she agreed. Then offered him a sweet smile, “You should join me in causing it.”

Garrus’ head dipped with a sigh that was more a breathy laugh and released her. He took a step towards the door and motioned for her to follow, giving a low chuckle as she stuck her lower lip out in a pout,

“We already have a reservation. At least let me treat you to food and drinks before I…treat you to other things.”

He made a face as he stumbled, as if he cringed at the words that slipped from his mouth. Ryn gave a bright, full bodied laugh and hooked her arm into his.

“We will treat each other.” she corrected, kissing his cheek. Without her heels she was nearly as tall as Garrus. Wearing them, she was just a smidge above eye-to-eye with him.

She led him out the door, tossing a coy glance over her shoulder, “Besides, I want to flaunt a little bit. Put aside being Commander Shepard for a while.”

Garrus tugged her to a stop just before she slipped through the doorway, pulling her back to face him. With a gentle touch he brushed away strands of red hair that had fallen across her forehead and reached up to tighten the ponytail that kept half her hair up.

“Stop squirming,” he chastised, “and let me fix your hair.”

“I’m excited.” Ryn complained, beaming up at him, “I can’t help it.”

Garrus shook his head at her with a laugh and slipped his hand into hers, finally leading her out the door and to the Normandy’s elevator. As the elevator shuttled them to the command deck, Garrus’ eyes didn’t leave her.

“You look stunning, Ryn.” he said, and she couldn’t help the blood that rushed to her cheeks.

*

The view from the topmost level of the restaurant might well be the best view on the Citadel, Ryn decided during dinner.

Their table was a simple, dark wood two-person table. Above them patio lights glimmered with warm light. It was beautiful, but the real awe began when she looked up.

From between the arms of the Citadel, space swirled above them. Stars blinked in massive swaths, dark black of far space and near space blending together like paint on an artist’s palette. It was mesmerizing and the same call to be among the stars that had drawn her to the Alliance tugged in her chest.

As beautiful as the view was, it couldn’t hold her attention for long. Garrus kept too much of it in the way the light caught in the planes of his face and the way his hand stayed on her thigh. In the way their conversation was easier than breathing and her laughter fell from her like renewing spring rain.

They dined on fancy food and fine drinks until the call of the night swept them up and brought them to the lower levels of the Citadel. Where they walked arm in arm, orders from one of the food trucks in their hands until they found a bench to sit on.

Where Ryn took off her heels and let out a sigh of relief as her aching feet thanked her. Garrus swept up her legs and set them across his lap, laughing along with her when she almost slipped off the bench.

Until the wild urges of the night took over and they were swept to their feet by the strings of music slipping from the restaurants and clubs all around them and danced in the courtyard. Not the sort of elegant dancing or the feral dancing of a club, but simply moving together and moving to the music.

Until their laughter created their own music and Garrus’ hands were cupping her face and hers were looped around his shoulders. Until he leaned in to kiss her and she leaned into it. Until his hands slid into their hair he had so carefully fixed and tousled it with his touch.

Until their unabashed joy underneath the whorls of stars became the best view on the Citadel.

[toovirgins]

March, 1964

Summary: John and Paul (but mostly John) find studying their lines for A Hard Day's Night a drag. John finds other (PG?) ways to pass the time.

The air was still inside the cozy dressing room. A faint scent of cigarette smoke clung to the thick atmosphere, but not enough to ring unpleasant. John gazed at the cigarette as it dangled loosely from his fingers, and deciding against taking another drag, put it out in the ashtray beside him. He tugged at the neck of his black sweater—despite the chill of the winter air persisting outside the window, the room was quite warm. Without much thought, John lazily traced a finger along the window sill, feeling chills spread up his arm at the temperature shock.

It really looked more like an upscale office than a dressing room. Sure, there were four distinct mirrors and hairdresser chairs, as well as a rod near the doorway with an array of suits, sweaters, and trousers for the boys to rotate in and out of. But the room itself was decorated quite elegantly. A soft glow from the floor lamp mingled with the diminishing brightness of outside to coat the room in a honey-like aura. Deep red curtains framed the enormous window, grazing the velvety paisley-patterned rug that covered most area of the room. The rest of the floor was a deep hardwood, without the slightest trace of dust—an unfamiliar concept, John mused. This was much nicer than what they were used to. Immediately upon entering, he had thrown himself onto a long, floral-patterned couch by the window. Paul knew he fancied observing nature while they studied.

Paul was seated a few feet away from him, his long legs draped over the armrest as he slouched sideways over the enormous armchair. His body was facing John’s, and he could see his eyebrows knitting together in concentration as he studied his script. His lips moved wordlessly, repeating his lines to himself without speaking at all. He reached up mindlessly and tousled his hair, and John watched as the dark locks fell directly back into place. They had been sitting like this for over an hour now, and John was beginning to feel restless. He had turned his gaze to his friend once he figured he could not possibly watch the nothing going on outside the window for a second longer. Going over his script one more time was always an option, but the thought simply did not interest him. Despite being constantly begged not to do so, John figured he could improvise some lines if they fell blank on his mind. He had a quick wit, and knew that some of his lines would come off better (read: more authentic) than the portrait that the writers had painted of him. He didn’t know how Paul could concentrate for so long, especially seeing as the man had relatively few lines in the upcoming scene.

Almost as if hearing his name appear in John’s thoughts, Paul’s eyes jumped up to meet John’s. He swung his legs over the arm of the chair until he was sitting in an upright (albeit, poorly postured) position and set his script down on the quaint table between them. John pulled the ashtray a bit closer to himself, fearing the disaster that would ensue if he and Paul accidentally burned down the dressing room. They had had their fair share of slightly arsonist run-ins in their youth, and John was too tired to deal with the legal ramifications of an incident like that again.

Paul sighed loudly, bringing John back to present. He hoped this was a sign of his friend’s boredom and restlessness, so he could stop pretending like he was studying his own script. The younger man leaned forward and put his head in his hands, letting out a strained groan as he rubbed his eyes.

“I don’t think I can take any more of this studying, mate,” Paul muttered. “I close my eyes and all I see is ‘No, actually, we’re just good friends’. Why do I have to say that, like, a dozen times? It’s only hardly clever.”

“Quite the realistic portrait, then,” John replied lazily, a smile twitching at the corner of his lips when Paul shot him an irritated glance. “I’m bored. Let’s do something.”

Paul checked his wristwatch. “When do you think they’ll be back? I thought Ringo was just going to wander about the town. How long could that filming possibly take? It’s not even scripted. Plus, he’s got that massive hangover. I figured they’d be back around by now.”

John shrugged. George had gone along with Ringo to provide some moral support for the dreaded scene (every scene was dreaded for Ringo today, as Paul was right—he was sporting a massive hangover), leaving Paul and John behind to study for their next appearance. For Paul, it was out of necessity; the poor lad struggled with keeping up with his lines, a fact that made him irritated and anxious. Paul typically wasn’t poor at things. For John, the desertion was more punishment for disappearing on set the day before to explore the city a bit. He didn’t mind, though. It could be worse; Paul could have left him as well. At least he had some company.

“We could go to the pub we passed yesterday,” John observed. “I could use a quick drink. Or two.”

Paul frowned, but John could see him shake his head in slight amusement at his friend’s remarks. “No, we won’t be doing that. Could you imagine how much trouble you’d be in with Brian if you disappeared again? To drink, no less? Sometimes I don’t know what goes on in your daft mind.”

John chuckled at that. He quite enjoyed teasing his friend, pushing forth this Teddy-boy persona that he sported when they first met seven years prior. Though he had no intention of actually going to get drunk in the middle of a work day, he knew that the boy wouldn’t tell the difference. He was aware that his behavior gave Paul a bit of a superiority complex, the feeling of being “the good one”, and the thought of that amused him. The public had yet to see how mischievous Paul McCartney actually was, his puppy dog eyes betraying him at every turn.

Of course, John was one of the few people that saw past Paul’s angelic front. The times they’d shared together had proved that even Brian and George Martin were fooled, as John often fell victim to blame for things that Paul had done. He didn’t quite mind the dynamic, though. He was hardly in real trouble, and it felt nice to have a part of Paul that the others didn’t. He was so hard to read at first, so hard to get close to. The intimacy was welcome to John, in a comforting, familial way.

“What shall we do then?” John mused. He huffed as he struggled to pull himself into an upright position, his joints popping at the sudden movement after being a puddle of nothing for so long. “Go for a smoke? Go for a stroll? Go fetch a bird?” He winked at the last suggestion as heat rose into Paul’s cheeks. Last night, John had also unintentionally taken the blame for a girl that Paul had snuck into the dressing room. Paul had been mortified and profusely thanked him, but that didn’t mean that he couldn’t have a little fun with the knowledge.

“Actually,” Paul replied, rubbing his temples, “I’m quite exhausted. Might have a go at a nap.”

“Paul,” John whined, feigned desperation in his voice, “You can’t. I’m so bored. If you leave, I’ll have nothing.”

“Oh, all right,” the boy sighed. “Then you think of something to do. My mind is strained. And,” he jumped, as John opened his mouth to say something, “we’re not going out. I feel like I’m responsible for you right now. Don’t make me put you in time out.” Paul slouched back as the chair engulfed his figure and closed his eyes, humming softly to himself as he let fatigue overtake him.

John’s stomach flipped Paul’s words, though he almost cocked an eyebrow at the absurdity of the feeling. He quickly shook it off, feeling sure it was nothing more than the delight of knowing he could pester Paul endlessly, now that he was aware how Paul felt of the situation. If he was John’s babysitter, then John would act… well, like a child.

John stretched his legs just far enough as to where he could kick the other man’s foot. Paul half-lidded eyes looked up at him with a slightly annoyed expression, but he was met only with the amusement that twinkled in John’s. This seemed to irritate him further, not feeling at all in the mood for physical banter. So John kicked him again.

Paul’s eyes flew open. “Christ, lad, would you knock it off? I’m not in the mood. If you won’t let me leave, at least let me rest here.”

“But I’m bored,” John whined again. “I want to do something.”

“Look over your script,” Paul muttered as he turned his back on him, shifting to curl up into the armchair. “I don’t want to have to deal with you going on about fish and finger pies again next take. I have enough to worry about with my own lines.”

“You don’t own me, Paul,” John shot back. “You’re not in charge.”

“I bloody might as well be,” came the muffled voice that now felt far away.

John fell back on the couch himself, defeated. He gazed out the window again, eyes following an adorable little bird that hopped from tree limb to tree limb. He felt for that bird, or rather, he felt the need to be that bird, happily hopping on without a care in the world. It was so simple and innocent. He wanted to reach his hand through the glass and stroke the little bird, with its enchantingly dark feathers. To John, it looked like midnight, when the sky was still and the world was quiet and there was nothing but yourself and the atmosphere, high above you. Was it a blackbird? A crow, maybe? Its tiny black eyes were empty, devoid of emotion, but not threatening or eerie. Just… there. Being. Existing. It lived only to live, not to please, or love, or conquer. Oh, to be the little bird.

John continued to marvel at it for a few more moments before it fluttered out of sight. He was left with nothing again, his mind grasping at something else to attend to. The script fell out of his hands onto the floor with a thick thud, making Paul twitch in his barely-there state of consciousness.

Paul! A wonderful thing to capture his attention. John nudged his foot against the chair, hoping to shift it just slightly. When that didn’t work, he pushed a bit harder, sending a croaking sound through the room as the chair leg slipped off the rug and onto the hardwood.

“Piss off, Lennon,” Paul growled, his voice thick with the beginnings of sleep. But John couldn’t let him drift asleep. He would be so dreadfully bored.

John got to his knees on the couch, facing Paul’s chair. He gently pushed the stand with the ashtray and Paul’s script out of the way, and leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the arm of the couch and resting his chin atop them. He could see Paul’s side rising and falling rhythmically, the stiff fabric of his dress shirt crinkling with every inhale. He hadn’t changed out from earlier, and was still wearing the pressed white button down, black tie, and black trousers. The only thing he had removed was his suit jacket, which lay draped across the back of the chair. John assumed Paul had noticed the warm thickness of the air in the room as well.

Paul’s side stared back at him, open and inviting. He knew exactly what to do, to piss Paul off to the perfect degree while also keeping up the good spirits. He removed a hand from under his chin and stretched ever so slightly before jamming two fingers—hard—into Paul’s soft side.

Paul yelped in surprise and jerked awake and alert, trying to comprehend what had just happened. John watched him smugly as his brow furrowed in confusion, then annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, John, is it so hard to keep your hands to yourself? You’re a child.”

John said nothing, just watched in anticipation as Paul turned away again, muttering something under his breath. He was cranky now, and John wanted to push his limits. He had nothing better to do, anyway. He tentatively reached back over and, in one swift movement, pinched Paul’s side again and retreated into the far side of the couch.

Paul swung blindly, nearly missing contact with John’s extended forearm as he jumped back. John suppressed a giddy grin, knowing that he had succeeded in his mission. Paul was now wide awake and visibly frustrated, taking a moment to rub his tender side while muttering a string of unflattering curses.

“You wanker,” he shot at John, his eyes burning as he massaged his sore spot. Paul knew that John knew that’s where his weak spot was, his ticklish spot. He was only lucky that John had poked and pinched instead of lightly grazing and prodding. They shared a look, both of them well aware of that fact. John couldn’t help but cock a knowing eyebrow at him, as if to say, I could if I wanted to.

Suddenly, Paul’s eyes darkened. John’s breath caught in his throat as he watched a mischievous glint overtake Paul’s gaze. He watched Paul’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, running his tongue between his lips in anticipation. John wasn’t sure what the transformation was, but it couldn’t be good. He felt in a moment that he had lost control of the situation. He opened his mouth to speak, willing himself to come up with something spectacularly witty, until—

Paul had lurched on top of him in a matter of seconds, digging his fingers into John’s sides. John initially gasped as ticklish tremors ran through his body, the sounds of pure, unfiltered laughter soon filling the air. John twisted under Paul’s iron grip as tears began to spring to his eyes from the hysteria, gasping for breath and unable to keep himself from breaking into a fit of giggles every few seconds. He weakly attempted to reach up and grasp at Paul’s weak spots, trying to give himself the edge again, but Paul caught his wrist with one hand, pinning the other down with his knee. “Uh uh uh,” he chastised, pushing John’s wrist into the couch and underneath his other knee. He was straddling him on the couch, his knees trapping John’s hands at his sides while Paul’s hands were free to mercilessly attack John’s sides, stomach, and neck.

“P-please,” he wheezed, as Paul chuckled lightheartedly above him. “Please stop, I- I can’t breathe—”

“You asked for this,” Paul retorted, not ceasing the torturous movements. His tone was light and amused, sounding as though he found himself greatly enamored with the visual of John writhing helplessly beneath him. “Next time, keep your bloody hands to yourself.”

“I will, I will,” John gasped, a tear rolling down his cheek. Slowly, Paul ceased his assault, and rocked back on his heels, letting John’s hands free. He watched as the man caught his breath beneath him, reaching up to wipe away a tear that had fallen in the hysteria. “That was not funny,” John asserted in a mock-serious tone, secretly hoping that Paul would go at it again.

The thought pulled a frown to his face as he contemplated what had just popped into his head. He was “secretly hoping Paul would do that again”? Why? Why did he feel the need to keep it a secret? Why had Paul’s devilish fingers made John’s skin feel so… electric, and tingly? And most importantly, why was he now acutely aware that the man was sitting on John’s lap?

Paul let out an airy laugh and raised himself up off the sofa. John breathed a sigh of relief, concerned over the thoughts that spilled into his head. What the fuck was going on? This was Paul. He enjoyed spending time with him, teasing him, messing with him, pissing him off and making him laugh. Paul, his bandmate. His best friend. His suddenly strangely entrancing best—

Shut up, John begged his mind. He didn’t want to follow himself down a rabbit hole of that sort.

Paul was making his way back to the armchair. He plopped into it, looking as though he was the one who had just been tickled to death. He looked at John with a grin of satisfaction and power, and John knew that the man was about to go for a nap again knowing that John wouldn’t mess with him in that way again.

He liked to prove Paul wrong.

As soon as Paul’s eyes fluttered closed once more, and his breathing became steadier and deeper, John formulated another plan. One that, this time, he would surely be in control of. He watched Paul’s chest rise and fall for a few minutes, waiting for his eyelashes to stop twitching, willing the man to fall just enough asleep to where he would be slightly delirious upon a quick awakening. That way, he couldn’t catch John with surprise force as he executed the first step of his plan.

John waited the tiniest bit longer, until he was sure that his friend wasn’t just pretending, and went for it. In a quick movement, John jumped up and pulled at Paul’s wrists, thrusting him onto the floor forcefully but not painfully. The man blinked wildly as John held both his wrists over his head with one hand and began to aggressively tickle Paul’s exposed armpits. He jerked away from John’s touch, still in a faint haze about what was happening, before he began to come to his senses and bite back a cry of laughter. John knew that Paul was far more ticklish than he, and that the quick prodding and nudging wouldn’t drive him nearly as crazy as light, barely-there touches.

He began to cry out on the floor beside John, who was lying on his side, holding Paul’s hands with one arm and attacking him with the other. “Jesus, John, you bastard,” he wheezed, trying to force himself up but unable to do so. His wrists strained against John’s grip.

This struggle continued for a few more minutes, before John’s own stomach hurt from laughing so much. He released his friend and collapsed on the rug beside him, both of their laughter dying out softly as they caught their breath. A silence of about five minutes ensued, neither speaking but both acknowledging the comforting warmth of their shoulders pressed against one other.

After a long recovery, Paul tentatively lifted a leg and crossed it over, placing it in between John’s. Shooting his friend an inquisitive glance—not that this intertwining or personal touch was a strange posture for them, as they had had countless sleepovers in John’s far-too-tiny bed in his Mimi’s home growing up—John nudged Paul’s foot with his own to encourage him to speak what was on his mind.

“Thank you,” Paul said, the tint of laughter still coloring his voice.

“For what?” John replied noncommittedly. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, which was a rather putrid tile, almost like the ceilings in grade school—something that was jarring against the rather royal layout of the rest of the room. He trained his gaze on a particular patch of water damage shaped a bit like the bird he had watched earlier, through the window.

“I know you could have done worse in that little fight,” Paul mused. “I think I would have peed me self. Or died. Whichever came first.”

John hummed in response, now aware that the little leg movement was almost a thank you in and of itself. That simple search for physical contact, a gesture of appreciation, made John’s heart swell. He liked feeling appreciated. It was almost as if John was a girl, and Paul had reached down to interlace their fingers together and offer a quick squeeze, but John wasn’t a girl and instead Paul had thoughtlessly interlaced their legs. It was a nice feeling, one that spread warmth across John’s chest. As much as he wore Paul down, he was so thankful for him. It was a genuine admiration and appreciation (that he hoped was mutual), an experience that was rather foreign to him throughout life so far. He supposed much of that was brought on by himself—if he hadn’t been such a naughty child in school, if he’d been a bit better behaved for his parents, if he hadn’t been such a dick to the girlfriends he’d had. But with Paul, things were different. There were no expectations of being a son, a pupil, a lover. They could just be. Just like the bird.

John smiled to himself at the thought.

[kookie-doughs]

Y/N L/N AND THE HALFBLOODS

Percy Jackson X Reader

-Y/N L/N met Percy Jackson and everything was now ruined.

CHAPTER 6: WE HAVE BATHROOM INCIDENT

We passed the volleyball pit. Several of the campers nudged each other. One pointed to the minotaur horn Percy was carrying. Another said, "That's him."

Anxious if all the attention, I scooted closer to Percy holding onto his arm. Most of the campers were older than us. Their satyr friends were bigger than Grover, all of them trotting around in orange CAMP HALF-BLOOD T-shirts, with nothing else to cover their bare shaggy hindquarters. The way they stared at me made me uncomfortable. Though I am aware the attention was on Percy. I still felt like they were expecting me to do a flip or something.

I looked back at the farmhouse. It was a lot bigger than I'd realized—four stories tall, sky blue with white trim, like an upscale seaside resort. I was checking out the brass eagle weather vane on top when something caught my eye, a shadow in the uppermost window of the attic gable. Something had moved the curtain, just for a second, and I got the distinct impression I was being watched.

"What's up there?" Percy asked Chiron.

He looked where I was pointing, and his smile faded. "Just the attic."

"Somebody lives there?"

"No," he said with finality. "Not a single living thing."

I got the feeling he was being truthful. But I was also sure something had moved that curtain.

"Come along, you two," Chiron said, his lighthearted tone now a little forced. "Lots to see."

We walked through the strawberry fields, where campers were picking bushels of berries while a satyr played a tune on a reed pipe.. . . . . . . . . .

Chiron told me the camp grew a nice crop for export to New York restaurants and Mount Olympus. "It pays our expenses," he explained. "And the strawberries take almost no effort."

He said Mr. D had this effect on fruit-bearing plants: they just went crazy when he was around. It worked best with wine grapes, but Mr. D was restricted from growing those, so they grew strawberries instead.

I watched the satyr playing his pipe. His music was causing lines of bugs to leave the strawberry patch in every direction, like refugees fleeing a fire. I wondered if Grover could work that kind of magic with music. I wondered if he was still inside the farmhouse, getting chewed out by Mr. D.

"Grover won't get in too much trouble, will he?" I asked Chiron.

"Yeah, I mean... he was a good protector. Really." Percy added.

Chiron sighed. He shed his tweed jacket and draped it over his horses back like a saddle. "Grover has big dreams, Percy. Perhaps bigger than are reasonable. To reach his goal, he must first demonstrate great courage by succeeding as a keeper, finding a new camper and bringing him safely to Half-Blood Hill."

"But he did that! He brought two!"

"I might agree with you," Chiron said. "But it is not my place to judge. Dionysus and the Council of Cloven Elders must decide. I'm afraid they might not see this assignment as a success. After all, Grover lost you in New York. Then there's the unfortunate... ah... fate of your mother and Y/N's parents. And the fact that Grover was unconscious when you two dragged him over the property line. The council might question whether this shows any courage on Grover's part."

"He'll get a second chance, won't he?"

Chiron winced. "I'm afraid that was Grover's second chance, Percy. The council was not anxious to give him another, either, after what happened the first time, five years ago. Olympus knows, I advised him to wait longer before trying again. He's still so small for his age... ."

"How old is he?"

"Oh, twenty-eight."

"What! And he's in sixth grade?"

"Satyrs mature half as fast as humans, Percy. Grover has been the equivalent of a middle school student for the past six years."

"That's horrible."

"Quite," Chiron agreed. "At any rate, Grover is a late bloomer, even by satyr standards, and not yet very accomplished at woodland magic. Alas, he was anxious to pursue his dream. Perhaps now he will find some other career... ."

"That's not fair," I said. "What happened the first time? Was it really so bad?"

Chiron looked away quickly. "Let's move along, shall we?"

But I wasn't quite ready to let the subject drop. Something had occurred to me when Chiron talked about Percy's and I's parents' fate, as if he were intentionally avoiding the word death.

"Chiron," Percy said. "If the gods and Olympus and all that are real..."

"Yes, child?"

"Does that mean the Underworld is real, too?"

Chiron's expression darkened.

"Yes, child." He paused, as if choosing his words carefully. "There is a place where spirits go after death. But for now... until we know more... I would urge you to put that out of your mind."

"What do you mean, 'until we know more'?"

"Come, Percy. Let's see the woods.". . ..

As we got closer, I realized how huge the forest was. It took up at least a quarter of the valley, with trees so tall and thick, you could imagine nobody had been in there since the Native Americans.

Chiron said, "The woods are stocked, if you care to try your luck, but go armed."

"Stocked with what?" Percy asked. "Armed with what?"

"You'll see. Capture the flag is Friday night. Do you have your own sword and shield?"

"My own—?"

"No," Chiron said. "I don't suppose either of you do. I think a size five will do you both. I'll visit the armory later."

I wanted to ask what kind of summer camp had an armory, but there was too much else to think about, so the tour continued. We saw the archery range, the canoeing lake, the stables (which Chiron didn't seem to like very much), the javelin range, the sing-along amphitheater, and the arena where Chiron said they held sword and spear fights.

"Sword and spear fights?" I asked.

"Cabin challenges and all that," he explained. "Not lethal. Usually. Oh, yes, and there's the mess hall."

Chiron pointed to an outdoor pavilion framed in white Grecian columns on a hill overlooking the sea. There were a dozen stone picnic tables. No roof. No walls.

"What do you do when it rains?" Percy asked.

Chiron looked at me as if I'd gone a little weird. "We still have to eat, don't we?"

Finally, he showed me the cabins. There were twelve of them, nestled in the woods by the lake. They were arranged in a U, with two at the base and five in a row on either side. And they were without doubt the most bizarre collection of buildings I'd ever seen.

Except for the fact that each had a large brass number above the door (odds on the left side, evens on the right), they looked absolutely nothing alike. Number nine had smokestacks, like a tiny factory. Number four had tomato vines on the walls and a roof made out of real grass. Seven seemed to be made of solid gold, which gleamed so much in the sunlight it was almost impossible to look at. They all faced a commons area about the size of a soccer field, dotted with Greek statues, fountains, flower beds, and a couple of basketball hoops (which were more my speed).

In the center of the field was a huge stone-lined firepit. Even though it was a warm afternoon, the hearth smoldered. A girl about nine years old was tending the flames, poking the coals with a stick.

The pair of cabins at the head of the field, numbers one and two, looked like his-and-hers mausoleums, big white marble boxes with heavy columns in front. Cabin one was the biggest and bulkiest of the twelve. Its polished bronze doors shimmered like a hologram, so that from different angles lightning bolts seemed to streak across them. Cabin two was more graceful somehow, with slimmer columns garlanded with pomegranates and flowers. The walls were carved with images of peacocks.

"Zeus and Hera?" I guessed.

"Correct," Chiron said.

"Their cabins look empty."

"Several of the cabins are. That's true. No one ever stays in one or two."

Okay. So each cabin had a different god, like a mascot. Twelve cabins for the twelve Olympians. But why would some be empty?

I stopped when Percy stopped.

"Percy?"

He stood in front of the first cabin on the left, cabin three.

It wasn't high and mighty like cabin one, but long and low and solid. The outer walls were of rough gray stone studded with pieces of seashell and coral, as if the slabs had been hewn straight from the bottom of the ocean floor.

I held his hand and we got closer to the cabin. We peeked inside the open doorway and Chiron said, "Oh, I wouldn't do that!"

Before he could pull us back, I caught a glimpse of the interior walls glowed like abalone. There were six empty bunk beds with silk sheets turned down. But there was no sign anyone had ever slept there. "Come along, you two."

Most of the other cabins were crowded with campers.

Number five was bright red—a real nasty paint job, as if the color had been splashed on with buckets and fists. The roof was lined with barbed wire. A stuffed wild boar's head hung over the doorway, and its eyes seemed to follow me. Inside I could see a bunch of mean-looking kids, both girls and boys, arm wrestling and arguing with each other while rock music blared. The loudest was a girl maybe thirteen or fourteen. She wore a size XXXL CAMP HALF-BLOOD T-shirt under a camouflage jacket. She zeroed in on me and gave me an evil sneer. She reminded me of Nancy Bobofit, though the camper girl was much bigger and tougher looking, and her hair was long and stringy, and brown instead of red.

I kept walking, trying to stay as close as I could to Percy. "We haven't seen any other centaurs," Percy observed.

"No," said Chiron sadly. "My kinsmen are a wild and barbaric folk, I'm afraid. You might encounter them in the wilderness, or at major sporting events. But you won't see any here."

"You said your name was Chiron. Are you really..."

He smiled down at me. "The Chiron from the stories? Trainer of Hercules and all that? Yes, Percy, I am."

"But, shouldn't you be dead?"

Chiron paused, as if the question intrigued him. "I honestly don't know about should be. The truth is, I can't be dead. You see, eons ago the gods granted my wish. I could continue the work I loved. I could be a teacher of heroes as long as humanity needed me. I gained much from that wish... and I gave up much. But I'm still here, so I can only assume I'm still needed."

I thought about being a teacher for three thousand years. It wouldn't have made my Top Ten Things to Wish For list.

"Doesn't it ever get boring?"

"No, no," he said. "Horribly depressing, at times, but never boring."

"Why depressing?"

Chiron seemed to turn hard of hearing again.

"Oh, look," he said. "Annabeth is waiting for us."

* * *

The blond girl I'd met at the Big House was reading a book in front of the last cabin on the left, number eleven.

When we reached her, she looked us critically.

I tried to see what she was reading, but I couldn't make out the title. I thought my dyslexia was acting up. Then I realized the title wasn't even English. The letters looked Greek to me. I mean, literally Greek. There were pictures of temples and statues and different kinds of columns, like those in an architecture book.

"Annabeth," Chiron said, "I have masters' archery class at noon. Would you take Percy and Y/N from here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cabin eleven," Chiron told me, gesturing toward the doorway. "Make yourself at home."

Out of all the cabins, eleven looked the most like a regular old summer camp cabin, with the emphasis on old. The threshold was worn down, the brown paint peeling. Over the doorway was one of those doctor's symbols, a winged pole with two snakes wrapped around it. What did they call it... ? A caduceus.

Inside, it was packed with people, both boys and girls, way more than the number of bunk beds. Sleeping bags were spread all over on the floor. It looked like a gym where the Red Cross had set up an evacuation center.

Chiron didn't go in. The door was too low for him. But when the campers saw him they all stood and bowed respectfully.

"Well, then," Chiron said. "Good luck, Percy, Y/N. I'll see you at dinner."

He galloped away toward the archery range.

I stood in the doorway, looking at the kids. They weren't bowing anymore. They were staring at us. I knew this routine. I'd gone through it at enough schools.

"Well?" Annabeth prompted. "Go on."

So naturally Percy tripped coming in the door and made a total fool of himself, almost taking me with him but I had let go of him as he fell. There were some snickers from the campers, but none of them said anything.

Annabeth announced, "Percy Jackson, Y/N L/N, meet cabin eleven."

"Regular or undetermined?" somebody familiar asked.

I didn't know what to say, but Annabeth said, "Undetermined."

Everybody groaned.

"Now, now, campers. That's what we're here for. Welcome, Percy and Y/N. You can have that spot on the floor, right over there. Y/N can have the bed over there."

"Luke." I smiled. He replied with a grin and ruffled my hair.

"Uh?"

"This is Luke," Annabeth said, and her voice sounded different somehow. I glanced over and could've sworn she was blushing. She saw me looking, and her expression hardened again. "He's your counselor for now."

"For now?" Percy asked.

"You're undetermined," Luke explained patiently. "They don't know what cabin to put you in, so you're here. Cabin eleven takes all newcomers, all visitors. Naturally, we would. Hermes, our patron, is the god of travelers."

I looked at the tiny section of floor they'd given Percy. He was a few spots away from mine.

I looked around at the campers' faces, some sullen and suspicious, some grinning stupidly, some eyeing me as if they were waiting for a chance to pick my pockets.

"How long will we be here?" Percy asked.

"Good question," Luke said. "Until you're determined."

"How long will that take?"

The campers all laughed.

"Come on," Annabeth told us. "I'll show you the volleyball court."

"I've already seen it."

"Come on." She grabbed Percy's wrist and dragged him outside. Percy took my hand to come with him, I could hear the kids of cabin eleven laughing behind us.

"See you at dinner." Luke waved.

When we were a few feet away, Annabeth said, "Jackson, you have to do better than that."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes and mumbled under her breath, "I can't believe I thought you were the one. Maybe it was Y/N."

"What's your problem?" Percy was getting angry now. "All I know is, I kill some bull guy—"

I gripped his shoulder trying to calm him.

"Don't talk like that!" Annabeth told me. "You know how many kids at this camp wish they'd had your chance?"

"To get killed?"

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Hahah typo and originality go brrr

Taglist?

@gayer-than-the-gayest-gay @the-natureofme @booknerd-3000

[ex-vengeancedemon]

A Night at the Opera

Main Pairing: Cordelia Chase x Winifred Burkle

Characters: Cordelia Chase, Winifred (Fred) Burkle, Charles Gunn, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce

Summary: Set after Fred is rescued from Pylea and Angel is gone to grieve Buffy's death. Someone needs to help Fred come out of her shell - her shell being her room. Cordelia was making great progress... until she was hit with another head-splitting vision.

I guess there's a total of like 10 fanfictions on ao3 with this pairing (a shame) so I had to write it myself. Chapter 1 below cut. Read here or on ao3.

Chapter Index (out of 3):

Check Back for Updates

Chapter 1

"So," Gunn said, tapping his fingers on the front desk and looking over his shoulder. "Has she come out at all yet?"

Cordelia looked up from the case file she had been perusing and gave a wane smile. "I think she's making progress. She peaks her head out of her room sometimes now."

"Ah, yes," Wesley said. "Progress indeed."

The truth was that the hotel's new guest had been almost completely confined to her room since Angel had left. It was understandable. Winifred Burkle had been a captive of the dimension, Pylea, for the past 5 years, during which she spent her time living in a cave and writing on the walls. In a way, her room was her new cave... and she had yet to break the whole 'writing on walls' habit. Angel had been her savior, the one she trusted most. And he had left to take some time to... well, to mourn Buffy.

Cordy, Wes, and Gunn had been taking turns delivering food outside her door, primarily tacos. They would knock. She wouldn't answer. And they would leave the food on the floor outside. When they returned to check, the food would be gone. Cordelia had spotted her a few times from down the hall. Just glimpses here and there. Fred was still skittish, even of them.

"She can't stay up there forever," Gunn said, shaking his head. He stopped abruptly, as if reconsidering his prior statement. "She can't. Can she?"

Wesley sighed. "She spent five years in a cave with no plumbing. What's a month in a hotel room?"

Cordelia smiled and raised her pen. "With room service."

Gunn rolled his eyes, his eyes again wandering to the once grand staircase as if Fred might come walking down. "I don't know. It just doesn't seem like isolation is the way to help her reintegrate, you know?"

Wes nodded, but he seemed more focused on searching for a tome on the bookshelf than the conversation at hand. "Agreed."

"Well then," Cordelia said, turning to Gunn. "Why don't you go help reintegrate her then?"

Gunn shook his head. "Can't. Told Rondell I'd help him clean out a vamp nest setting up roots in the neighborhood. Gotta head out in an hour."

"Alright Wes, guess you're up to bat then," Cordelia amended.

"Hmm?" Wesley asked, looking up from a thick text coated in odd runic symbols. "What was that?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes and groaned. "Never mind!"

If you want something done... Guess she would have to be vision girl, office manager, detective, and guide to the newbie. That was fine. She could multitask.

Cordelia stood up from her desk, straightened her case files, and walked up the stairs like she knew exactly what she was going to do when she reached Fred's door.

She didn't.

When she reached Fred's door, she took a deep breath and knocked. Then she waited. And waited. There was no answer. She couldn't even hear any movement on the other side.

"Fred?" Cordy called out through the door. "It's me, Cordelia. Are you in there?"

After a long moment, a quiet voice replied, "Yeah. I'm fine, just fine! Thanks for checking. Bye!"

"Good! That's good!" Cordelia said, registering the jumpiness in her voice. "Can I come in? Maybe we could talk for a bit?"

"Talk? Yes, I've been thinking about the acoustics of the hotel and how the sound wave frequencies often seem to match the resonance of the ventilation system creating the disturbing creaks that seem to be everywhere at once and-" Fred's voice cut off. "Oh... well I suppose that probably wasn't what you wanted to talk about."

Cordelia nodded her head slowly. "Uh...huh... Well, I think the sound waves might travel better if you opened the door."

"Oh, right." Fred chuckled nervously and Cordelia could hear multiple bolts being unlocked.

Fred slowly opened the door a crack and gave a small smile. She pursed her lips and finally opened the door all the way.

Motioning an awkward invitation with her arm, Fred said, "Come in."

Cordelia walked into the dim room with the lights all off and the curtains drawn. She would almost think this was Angel's room given the seeming aversion to the light. However the darkness wasn't the most interesting thing about the room. Neither were the food wrappers that were scattered around on the floor. No, the most interesting thing in the room was the wall. Or rather, the walls. They were covered in hasty scrawl, most of which was impossible to make heads or tails of. Cordelia had no idea what it meant, only that it covered an extensive amount of wall space from the floor to the ceiling.

"Sorry for the mess," Fred said, kicking away a few stray wrappers with a measure of embarrassment. "Wasn't expectin' company."

"No!" Cordy replied, trying her best to sound reassuring. "Really, it's fine. I just came barging in!" She glanced around at the walls. "I love what you've done with the place! Very artsy. Custom wallpaper is all the rage these days."

Fred smiled and looked down at the floor. She seemed like she was trying to make herself smaller, to hide even in plain sight. For someone who was already petite to begin with, she looked downright tiny now.

"I just...," Fred began, "I just have to write it down. Don't wanna forget. To lose it. You know, things get lost. You think it and then it's gone. The electrochemical responses of the brain just don't leave a long enough impression for you to capture it indefinitely and the memory is so fallible and-"

"Fred, Fred," Cordelia cut her off with an empathetic look. "It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself to me. If you want to write on the walls, you write on the walls." Cordelia put up her hands and grinned. "And you know what? If you run out of wall, we can paint the walls and you can start over again."

Finally, Fred laughed. It was a quiet, nervous laugh, but Cordelia could tell it was genuine. She thought it was the first genuine laugh she'd heard Fred make since they met. It was sweet.

"You know I could get you some notebooks though," Cordelia continued. "You know, if you'd like."

"Gee I almost forgot about notebooks," Fred replied, "and pencils. In Pylea, I just used a sharp rock and some cypril powder."

"What's-"

"It's the excrement of-"

Cordelia held up a hand. "Never mind! I'm good."

Fred nodded, unfazed by Cordelia's reaction.

"Do you know when Angel will be back?" Fred asked suddenly. "He's been gone for a long time. You don't think- Well, he is coming back, right? He didn't just leave forever...right?"

Cordelia was taken aback by the anxiety and fear in Fred's voice. She knew they had bonded in Pylea. She may have underestimated just how much.

Cordelia shook her head vigorously. "No, no. Of course, he's coming back! He just needed some time to process and grieve."

"Over Buffy?"

"Yeah." Cordelia frowned, the news of Buffy's death had hit Angel hard. She hoped the meditation was helping him... but she kind of doubted it. "Buffy was his first love. And then she died. And he wasn't there."

Fred bit her cheek. "His first love. Right. That...that makes sense."

Cordelia moved to put a hand on Fred's shoulder, but Fred flinched and pulled away. Cordelia hastily pulled her hand back.

"Don't worry, he'll be back," Cordelia said, trying to reassure with her eyes instead. "I'm sure he's-"

A blinding flash of searing, white hot pain shot its way through Cordelia's head and all the way down her spine. She screamed out and collapsed to the floor, no longer able to see. Her body felt like it was on fire. It was as if she were having a migraine, heart attack, and stroke all at once while simultaneously being hit by a bus, soaked in gasoline, and set on fire. No, it was worse than that.

She could faintly hear Fred somewhere in the distance, but she couldn't make out what she was saying. Then her hearing was overtaken by screams that weren't her own. Flashes of a scene played out before her unseeing eyes. A girl. Brunette, dressed in an unmistakable designer Tommy Hilfiger dress.

Cordelia relayed the specifics through the pain to whoever might be listening. The girl was being chased by a vampire dressed in a suit. In some kind of theatre? Cordelia snapped out of the vision and the pain subsided slightly. It left her exhausted and aching all over.

She blinked a few times as her sight returned. Wesley and Gunn where hovering over her looking concerned. She felt the pillow beneath her head shift and she realized suddenly that her head was resting in Fred's lap. Fred leaned over so Cordelia could see her and brushed some stray hair out of her face.

"Did you guys get all that?" Cordelia asked, closing her eyes as she fought back a wave of nausea.

"Yeah," Gunn replied. "You got anymore information on this theatre?"

Cordelia thought back to the vision, trying to get a feel for it. "Um, definitely upscale. I think it's downtown. It was during a performance. Um, an opera. Aida."

Wesley nodded. "Okay, I'll go see what I can find about a showing of Aida at the downtown theatres. Gunn, I think you have a prior engagement you should be getting to." He then turned back to Cordelia. "We'll be back soon. You should get some rest."

Cordelia nodded and Gunn and Wesley left the room.

"How are you feelin'?" Fred looked down at her with concern, her long brown hair dangling over Cordelia's face. "You really gave me a fright."

Cordelia sighed and closed her eyes again. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "The visions can be pretty... well, ugly. But it's over now. I'll be fine."

Fred bit her cheek again. Cordelia didn't think she had quite fooled the surprisingly perceptive physicist. Fred continued to run her fingers over Cordelia's hair in a calming gesture and Cordelia drifted off. She could sleep here... just for a minute.

[angryhausfrau-writes]

I Travel Troubled Oceans: Chapter 19 - In Which Jack and Charles Secure Planning Permission and Max Micromanages

Mary had liked several of Charles's photographs of Jack and the workroom and the half-finished fashions enough to post them to Instagram. And she'd liked the photograph of Charles all decked out in silk and countless jewels enough to use it as the title page for a more formal press announcement of the upcoming fashion show. The word “DECADENCE” is emblazoned across a glossy version of the picture in a stark, masculine font.

And then, in slightly smaller font underneath: Jack Rackham – Fall/Winter 2009.

His name. His name. Not quite in lights, but there, for everyone to see. For everyone to know that he is the one who did this. That these accomplishments are his.

Not that he did it all himself, of course. Mary's role is obvious. Christine is indispensable. And it's Charles's face on the cover of his press release.

The may have called Charles his muse as a joke. It seems like the sort of thing a flamboyant fashion designer would call his favorite booty call. Just the right side of pretentiously obfuscating for the older guard who might not be ready for the party boy persona they've both adopted.

But the honest truth is that Jack's come to rely on Charles in a way he hadn't quite expected for this con.

It's not exactly in Chaz's wheelhouse, is the thing. But he's worked hard to learn skills outside bashing skulls, just as Anne has.

Not that he doesn't do plenty of that as well. And gotten some good information out of it. But he's more than the street thug he'd been for so long. And Jack can't say he misses those days – not when the days they have now are so much easier.

So much less full of fear and strife and poverty.

It's almost like an extended holiday, the way they live now. All getting to pretend they're rich and soft and genteel. Getting to walk among the special, the exalted, the beautiful people. The ones with titles and money and pedigree. The ones with names that mean something.

Well now Jack's name means something too.

And not through an accident of birth. Through cleverness and planning. Through luck, of course, but also through plain hard work. Something those gilded, pampered elite would never understand.

--

Charles has been given a slight reprieve in lugging armoires around. The old Hennessy house has been emptied of all the furniture, finally, and Mary's light rigs have all been installed. All the walls repainted and all the pictures of grand empty rooms taken.

But then Max sees the reaction the upper crust have to those pictures. All the ruined grandeur on display, just to be knocked over to make way for progress, for new ways of making money – they fucking love it, the rich brainless investment fuckers.

So now Max wants to take advantage of that greed she's awoken in the elitist twits in thousand pound suites. That desire for wealth, for faded grandeur, for a past of riches and glory and conquest. But brought into the future. Brought into the now. So they can pretend England isn't just some pretentious backwater with delusions of grandeur, with visions of glory (that was never all that glorious) long past.

So Mary decides, yeah, it would be a fucking great idea to do a little promotional photo shoot of all the models for Jack's fashion show in the house, before it gets demolished. Jewel bright clothes, sparkling gems, enough gold to sink a fucking warship, all juxtaposed – that'd been the word she'd used - all fucking juxtaposed against the backdrop of the ruined townhouse.

So Jack'd worked like a fiend to get the clothes ready. And Charles's break is over.

Now he gets to lug around garment bags and makeup trunks and jewelry chests and even more light rigs – all to be placed precisely where Mary dictates, and moved with the changing light or her changing whims. All that shit's fucking heavy. And Anne's no help this time because she's been set to wrangling all the models and making sure they're properly primped and preened and posed for the photos. All under Max and Mary's watchful eyes.

Cuz Max has apparently decided that she wants to have her hand in things personally.

Not that she hadn't kept things well in hand with Jack's other fashion show – finding the models, organizing the behind the scenes contracts. Setting Idelle up with Featherstone.

But now she's actually telling Mary how she wants the pictures to look. Or more specifically, that she wants some big fancy painting in all the shots. Not the whole paining, though. Just pieces of it. Enough to tantalize, to excite, but not to show the goods.

There's even a picture where the models are holding it at the front of the shot, but it's covered by a lacy black cloth, all except for one corner, which pokes out like a whore's ankle in some repressed 1700s pin up.

Charles thinks the whole thing's fucking unnecessary. Who gives a shit if there's a painting showing too much or too little in the shot? Why does he have to be the one to move it over and over again – sometimes millimeter by fucking millimeter – until Max deems it just right? He's got other things to do with his day, thank you very fucking much.

Like pretending to be Jack's ditsy muscular boytoy, and all the hours in the gym and gossiping by the pool that takes to maintain. He better get another fucking break when all this shit is over.

--

With investors sniffing at Max's skirts like rabid jackals, ready to rip each other apart for a chance at the Hennessy townhouse, Jack broaches the topic of planning permission to Councilor Featherstone. And he does it over dinner in a private room at a restaurant where the esteemed councilor could never have gotten a reservation – and especially not on such short notice. Because for all that he has power. For all that he attends all the right clubs – the same clubs Jack himself attends. Well, the councilor's a bit of a social outcast. A bit of a dud in the personality department.

Whereas Jack is all glib charm and meaningless flirtation. Jack knows how to play the sort of high society games that result in the private table on nearly no notice that the councilor is currently enjoying.

What is it they say? Always come to the negotiating table with the outcome already certain? Well, Jack's doing his damnedest to stack the deck in his favor. And if a little show of how well connected he is, how much more he belongs in this world of high-society fops and casual displays of obscene wealth, is what it takes to get Max her planning permission, then Jack will wine and dine Featherstone at the goddamn Ritz if he has to.

Although the slightly less-upscale, though no less entrenched in British upper-class hegemony, restaurant he's chosen for tonight seems to be doing the trick well enough. Councilor Featherstone is looking around with ill disguised awe.

If he were slightly more uncouth, Jack imagines his jaw would be actually agape at all the gilt and velvet and fine linens and sparkling crystal. As it is, it's more than obvious Jack has introduced him to a style of dining out that he's never experienced before. Perfect.

The entire point of this little excursion is to underline to Councilor Featherstone what a... fruitful... relationship they can have. All Jack's connections and wealth at the councilor's fingertips – and all he needs to do is pass the occasional planning permission for a project that otherwise may have languished in limbo for years. And to that end, Charles is doing his considerable best to bring the conversation around to where Jack needs it to go, namely planning permission for the Hennessy house.

A conversation that demonstrates that Charles has become considerably more subtle than Jack ever believed him capable of.

And perhaps that is an oversight on Jack's own part. Him never deigning to look past Charles's rough and unpolished exterior to hidden – really very well hidden – depths. Known for a straightforward style of smash and grab, Charles has really developed a mind for strategy of late. And something of a silver tongue, though it doesn't come close to rivaling Jack's own.

At any rate, Jack appreciates his efforts. Lord Hamilton may have been willing to come right out and ask for little favors, so assured of his power and his place in the London hierarchy he would eschew subtlety entirely - but there's such a thing as being too forward.

Jack finds that method rather gauche. And the last thing he wishes to be is gauche.

Plus, Jack would rather have the councilor's regard – his friendship, even if it is a tad one-sided – than his fear purchased compliance. Because fear may breed deference in the short term, but it leads to chafing at the yoke in the long run. And Councilor Featherstone didn't get to where he is today by being a complete pushover.

So Charles is sitting in this opulent private dining room, as the councilor sips champagne and enjoys expensive hors d'oeuvres, chatting to Idelle about a spa he went to with some of his “friends” from the health club. Which isn't even a lie. Charles had in fact attended a quote girls day unquote at an upscale spa courtesy of one of the women who lounges poolside and looks over her designer sunglasses at the tanned skin Charles is so very unconcerned with putting on display.

The fact that it was a nude spa may have had something to do with Charles being invited. But it sounds as if Charles had a nice enough time. Or at least he's talking it up to Idelle, who makes suitable sounds of impressed jealousy as the story unfolds. Commenting that she'd rather like to be taken to something like that – perhaps on a date?

Personally, Jack would pay enormous amounts of money to not see Featherstone in the alltogether – but Idelle is a consummate professional and lets no sign of displeasure at the idea show. Maybe Max ought to consider giving her a raise. Jack resolves to raise the issue once planning permission has been secured. Speaking of -

“The only thing,” Charles says, voice measured to ensure that Councilor Featherstone is paying the utmost attention. “The only thing I didn't particularly care for was how crowded the spa was.”

“Indeed,” Jack butts in, “that hardly sounds relaxing. Being surrounded by all the teeming masses.”

“Oh, the actual spa part was lovely. So relaxing after a long, hectic week...”

Jack can see Councilor Featherstone's scoffing disbelief that Charles could have anything resembling a hectic week – his schedule filled with nothing more than lounging in various decorous poses on various expensive surfaces, as far as the councilor is aware. But he has some long, hectic weeks at work...

“But as soon as you're back in the more public areas, all that work at relaxing and destressing �� gone!”

“Oh, how terrible!” Idelle exclaims with just the right amount of dramatic disbelief.

“And it was supposed to be one of the more exclusive spa packages as well. You think money would go a bit further nowadays, is all,” Charles finishes. And now all that's left to do is set up the pitch...

Right on cue, Idelle chimes in with, “Too bad there isn't a more private spa. Someplace intimate.” The last is directed at Featherstone, who's blushing and looks primed for the sell.

“Funny you should mention that,” Jack says causally – but not too casually. That's the key. They have to think you're playing them a little so they won't look too deeply at how you're actually playing them. “I happen to have a friend who's looking to start up a little boutique hotel spa. You know where the Hennessy townhouse is?”

The councilor nods, although Jack doubts he was ever actually invited there.

“Well, my friend got it for a song. They were looking to move to warmer climes, you know. And she got an excellent deal for the whole package – house and furniture and everything. Which turned out to be a good thing! The whole place was falling apart, if you can believe. Just completely structurally unsound.” Jack says the last part as if it's the most boring thing in the world.

“So anyway, she's looking to rebuild. Plenty of investors already lined up around the block, of course. And there's mixed zoning, you know. And she doesn't exactly need yet another house to sit empty and eat up heating costs. Plus the cleaning service – you know how much they'll gauge you.”

Pretending that the councilor has a maid service – when Jack knows for certain he doesn't, which is why he doesn't entertain at home much – is another stab at just how different he is from the upper crust.

“Yes, of course,” Councilor Featherstone responds. “They'll take an arm and a leg.”

“So she came on the idea of the hotel and spa. For the country set, or celebrities, or whoever wants a little privacy when visiting the city.” Rich men with mistresses. Government officials with less than acceptable girlfriends. Whoever.

“That sounds lovely,” Idelle chimes in. “Perhaps we might do a spa day there sometime, dear.”

“Oh. Oh I don't know,” the councilor responds, obviously thinking of the enormous price tag attached to something like that.

“We could do a double date,” Charles gushes. “Oh, Idelle! What an excellent idea!”

“Oh, I'm certain I could arrange something like that,” Jack is quick to assure the increasingly panicked looking councilor. “Given that the proposal comes from a close personal friend. I imagine I can talk her into pulling a few strings with whoever purchases the building so we get first crack at it.”

A delicate pause. Calculated to be just enough to let the councilor experience euphoric relief that his problem has been solved - that Jack has been the one to solve it – before bringing it all crashing down.

“Of course, that's assuming the project moves forward any time in the next decade. You of all people know what London real estate is like.”

“You said the lot was zoned for mixed use?” Featherstone asks desperately. He's so close to giving Idelle her heart's desire of the current moment and he can see it slipping away.

Jack nods.

He's not even lying. There are several businesses on that street dating to just after the Great London Fire that necessitate the designation. Plus one unbearably posh cupcake bakery charging upwards of a tenner for a single cupcake.

“Well, then it should be no problem. I can even take a look at everything personally - just to make sure it's all in order, of course.”

“Oh, darling!” Idelle exclaims rapturously. “Would you?”

“Of course, dear. Anything for you.”

Perfect.

Charles grins at Jack, wolflike. And then steers the conversation to other idle gossip about the rich and famous.

Best not to let the councilor dwell too long on what just happened.

[harlot-of-oblivion]

The Devil’s In The Details

You're a detective of the Red Grave City P.D. investigating another strange murder when you find a possible break in the case.

After many months of daydreaming and planning, I'm finally starting a new series featuring Dante/Detective Reader! So, I hope you enjoy the first few chapters! 😘🥰

Warnings: Graphic depictions of a violent crime scenes and cursing.

Chapter 1: Another Day

Another day, another murder, you thought grimly as you arrive at the scene of what is assuredly another grisly crime.

It is early morning. The sun has barely peeked over the horizon, but that is not enough to deter several reporters from crowding around the police tape. You park your motorcycle just on the outskirts of the police barrier, assessing the best possible route to take around the crowd without drawing attention to yourself. A few bright flashes from a numerous camera makes you grumble under your breath as you hop off your ride. You straighten out your riding jacket and jeans before removing your helmet, flipping your hair back as you breath in the crisp morning air.

“Detective! Detective!”

“Is this at all related to the other murders around the city?”

“Does this mean we have a serial killer running rampant through our streets?”

“Detective, please! The citizens of Red Grave deserve some answers!”

The gaggle of clamoring news reporters and journalists greet your ears as you approach the police tape. You keep your head down and turn away from their prying eyes while you press forward, never slowing your pace as you forge ahead. And as soon as you get to the barrier, you quickly duck under and slip through before any of them can surround you with their mics and cameras.

A couple of officers rush forward to calm the crowd as you survey the scene before you: upscale house in the better part of town, no fence, and neighboring houses on either side of the home. You reach into the inside pocket of your jacket and pull out your glasses, quickly sliding them on before whipping out a small sketchbook. Your keen eyes scan around more thoroughly, looking for anything out of place as you walk up the long driveway.

The house looks like your typical suburban home: two stories of brick walls with the usual gothic architecture that is so common around this part of town. The lawn gets cut regularly and only a few stray dog toys sully its pristine state. And the garage is vast, big enough to hold two cars, but there is only one fancy sports car parked in there now.

You slide the pencil stored in the spiral spine of your sketchbook and begin to draw out all the possible inconsistencies you have observed thus far: stray dog toys means either no one’s been around to mow the lawn or that the owners do their own lawn work, the fact that the garage door is open strikes you as odd, and speaking of dog toys…your hand pauses as you double check for any sign of a doghouse in the yard before looking back in the garage, searching for anything might serves as a dog bed.    

Hmm…could be an inside dog, you ponder, squinting at your rough drawing of a dog toy that does seem to be quite small. You make a quick note about it by the sketch before moving on, drawing a car with a question mark beside it and a note about the whereabouts of the other car. When you are finished with your preliminary observation, you reach back into your pocket for a pair of rubber gloves and hurriedly slip them as you approach a group of officers waiting by the entrance.  

“Good Morning, Detective.”

The officer that greets you at the door is Tyrell Reed if you remember correctly. “Morning,” you mutter back with a nod of your head before following him past his fellow officers through the front entrance of the house. You take in your surroundings, noting that the entrance hall is quaint but still holds an air of old-fashioned wealth. After a few more quick glances over at the side rooms you ask what your colleagues refer to as the universal code for what crazy shit are we dealing with today? in the language of law enforcement.

“What have we got here, Officer?”  

“Same shit, different body.”

You chuckle dryly at his matter-of-fact reply before getting down to business. “Victim’s name?”  

“Giles Harmon. The husband of Mabel Harmon.”

You scribble down both names on a fresh page of your sketchbook. “And where is our newly widowed wife?” you ask while glancing down at your drawing of the sports car.

“A few of the neighbors saw her leave in the middle of night about a week ago, which just so happens to be how long the victim has been lying here dead.”

“Did they say whether or not she drove away in a car?” you question, looking up at the officer over the frames of your glasses. He nods and you quickly jot down that detail by the appropriate sketch before moving onto the next question. “Any kids?”

“One. A son. He goes by Paul and he’s a student over at RGU. He’s also the one who found the body, so he’s currently being held down at the station for questioning.”

“Excellent! What about the dog?”

“Dog?” Officer Reed’s brow furrows. “What dog?”

You flash him your drawing of the stray dog toys. “There’s evidence in the yard that points to them owning at least one dog,” you inform patiently before firing away with follow up questions. “Did you or any of the other officers first at the scene see or hear anything that may have been a dog?”

“Hold on a sec.” Officer Reed excuses himself and peeks his head out the front door. You hear him ask the officers your question and a variety of murmurings before he turns back to you. “No, ma’am. None of us heard no barking, but one of the boys did see some bowls on the kitchen floor.”

“Did any of the neighbors mention hearing a dog bark when Mrs. Harmon left?”

Officer Reed shakes his head. “Not that I recall, but I’ll be sure to send you their statements.”

“Did you see the son with a dog by chance?”

He shakes his head again. “Nope. I saw him myself as he was being escorted from the scene. He wasn’t holding a dog and there wasn’t a dog following after him either.”

“Alright,” you nod, finishing off the last of your notes by the dog toy sketch. “I’ll take it from here, Officer.”

“No problem, Detective. I’ll get outta your way and let ya do your thing.”  

Officer Reed tips his hat and heads back outside, leaving you to explore the rest of the house at your leisure. You head towards the kitchen, passing through what looks to be the dining room on the way there. Your eyes instantly spot the bowls previously mentioned on the floor by the end of a countertop. When you go over to inspect them, you see one is filled with water while the other is full of brown chunky pellets that look like your typical dog food. You bend down and pick up a pellet and give it a sniff, confirming that it is indeed dog food before making note of it in your sketchbook.

Your eyes flicker over and pause at the sight of a door. If I am not mistaken…that must lead to the garage, you surmise, slowly rising to your feet as you take note of a mat and a wooden key holder by the door. Multiple pairs of shoes are lined up across the mat, ranging from high heels and loafers to muddy sneakers and running shoes. You flip a page in your sketchbook and begin to draw, taking great care to detail the perfect formation shoes as well as the obvious gap in the middle of the mat…which could have possibly been the pair of shoes Mrs. Harmon put on before fleeing the scene.  

As soon as you are done sketching the missing pair of shoes, you glance over to the key holder and instantly notice an empty hook. You look closely at the other hooks, noting the pair of keys that belong with the sports car in the garage along with a couple of other mysterious keys. One of them looks like a key to a lawnmower while the other may be a key to a lock box or a safe. You quickly correct your previous note about the possibility of having hired help to at least not having it for lawncare before taking out a spare evidence bag. You carefully unhook the mystery key and drop it into the bag, making sure it is sealed properly before finishing up in the kitchen.  

You open a few drawers and cabinets, casually searching until you find a bag of name brand dog food in a nearby cupboard. The label boasts about being the best dog food on the market for small breeds, confirming your assumption from earlier when you first arrived. You quickly write that detail down and take one last hard look at the whole kitchen, letting what you have discovered so far tell their tale of what happened the night of the murder. All the little details fall into place and form an incomplete picture, but you can still glean some information from what you have gathered thus far:

The numerous pairs of shoes on the mat show no sign of being shoved out of place, which could mean the suspect felt no sense of urgency as they fled the scene. There is evidence that they owned a dog, but it either ran away or it’s hiding somewhere in the house…or perhaps a victim as well. And if it turns out that the latter is true, then the murder may not be the result a lover’s quarrel gone wrong.

The picture in your mind looks more like a preliminary drawing, but you remind yourself that even the best works of art take time to complete.

You check out the other rooms on the bottom floor only to find more evidence of this family’s luxurious wealth in the form of expensive paintings and furniture. Once again you see no evidence of a rushed exit, but that could simply be because the suspect did not have to enter most of the rooms on the way to the garage. You head back to the entrance hall and climb up the stairs to the second floor. The sight of more police tape blocking entry into one of the rooms tells you that is where you will find the body of the victim as well as the crime scene analyst scouring every inch of that room for crucial evidence.

Before you head in there for a quick debriefing, you take a quick peek into the other rooms and immediately deduce that the scene of crime happens to also be the bedroom.  You also take note of just how spotless each room appears to be, which may add more credence to this being premeditative murder. Easy there…don’t wanna jump the gun so soon, you mentally reprimand while nodding at the two officers on guard outside of the bedroom. You squeeze through a large gap in the police tape and your eyes instantly spot a most grisly sight.

Mr. Harmon is lying face up on the bloodstained carpet, dead vacant eyes staring up at the ceiling. You turn to a fresh page in your sketchbook and get to work mapping this horrid scene. The bed sits in the center of the room against the wall and the sheets are all rumpled. One of four pillows is on the floor while the others are strewn across the bed. The victim’s body is lying a couple of feet away from the foot of the bed and he appears to be wearing white cotton pajamas with a baseball theme pattern. Besides the messy bed and dead body, nothing else seems remotely out of place on first inspection. But that just means you need a closer look to add more detail to the sketch forming in your mind.

You draw out some final details before walking across the room towards Carmen Torres, the crime scene analyst currently snapping pictures of the victim. Both of you started out in Red Grave P.D. at the same time and have formed an amicable relationship over the past few years. She does not seem to mind your more serious and sometimes snarky attitude while you tolerate her eccentricities since behind her quirkiness lies a brilliant forensic mind. Plus, you enjoy her attempts at lightening the mood with cheery conversation while poking around a dead body.

The rotten stench of decay wafts under your nose before you can call out to get her attention, causing you to wrinkle your nose as you cough in disgust. Carmen looks back over her shoulder and flashes you a sunny smile. “Good morning, Quickdraw!” she greets, using her fond nickname for you despite all your vehement protests.

“There’s nothing good about it, San Diego,” you retort with a roll of your eyes while waving your hand in front of your face. “But I guess good morning to you too.”

“I see you’re as chipper as always,” Carmen jests as she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a jar of what she refers to as miracle smelly cream before tossing it your way.

“I’ll be a dazzling ray of sunshine as soon as I get some coffee,” you chortle while catching the jar. You unscrew the cap, scoop a small amount of its contents onto your finger, and smear it beneath your nose. When you give a test sniff to see that the stench is no longer as strong you screw the cap back and toss the jar back to her. “But until then…” you trail off, taking one last look around the bedroom. Carmen waits patiently for you to continue, already aware that this is just part of your investigative routine from all the other times you have worked together. You glance through your sketchbook one last time before asking the age-old universal code once more:

“What have we got here?”

“A little variety for one thing!” Carmen exclaims as she takes a few steps closer to the body. “Not every day that we see the wife beating the shit of her husband before finishing them off!”

“True,” you admit with a tilt of your head. “Domestic violence where the woman is the abuser is not as common, but it still happens.” You follow her and crouch down over the body for closer inspection. Despite being dead, Mr. Harmon’s expression seems quite indifferent to his current state. Multiple injuries mare his face, neck, and chest, indicating that there was physical altercation before his untimely demise. It all points to a classic case of domestic abuse, but all the bruises you see are still black and blue.

“Did you happen to find any more bruises that are older?”

Carmen’s face scrunches up as she ponders your question before answering. “Uhhhh nope. I’ll make a note of it for the medical examiner…Oh!” She sets the camera down on the floor before scooting closer to the head of the body. “You’re gonna love this!” she declares with a confident grin. “As you can see, there’s a real nasty contusion on his head, which could’ve been the cause of death,” she informs while pointing to a bloody spot by the victim’s temple before continuing, “but there’s just one problem with that theory.”

You reach over and examine the wound with your gloved hand, feeling around the injury before looking back at her. “Not even a dent or crack in the skull,” you conclude softly, adding it to your mental sketch of the crime.

Carmen nods excitedly. “Exactly! So maybe he died from blunt force trauma to the head, but we won’t know for sure until the autopsy.” She picks up her camera and switches lenses before snapping a few detailed shots of the injury as she continues. “If anything, I’d say he suffered from a concussion. And if that’s the case, then it’s possible that it played a part in his death. Well, that and the loss of blood.”

“Hmm…seems plausible,” you murmur more to yourself as you withdraw your hand. “Miss Murder beats him up, he falls unconscious, and she probably runs away thinking that he’s dead.” You hold your sketchbook in your lap while you take out another rubber glove to replace the one now sullied with blood. As you carefully pull off the glove and slip a clean one on, you think about the recent cases yet to be solved. None of them are related in terms of how the crime itself happened, but there is one tiny physical detail that connects them. The more you think about it, the more you start to get a hunch that so far has never let you down.

“Is there any indication that he may have been paralyzed?”

Carmen pauses her photo session. “Uhhhh besides getting smacked aside the head? No, not really.” She removes the camera from her face and stares up at the ceiling in thought. “It’s possible that his spinal cord could’ve been hit during the beating, but I dunno if Miss Murder could’ve pull that off.” She turns her head and meets your contemplative gaze. “Ooooh! Are ya getting’ one of your Quickdraw hunches?” she guesses eagerly, eyes growing wide as she leans over in anticipation of your explanation.  

You grunt in mild annoyance before indulging her curiosity. “Let’s look at his hands and arms.”

Both of you lift a hand from where you are crouching and push back the sleeve of his pajamas down to the elbow. You splay the victim’s arm out onto the floor and begin to draw out your findings in the sketchbook. The inside of his palm is a bit calloused, perhaps from doing his own yard work, but the rest of his hand is smooth and free from any kind of blemish. You note that Carmen is examining the left hand and that a gold band is around his ring finger. His arm has a sprinkling of freckles among coarse hair as well as some muscle. And again, there are no blemishes of any kind…no cuts, no bruises, no injuries whatsoever.    

“No sign of defensive wounds,” Carmen mumbles in awe under her breath.

“It’s human instinct to defend yourself,” you chime in absentmindedly while you make note of your discovery by the depiction of the corpse in your sketchbook. “We still put up a fight even if it seems hopeless.”

You grow quiet as distant memories bubble up from the back of your mind, but you suppress the hurtful images as you reach over and pull the collar of the pajamas away from the victim’s neck. All you see are more bruises and no other injuries, so you follow your gut instinct and move onto to inspect his chest. You peek under the pajama top and see something odd just under his left pectoral. Your fingers make quick work of the buttons on the pajama top and you flick it off his chest for better inspection. And just as you expected, there is a small puncture wound that looks terribly like the other previous murders that have cropped up recently.  

“Oh shit!” Carmen gasps as she fumbles for her analyst kit. “I didn’t think about-”

“It’s okay,” you reassure while the corners of your lips quirk into your first smile of the day. “Nobody would’ve expected you to search for injection wounds since-”

“He has obvious signs of blunt force trauma to the head,” Carmen finishes your sentence as she takes out a couple of DNA swabs and tubes. “Do you think this is connected to the other murders? Or is this just one big coincidence?” she asks, quickly catching onto your hunch while you put a big circle around the puncture on your drawing.

“Don’t wanna jump to conclusions just yet,” you respond calmly while readjusting your glasses with the pencil. “Not until we perform an autopsy,” you tack on while Carmen gives you a knowing smirk. You stand back up and flip through your sketchbook, intending to ask her about the missing dog and if she came across a safe in the bedroom, but the sudden ringing of your phone interrupts your train of thought.

You shuffle the sketchbook in your arms, carefully trying to remove the rubber glove from one hand. Carmen watches you for a bit while you struggle before offering to slip the glove off for you when an annoyed huff leaves your lips. As soon as your hand is free from its protective barrier, you pull out your cellphone to see who is disturbing your investigation. “Huh…speak of the devil,” you mumble, seeing the name of the medical examiner before swiping the screen to answer.

“Hello?”

“Detective!” he greets you back enthusiastically. “I finally have the test results you wanted!”

“Excellent!” you exclaim while closing your sketchbook. “Mind if I swing by your office?”

“Oh gods yes! Please!”

You hear the definite sound of worry within his pleading voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, everything is fine! It’s just uh,” he pauses for a moment. “It’d probably be better if I just explain it to you in person.”

“Alright. I’ll head on over shortly,” you reply, arching a brow at his curious behavior, but you are not too surprised since he is known for being a little paranoid at times.

“Very good, Detective,” he sighs in relief. “See you then!”

When the end of the line cuts off, you check the time on your phone before slipping it back into your pocket. “You got a break in the case?” Carmen asks inquisitively as she snaps a few more close ups of the body.

“I sure fucking hope so,” you grumble morosely, “or else the Lieutenant will have my ass for leaving so soon.” You take out the evidence bag with the mysterious key. “I found this hanging on a key holder in the kitchen. Looks like it can open a safe or a lock box. Have you-”

“Nope, but I’m not quite done here,” she quickly answers while taking the bag from your grasp. “I’ll keep my eyes open for it though.”

You nod. “Also, have you seen any sign of their dog in the house?”

Carmen shakes her head. “No…but I did collect some small fibers from the bedsheets that could’ve been dog hair. Now get outta here!” She gestures towards the door with her head. “And don’t worry, I’ll cover for ya,” she reassures with a friendly smile. “It did sound like Graves was a little spooked by something…well, more so than usual.”

“Yeah,” you murmur while stuffing your gloveless hand into your jacket pocket. “Don’t know what that’s about.”

“Maybe…” she trails off in thought before her eyes suddenly grow wide. “One of the body’s came to life and confessed their love to him!”

“Oh my god,” you groan, staring up at the ceiling as she expands her ridiculous speculation.

“And he, so overtaken by their confession of undying love, asked them to be their lawfully wedded zombie!”

“Okay! I’m leaving now,” you announce with an indignant huff while walking towards the exit, glancing over your shoulder at the very exhilarated crime scene analyst.

“Aww!!! He probably wants to ask you to be his best woman at the undead wedding!”

“See ya, San Diego!” you bark back with a half-hearted wave of your sketchbook before rushing out of the bedroom, shaking your head in exasperation at her facetious claims while climbing down the stairs.

You remove the other rubber glove and your glasses as you head out the front door. The officers standing outside bid you farewell as you make your way down the long driveway, steeling yourself with every step as the clamor of news reporters rings out in the morning air. You are once again bombarded with various questions as you cross under the police tape. Your eyes narrow as you walk up to your motorcycle, which is currently surrounded by a small group of journalists from the local newspaper.

Damn press! you seethe, but their presence is not enough to stop you from blocking their incessant inquiries by putting on your helmet before mounting your ride. The group spreads out and tries to block your only exit, but you call their buff by revving your engine a couple of times in warning. They all jump back at the blaring purr of the bike, giving you an opening to take off from the crime scene with a loud roar.

Another day, another murder…but I’m also another day closer to solving this case, you resolve with a determined grin while turning down the road towards your next destination.

Read Chapter 2

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Tagging: @bettybattaglia @drusoona and @exsultry

[cursewoodrecap]

Session 22: Five-Dimensional Man-Go

This is a session I’ve been looking forward to for quite some time. I get to introduce three of my favorite characters in the entire campaign. 

In the real world it’s been a while, but this was the session we officially welcomed a new chaos goblin player to the table. And damn, am I glad we did.

Valeria goes to Hoeska’s armor smiths for some upgrades, and accidentally kicks off a goth fashion montage. Her new armor has gorgeous black detailing with purple rose accents, accessorized with a brand-new Shusva-skin bag with matching claw clasp. Gral picks up a fancy Shusva-leather cloak and belt. Shoshana, realizing that a vampire’s castle is basically a Hot Topic, gets some fishnet arm warmers to accompany her fang necklace. We also get some healing potions and hope they aren’t made from lost souls or anything.

Valeria resummons Aethis, who pops back into existence in a burst of glitter that’s entirely incongruous with the local grim aesthetic. Apparently celestial gators are only mildly inconvenienced by fatalities.

As we hitch up the horses to get back on the road, we find out Ser Boris is also preparing to head out. “Woods full of many nasty creatures. Must keep hunting! Maybe I find way down to Barroch, I have heard monsters are attacking workers there.”

Gral perks up at the name of his people’s capitol. “I’m sure the orcs will treat you well. What kind of monsters are they dealing with?”

“Wolves, bears, maybe werewolf? I will find out when I get there! Cursebreakers do not have much of working relationship with orcs, so info is scattered. That is why I must investigate!”

While he heads south into orc territory, we’re gonna go north toward Sturmhearst to look into all the Key nonsense Professor Bjork told us is goin’ down. It’ll be a long trip; it’s on the coast, and we’re well into the heartland of the wood. As we get closer, we’re gonna have to look for new maps, too – the patchwork of safe zones and Curse disasters changes rapidly, and the roads that were passable a month ago might be deathtraps today.

We trek for several blessedly uneventful days. One night, in a region where a sizable number of halflings have settled, we have the fortune of seeing an inn on the horizon as night starts to fall. A sign proclaims the Fusilier’s Rest, a combination winery and inn located on a lush vineyard. Valeria’s kind of suspicious of anything too plant-based right now, but the rest of us totally want a winery tour.

We hitch up our wagon next to a post labeled Valet Parking. Aethis parks themself in the stables. Looking at the place, with its rather low doorframe and quaintly painted décor, we suspect Demish wine snootery instead of weird plant cults.

We duck through the door and take in the scene. It’s on the upscale end of totally normal, with locals sitting around eating and a huge pot of Demish onion soup bubbling on the hearth. The old halfling bartender is wearing pieces of a worn but well-cared-for blue-and-gold uniform. Two polished old pistols hang within reach on the wall, along with a pristine old Fusille musket in a place of honor behind the bar. Shiny medals in a handmade case are proudly displayed atop the bar.

As is D&D protocol, we look around for any notably wacky characters. We find them in the corner: an old man with unkempt white hair and multi-lensed, colorful glasses, engrossed in a game of Man-go against a young human doctor. We know he’s a doctor, because he’s got a stubby-beaked Sturmhearst mask pushed up to expose a tired but friendly face. His coat might once have been a lab coat, but it’s since been patched and sutured together so many times that it’s probably done a full ship-of-Theseus. His right arm is in a makeshift sling, and he’s nursing a small glass of Kevan vodka; probably the closest thing they have to rotgut moonshine in a wine-snob place like this.

We’re like, neat. Let’s eat soup.

Valeria orders a local vineyard wine and chats with the bartender about it. “The man who runs it is a madman; he thinks he can grow good wine grapes in Valdia. But he pays my sister well, she does her best.”

“Oh, don’t listen to René, his sister does marvelous work! No halfling will admit that wine grown outside Demionde will be more than spoiled grape juice,” teases one of the local barflies.

Gral asks Valeria who’s winning the Man-go game. The old man is rambling pleasantly, barely paying attention, and he is absolutely crushing the young doctor. The doctor looks like he’s totally aware he’s being taken to the cleaners, but he’s gonna let the old guy have his fun. As the game draws to a close, the younger man smiles ruefully and hands over a few coins. Meanwhile, the old fella, his eyes magnified to mismatched sizes by his funky glasses, spots our most conspicuous party member.

“Kyr! How’s the wine?” he calls, beckoning her over.

“Quite good actually!” Valeria chirps. “Was that the Kiloni maneuver?”

“Yes, or a variant I picked up somewhere! The Killam maneuver…kilometer…kilowatt? Something of the sort.”

Valeria very much wants to play him, and the old guy’s defeated opponent is happy to trade her his spot. The young man’s propped up leg hits the ground with a suspiciously loud clunk as he vacates his chair for her.

The old man peers up at her, bright-eyed even behind multiple layers of glass. “So what brings a Knight of the Rose here?”

“We’re headed to Sturmhearst, actually!”

“I see! I’ve heard the roads between here and there are pretty tricky to travel, you know.”

“No kidding. Do you have an updated map?”

He snaps his fingers. “No, but I just came from there! I’ve got an old map and I can easily update it for you kids. René is on night watch, I’ll leave it with him so you don’t have to stay up waiting for me to finish it. I know a route that’ll get you there lickety-split and safe as trousers! Now let me guess, you played at the clubs in Aurentium? You have the look about you.”

“Not the clubs, precisely…”

“Ah! Street rules, then!”

Valeria, who played Man-go against literally everyone who would have her, shrugs. “Maybe?”

“René, we’ll need some cups and a dumb hat!” the old man calls.

The young doctor wanders over to the bar and gets a refill, settling down next to Shoshana. “Hey, wanna bet on their game? The old guy’s pretty sharp.”

Shoshana laughs. “Oh, my friend is definitely gonna lose. I’ll put a silver on her, though, out of loyalty.”

It’s an odd game to spectate. Valeria falls behind early on; an insight check shows he’s not cheating, he’s just VERY good. Oh, and also Valeria’s assuming an entirely different set of house rules than this guy, and it’s tripping her up. Wait, are we doing street style, or dock style? Anyway, Valeria’s wearing the dumb hat now. At one point they both spit on the board.

“Y’know, I’ve never seen anyone from Sturmhearst take the mask off,” Shoshana says to her new drinking buddy, watching the game with confusion.

“On the clock, it’d be a safety hazard! But off the clock, eh, it’s fine. Some people get more elitist than me about it, I’m a hometown Valdian through and through.”

(You’re from Joisey, I’m from Joisey! What exit?)

“I haven’t actually been to the university since the Curse started, but I’m heading back to research some stuff I found out up in the Grammelsmarsh swamps. Some real disconcerting stuff regarding undead, and the like. The locals refer to it as the Wailing Wight.”

Shoshana gives him a once-over, rolling a decent Perception. He’s scruffy, though that could mostly be from hard travel, and definitely looks like he’s had a rough time of it. His arm’s in a sling and the little exposed skin Shoshana can see has more than its share of nicks and scars. His gait when he walked over was slightly uneven, one leg making a suspiciously heavy thunk against the wooden floor. Over his shoulder, he’s carrying a long, heavy case sealed with tar for waterproofing.

Hold up. She points to the case. “Do you have an alive guy in there?”

“…Uh.”

“You hesitated, and that’s not great.”

“Uh…no. No, I do not have an alive guy in here,” he says awkwardly.

“Okay, because the last time there was a weird bag, there was a whole-ass dude in there, and it turned into a whole thing.”

“N-no, no no no, there’s no person in the case,” he protests, not quite meeting Shoshana’s judgy cat eyes. He definitely doesn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, even though the case has started gently twitching.

Meanwhile, old Man-Go man has proved himself quite fluent in Draco-Aquilian, though with an unmistakable mammalian accent. Gral butts into the lively conversation when it winds back to Valdian. “It seems like you’re rather well traveled. What is your profession?”

“Oh, y’know, I go here and there. I’ve been around. There’s so much to see out there!”

Valeria smiles. “I can’t fault you there. Anything in particular you’re looking for?

“I go wherever the winds take me, mostly,” he says, as if Cursewood travel isn’t the most dangerous hobby since they invented pyromancer cookoffs.

Valeria, impressively, only loses the game by a little. The old man jovially shakes her hand and promises to go get started on that map to Sturmhearst for us, springing to his feet with surprising deftness for his age and bustling up toward his room.

Gral and Shoshana, meanwhile, are busy makin’ friends with the doctor guy. “What swamp were you fighting undead in?”

“The Grammelsmarsh? It’s downriver of Mornheim.”

“Ohhh! We heard some, uh, adventurers did a purifying ritual on the river. It might help your situation?”

“That’s great, but…I dunno. Once you mix in swamp gas, things get a lot more interesting.”

“The explosions kind of interesting?”

“…Sometimes.”

The players have noticed that our doctor friend here is, like…not an NPC, there’s another guy at the table (the same player as Isadora! :D), so we start sizing each other up as travel companions.

“You seem like a pretty decent guy,” Gral says, immediately insight checking.

“I mean, you guys seem on the up-and-up too?”

Shoshana winks at him. “Well, I’m not that up-and-up but these two are very diplomatic and important.”

“If you’re also headed up to Sturmhearst, it might make sense for us to travel together? I’m not very quiet,” he admits, knocking on his knee with a clang, “but if you-“

“Hello!” Valeria, hearing clanking, has clanked over loudly to join. “Kyr Valeria Argent, at your service!”

“Uh, hi! I’m Vigdor. I’m a doctor! I mean, you knew that, with the, uh-“ He points to his bird mask. “If you need any balms or salves – I mean, I’m mostly a surgeon, but I know some herbology.”

Is that so! We chat about Dr. Ulmus and Dr. Kjeller. Everyone loves Dr Kjeller!

“I’ve heard of Dr. Kjeller! I haven’t met the guy, but he’s the leading expert on troll physiology. Getting him to come lecture hasn’t worked out so far.”

We ask René the innkeeper about any local threats. Apparently this town’s gotten lucky; the biggest threats recently have just been bandits and one overaggressive badger.

“Oh yeah, one of my cats fought one of those, it went badly,” Shoshana remembers. “For the badger, I mean. I have weird cats.”

(The inn also has cat. His name is Jean Clawed.)

Eventually we all head upstairs. As the night bears on, the girls fall asleep, presumably after painting each other’s toe claws and gossiping. Gral’s still awake, practicing his lute in the rare luxury of a single room, when he pauses. Something doesn’t sound right.

Putting his lute aside, he listens cautiously at the window and feels a deep dread grow in his stomach. The faint scent of ozone drifts in the air. The crickets and night birds have gone dead silent, and in the unsettling quiet he can hear the terrible growling, piping sound he’s heard twice before: once in a house in a hole, and once as Bullbreaker’s expedition faced its destruction.

With great urgency and no volume control, Gral sends a Message to a sleeping Shoshana: “RED ALERT, KEY SHIT’S HERE.” Shoshana wakes up and kicks Valeria.

Gral then sends a Message to our new friend Vigdor, more calmly. “If you have weapons, get them now. Something is happening, it’s going to be dangerous.”

The early warning lets Vigdor and Valeria armor up, Shoshana helping Valeria buckle on the heavy pieces in a hurry. Meanwhile, Gral sprints downstairs, casting Mirror Image as he goes.

René the innkeeper is cleaning his fusille with practiced precision, humming an old marching song. Gral can hear something moving in the kitchen behind the old halfling, so he pops another stealthy Message cantrip. “This is the orc from earlier. I think something bad is in the kitchen – I’ve heard that noise before. Hold on tight to that musket, I’m going in.”

“The back door is locked, I would have heard someone come in,” the old soldier whispers back.

“These things don’t use doors,” Gral hisses.

A 17 Persuasion convinces René, who loads a bullet into his musket. “Where are those friends of yours?”

A heavy clank from upstairs answers that question, as Vigdor and Valeria thud toward the stairs. Gral scopes out the room and sees, on the bar, a big leather map case. The map from the Man-Go guy! Then he peers into the kitchen and, yup, that’s a fleshhound, all right.

Everyone else upstairs bursts into the hall just as a second fleshhound emerges into existence next to them. Shoshana, without hesitation, hits it with a gout of flame. Its strange ethereal flesh solidifies for a moment, but then it shakes itself and charges forward, its displacement energy restored.

Meanwhile, the one downstairs doesn’t aim for Gral or René, trying to run past them. Gral plays a discordant note on his lute, using his Minor Key at the opposite frequency to its vibration and preventing it from displacing, before he strikes. A spectral, scarred orc swings a warhammer down on the creature, Thrice-Burned’s ghost getting some payback as Gral’s blade strikes true.

René takes a shot with his musket and crit-fails, understandably freaked out by the writhing mass of teleporting tentacles, the wild shot careening directly into Gral. Luckily, it only pops a Mirror Image, but everyone upstairs hears a frustrated yell of “NO. FRIEND! ME FRIEND!”

Vigdor dashes past Valeria to the stairs, his previously-motionless arm reaching out of its sling to slap her on the armor with a resounding clash of metal. A silver Jotunn rune glows through the cloth of his sleeve, and she feels Protection from Good and Evil snap into place over her. She takes the cue and stabs the hound, rose vines bursting from her trident and stabbing their long thorns into its oddly flickering flesh.

The pupils on the Eyegis snap to the space behind the beast. Our normal eyes see nothing, but the Key-aligned shield’s eyes see a magical gate, faintly connected to the hound.

As a member of the Order of the Rose, Valeria’s trained to deal with fiendish incursions. This isn’t a portal to the Hells, but she thinks it might get closed similarly. As she charges forward to deal with it, everything seems to move twice as fast as it should: the Key’s spatial distortion has made certain areas the opposite of difficult terrain, where you can move double your speed. Nyoom!

Shoshana zaps it with lightning and heads downstairs to help Gral, who’s being slapped by tentacles. The zapped one flees toward the portal, but Valeria Sentinels and stabs it to death. The downstairs hound gets its tentacles into the real Gral.

Vigdor moves to Gral’s aid, ripping away the last of his sling and clamping a large circular blade to his forearm. With the pull of a ripcord, it loudly whirs into motion. As the Buzzing Butcher slams into the displacer hound with a gory squelch, he asks about sneak attack, like a rogue!

A very, very loud rogue.

Gral breaks away from the hound’s tentacles and looks around. Through the windows, more fleshhounds have appeared outside. The space outside is warped – leaving this inn is going to be very difficult while all this nonsense is going on. The lights of the vineyard seem miles away.

However, Gral realizes, the hound responded to the sound of his lute. And when he used his Minor Key he caught a glimpse of the portal it came through. He begins to play again, using the Minor Key to try to take control of it. The GM allows him to burn a 3rd level spell slot for a colossal roll of 33. He moves the portal inside a wall, to temporarily block anything coming through.

René takes a shot at the remaining hound and misses.

Valeria, upstairs, draws her chained sword and spends a 1st level slot to try to close the portal, the same way paladins close Infernal gateways. The chains of Rack extend from the sword and stitch the portal shut.

(Gral and Valeria each gain inspiration for using Portal Trixx!)

A Thing Occurs at initiative 0, and we hear strange piping coming from the stables. We’re kind of occupied, so we trust Aethis to bite anything that bothers the horses.

Shoshana sprints down the stairs and to the bar. Aw, there’s another flesh hound coming in from the kitchen. Her Chill Touch misses, and the new monster slaps Gral.

Vigdor nyooms through a Zoom, which makes some Really Weird doppler effects happen with his clanky leg and his buzzy arm. He slides across the bar like an action hero and slams his saw down, missing the hound and showering the room in a hail of splinters.

Valeria is still upstairs, and it is LOUD downstairs. She’s gonna dash to get the heck down there and rejoin the festivities.

Gral Phantasmal Forces the new fleshhound, and in its mind, horrible liquid tendrils emerge from the soup pot and constrict around it. The soup rises to the defense of the Fusilier’s Rest!

René gets his wits about him and takes a pistol shot at the nearer fleshhound, tagging it with a bullet and keeping it in place. “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE. OUR POLICY IS NO PETS! I will not make an exception for you, you do NOT seem particularly polite!”

The fleshhound grabs the map case off the bar and starts to run for it. René hits it with the butt of his rifle. The second hound can’t attack Vigdor since it’s too busy convincing itself soup isn’t dangerous, so Vigdor’s free to draw his pistol and unload a Sneak Attack bullet into the fleeing hound’s back.

René reloads his musket. It’s been a long time since he’s done it under fire, but the Royal Fusilier Corps of Demionde does not half-ass their training.

The portal the hound’s heading for bisects a wall now, so it might be hard for the hound to get through.  Before it can worry about that, though, it comes face to face with Valeria, who’s ready to rumble. She kills it, dropping the map to the ground, and skitters through the Zoomy Zone to try to trident the second hound. It displaces out of the way.

Gral seizes control of another portal, and this time decides to use it to see what’s going on. He tries to hop out to the stables, where that weird noise is coming from. He enters a weird nether space full of the flickering bodies of fleshhounds, writhing and blinking, which the DM calls the Threshold. Gral accepts psychic damage to see what’s going on, and the patterns become clearer as the Key takes hold temporarily in his brain. These portals all connect to each other and the Threshold at the same time. Whatever’s out in the stables, making that eerie piping noise, is tied to the portals – it can’t fully exist in our realm. So if you close all the portals, it’ll force that thing to leave; if you drive it away, the portals will close. Either way, the Key’s influence on this place will fade.

Oh, and that thing out in the stables? It’s the Lurke r again.

Gral’s old enemy wrests control of the portal back from Gral, who stumbles back out into the inn, reeling from the sudden whammy of Key taint.

Shosha shoots lightning at the nearest hound, which retaliates by leaping through her, disrupting her matter with its own. It’s a highly unpleasant experience. A new hound jumps out of the portal next to Valeria. As Vigdor, Shoshana, and René all attack, Gral shuts another portal with his lute’s magic. “Guys, there’s something horrible in the stables!” he shouts. “If we bust enough portals it’ll go away!”

The Lurker continues to make mysterious dice rolls, but apparently it’s rolling poorly, so we don’t quite find out what it’s up to. It peers through one of the last few portals, only visible to Gral and the Eyegis. It’s hard to get a good look at, fifth-dimensional as it is, but it’s weirdly humanoid, actually? It’s surrounded by floating lanterns and holding some sort of pipe or flute.

(The DM notes that Jean Clawed is awake and doesn’t see why any of this is his business. He’s capable of using the portals; he’s not Key tainted, that’s just how cats are.)

We exchange blows with the remaining hounds, Chromatic Orbs flying and chainsaws buzzing. René bayonets a hound to death, for the honor of all NPCs.

Gral powerslides on his knees across the Zoomy Zone, playing a complicated riff, woobling himself right through the fireplace into the kitchen. He spends another level 3 spell slot to get the portal to dance itself shut. “And that was Through the Fire and Flames!”

René reloads his gun. Shoshana blasts the hound with fire, so Vigdor’s action goes off and he chainsaws it to death, the body and spine getting caught in the spinning chain. FATALITY.

The searing light of Shoshana’s fire casts sharp shadows on the walls of the inn, which begin to writhe and re-form, swirling together into a lithe, snarling feline shape that springs toward the Lurker. It pounces with an odd, broken yowl that’s incredibly familiar – although Valeria and Gral have only ever heard it once, from underneath an overturned laundry basket.

Vigdor, who’s never met a flesh-hound OR a cursecat before, makes an arcana check to figure out what in the seven hells is going on. It seems some sort of entity is thinning the barriers between realities? Its very essence seems to be intermingled with portal; it cannot fully leave the portal or exist in this realm. Like a malevolent, sentient pair of curtains.

He’s like okay, curtains sound like something I can chainsaw. It’s curtains for you, see? (Fun fact: if he rolls 21 or higher on attack roll with chainsaw, he gets sneak attack regardless of other circumstances. Because it’s a goddamn CHAINSAW.)

The Lurker turns its attention directly on us, or at least to the enormous hissing cat hellbent on ruining its day. Gral, still strumming furiously, realizes the Lurker’s only got a couple of portals left. He’s closed a portal already; he’s gonna try to close all of them for good. The DM imposes disadvantage and a brutal pile of psychic damage, but Gral is unphased, hitting a power chord that shakes the entire inn.

The Lurker screeches and reaches for him, the space around Gral beginning to warp, but it’s too late, the portal slamming shut against it. The Zoomy Zones vanish; the portals close, the strange atmosphere fades. The road looks to be the size it was before instead of an endless stretch of packed earth; the vineyard is once again an easy ten-minute walk away.

His big solo complete, Gral sways and collapses unconscious. Valeria runs over and Lays On Hands so he doesn’t die, while Vigdor starts casting Mending on the destroyed bar furniture. Shoshana, meanwhile, just stares dumbstruck at the place where a huge spectral cat is dissipating into shadowy smoke.

“…Schmendrick?”

René is holding himself together, but he’s an old man and it’s been a while since he fought this much. He took a bit of damage; Valeria pat pats him some HP. “Thank you, Kyr. I…I need to check on my other guests. The old man with the Man-Go game, we must find out if he lives.”

Valeria accompanies him upstairs. Rack’s glowing rose vines are still visible, stitching the portal shut; it’s healing more quickly than Valeria’s used to seeing. The door to the old man’s room swings open under Valeria’s cautious knock. The bed is unmade but empty, and the old man’s luggage is gone. The only things left are a generous tip on the counter and his odd multicolored glasses.

As Vigdor steps outside to clean viscera off his chainsaw, Gral scopes out the stables. There’s evidence of disturbed earth around the grounds, but nothing conclusive. Aethis seems to be unbothered.

We reconvene without much to show for our investigation. But we have one last clue: Why were the hounds so interested in the old man’s map? We spread it out on one of the bar tables and crowd around. It’s a map of Valdia, but the path it shows us to take to Sturmhearst makes No Sense. It’s not even contiguous! It tells us to start here and wander north, and then the line cuts off next to some scribbled equations, the route picking up again elsewhere, where he’s drawn a symbol we don’t recognize – and so on, in strange and nonsensical disconnected paths.

Shoshana, on a hunch, puts on the multicolored glasses the old man left behind. Like 3D glasses, they reveal the hidden image. Through the kaleidoscopic lenses, she can see remnants of the Key’s influence all around the inn; the fading Zoomy Zones and closing portals light up in ultraviolet. The map, meanwhile, has gained an entirely new dimension, like a layer of holographs. NOW the shortcuts make sense – they route through other dimensions along the z-axis, with additional symbols and labels giving helpful hints.

To be honest, it does look like a much faster route. And one of the notes says it leads to the “Drowned City” – hey, isn’t that where Bullbreaker ended up? But we’re all rightfully wary of hopping right back into another flesh-hound portal disaster.

We now have the Extradimensional Map and the Stranger’s Glasses.

Oh! The map has a note for us: “Happy Journeys to a fellow master of the game. Your friend, T.T.”

We immediately rifle through our notes and realize he may have been Professor Trevor Twombly, Headmaster of Sturmhearst. Vigdor, did you know that guy?!

Vigdor didn’t recognize him. Maybe the guy looked like Twombly, if you squint? There were a lot of old men at Sturmhearst, and they wear masks most of the time? Also he had distracting glasses? So, like…maybe?

As we bicker, Vigdor snags the glasses off the table and heads to his room, opening up his case and taking a look. The lenses don’t reveal anything new about the object inside.

Unfortunately, the poor rogue didn’t bother to stealth. “Whatcha doin’ in here?” says Valeria, who followed shortly behind.

“Um, just looking at my leg, seeing if anything is weird-“

Valeria immediately checks Vigdor’s lower limbs for wounds. “I can help! An extra pair of hands can always-”

“No, no! I think I’m okay! Really!” he protests. He glances into the case again, clearly torn, and sighs. “Let me explain.”

He lifts a whole human leg out of the case, kicking and twitching.

“This is my leg, and I’m taking it to Sturmhearst. I’m not sure if it’s wholly mine anymore.”

Through his torn pants, Valeria can see a clunky clockwork leg to match his buzz-saw arm.

One player immediately yells “FULL METAL ALCHEMIST.” Another player says it again, in a slightly different voice.

Dr. Vigdor Gavril has joined the party!

[tenroseforeverandever]

Double Blind

Characters: Rose Tyler; Tenth Doctor; Reinette; Adam Mitchell

Tags: AU - human; blind date; fluff; romance; humour

Summary: Rose Tyler has been set up on a blind date with a bloke she’s having a lot of misgivings about, but when he arrives, she finds he isn’t anything like she expected him to be.

Notes: This was written as part of a Classic Trope challenge on the Doctor x Rose Discord group. I got “Blind Date”. The story was actually inspired by one of the cute little stories on my French course on DuoLingo! To my brilliant beta team, @rose--nebula and mrsbertucci, my undying gratitude, as always. You got me on the right track more than a few times, and with the amazing @aintfraidanoghosts, you helped me plan out the rough patches. My love to you all! 

Read also at: AO3; FF.net; TSP

Double Blind

Rose Tyler shifted in her seat and straightened the pale blue rose on the white table linens for the umpteenth time. She glanced covertly at the other tables around her: men and women dressed in nice suits and fine fabrics, eating meticulously presented food from china plates. Rose wriggled again, brushing invisible motes of lint from the cuffs of her white blouse, hoping she looked presentable. She told herself she couldn’t look too terribly out of place; the maître ’d hadn’t blinked an eye. 

She had never set foot inside a restaurant this upscale before. They didn’t have posh spots like this near the Powell Estate. But the French restaurant, Révélations, was where her date had insisted they meet. He’d texted her instructions to place a blue rose on the table in front of her so he could identify her when he arrived. The idea of the rose was obvious (her name) and the blue was, according to him, for hope that their date would be “just the first of many”. He hadn’t liked the idea of exchanging photos, which would have made identifying each other simple. He’d informed her that “a blind date is a blind date” and he wanted “to meet without any preconceived notions” or some rubbish like that. But Rose already had preconceived the notion that this bloke was a bit too sure of himself. It was just a bloody first date, after all, blind or not. He sounded like he was already practically planning their wedding.

She sighed, not for the first time over the last few days. Her friend, Shareen… actually Shareen’s new boyfriend whom Rose had never even met… had arranged this date: a bloke, named Adam Mitchell, whom he knew from the research labs at the Uni. The bloke had allegedly returned from college in the United States to do Post-Doctoral research on some hopelessly science-y subject Rose could barely even pronounce the name of. Why Shareen (or, more to the point, Shareen’s mysterious boyfriend…) had ever thought he would be a good match for her, Rose didn’t understand. She didn’t even have any A-levels to her name, and she worked in a shop, for God’s sake.

On top of that, if she was being honest, Adam had rubbed her a bit the wrong way with the dictatorial tone of his texts to her. It wasn’t an auspicious beginning.

“The last thing I need in my life right now,” she’d told Shareen in no uncertain terms, “is another condescending, controlling… shite boyfriend. Besides, I only just got rid of Jimmy. I really don’t think I’m ready for any sort of boyfriend.”

Shareen had scoffed. “But this isn’t Jimmy. This one actually has a real, functioning brain, and he has a proper career lined up. He has money, babe; he can look after you.”

“What? I’m supposed to be some kept woman? You sound like my flippin’ mum.”

It had taken some convincing, but eventually, Rose had tired of Shareen’s whinging, and capitulated, agreeing to go on this bloody date, despite her misgivings.

And here she sat, waiting for Adam to arrive, incessantly rearranging her stupid blue rose and terrified to order anything more than a glass of still water lest it bankrupt her. She felt like she’d been waiting forever but when she glanced at the time on her mobile, wondering if she’d been stood up, it turned out he wasn’t late… yet. Rose couldn’t decide if she should be relieved or disappointed.

After another five minutes of jittering her leg under the table linens and trying desperately not to bite her nails, she decided to pack it in. She didn’t want to be here. She didn’t want… this. She gathered her handbag from the floor by her feet, and made to stand, but stopped half-way. From the lobby, with the maître d’ standing next to him, appeared a tall, slender man a few years older than her. She observed him carefully for signs that he might be Adam: he had brown hair and eyes (check) and was wearing a suit and a tie adorned with blue flowers (check, again.)

So far so good.

Although, she had to admit, the overall image wasn’t quite what she’d expected from Adam, based on the tone of his texts to her. Somehow, she’d been expecting the brown hair to be carefully combed into place, not a delicious, expertly tousled mop that practically invited her to run her fingers through it. And the suit was a bit more casual than the “business casual” she’d been anticipating: rumpled brown with pinstripes; tie carelessly loosened from the confines of his collar; and a pair of battered, cream-coloured Converse on his feet, in place of dress shoes. Based on his tone, she’d thought Adam would have been more… put-together and formal.

Her heart dropped. It couldn’t be him. Loads of people had brown hair and eyes, and the tie… easily a coincidence. Besides, while she’d been told Adam was good-looking, this bloke was positively fit!

She watched with bated breath as he glanced around the restaurant. Her heart did a little flip when his eyes settled on the rose in front of her. Then his gaze lifted to hers and his face erupted into a wide, toothy grin. Rose’s breath caught and she immediately plonked back down into her seat.

She amended her first assessment: he wasn’t just fit; he was drop-dead, bloody gorgeous.

The man waved off the maître d’, who remained hovering behind him, and stepped toward Rose’s table. “Hello.” He continued to beam stupidly at her.

She figured her expression was equally ridiculous as she grinned back in a dreamy haze. “Hello.”

“The blue flower…” He nodded toward the rose in a soft Estuary accent that made her feel all gooey inside.

“Yeah. And the, erm… the tie,” she managed.

“The tie? Oh… yes, it’s one of my favourites. Love the tie. Erm…” he gestured to the empty chair across from her, “…may I?”

“Oh, God, sorry! Of course.”

He sat down and put his elbows on the table and leaned toward her. “So…”

“So…” Rose giggled (blimey, she wasn’t normally the giggly sort…), then pulled herself together. “So, you’re doing post-doctoral work at the Uni, yeah? On what was it, again?”

“Quantum and Temporal Physics.”

Rose gulped, really wishing she’d never let Jimmy-bloody-Stone manipulate her into dropping out of high school. Not that A-level anything would help her much in this situation, but at least she might have stood a chance. “Yeah, I thought it was something like that…”

“Fascinating field, really. My research is based on the premise that space and time are fundamentally linked at quantum level and that if we can travel on any trajectory through one, we should also be able to travel on any trajectory through the other. It’s just a matter of applying…” he rattled on, gesticulating with his hands. (He had lovely, long fingers, Rose mused dreamily, quite happy to listen to the cadence of his voice and imagine all the things those fingers could do.) “…and realigning the quantum matrices. You see, people assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint…” He trailed off. “I’ve lost you, haven’t I?”

“Just a bit, yeah.” She chuckled but her cheeks burned. “My brain checked out somewhere back around when you said, ‘space and time’.”

He cast her an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. I do this all the time. Donna, that’s my cousin, she calls me a great, big outer space dunce. I keep forgetting that not everyone is a genius, like me.” He sniffed and straightened his tie.

Rose arched her eyebrow at him. Okay, now this was more the Adam Mitchell she’d been expecting: a bit of a pretentious git.

“Oh, no! Sorry, so sorry! I’ve mucked it up again. I just meant… weeell, I am very clever, but I don’t mean that I think I’m better than other people… I just know things, I suppose. And I get excited and like to talk about them because I want to share my knowledge… and as Donna pointed out, I’m also a dunce.”

Rose’s heart swelled with sudden affection. He wasn’t being pretentious after all; he was just being… forthright, sweet.

“And getting back to what I really meant to say, earlier,” he blurted, “all that gobbledygook about time… it’s really just a big ball of wibbly-wobbly, timey-wimey… stuff.” 

Rose laughed. “Now that’s some science I can get my head around!”

He beamed at her again, his relief evident. “So, what do you do?”

Rose’s cheeks heated again. “Oh, me?” She averted her eyes, dreading the disappointment she would surely see settle on his face, but she supposed it was better she was upfront about it. “I’m just working in a shop… Henrick’s.”

“Oooooh, posh.” He waggled his eyebrows, setting her off giggling again. “I commend you. Not just anyone can handle rude customers all day. I bet you get some doozies in there!”

Bemused, Rose could only nod in agreement.

“I’d end up shouting at them and get fired the same day.”

“I feel like that too, sometimes, but I’ve learned to handle it, I guess. I’m top sales, every month.”

“Oh, well done! Brilliant!” He seemed genuinely proud of her achievement. There was no sarcasm in his tone or delivery, just open enthusiasm.

“But I really want to go back and get my A-levels,” she insisted, feeling she had to defend herself. “I was good at English and French back in school… and Art! I used to love painting!”

“I reiterate: brilliant! You should do just that if it’s what you want. What sort of things–”

The waiter stepped up to their table at that moment to offer them menus and tell them about the specials of the day. Rose listened intently. The food all sounded very opulent, and was probably delicious, but she didn’t have a clue what half of it was. She did her best to keep up, nodding politely and making interested noises at appropriate points.

“May I offer you something to drink while you peruse the menu?” the waiter offered.

“Oh, erm…” Rose stammered. What she really wanted was to order a pint, but she didn’t think that would go over too well at Révélations. And she didn’t want to order anything too expensive…  “I’d love a glass of red wine.”

“We have a lovely selection of fine house wines for you to choose from.” The waiter opened the wine menu and pointed to the appropriate section.

Rose bit her lower lip, the words swimming before her eyes, and her heart somersaulting around her chest. “I… erm…” She glanced over to Adam, who was watching her with slightly narrowed eyes. She couldn’t help thinking he was sizing her up… and she was failing. Then his expression softened, and he offered her a compassionate smile.

“Oooh, a glass of red sounds good. How about we just order a bottle?”

Rose nodded fervently.

“What do you recommend?” he asked the waiter.

When the wine was selected and the waiter had finally left, Rose opened her menu and pretended to read over the selections. She glanced shyly up at Adam from beneath her fringe. He too, was engrossed in the menu. “Thanks,” she murmured. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t thank me yet.” His eyes met hers, sparkling with amusement. “We can only hope our waiter chose a nice wine for us. Aaand, speak of the devil…”

The waiter reappeared, opened the wine, and poured a little into each of their glasses to taste. Rose held the glass to her lips, hesitantly taking a small sip. She hummed her appreciation as the fruity flavour exploded over her tongue.

Adam was decidedly less reserved in his approach. With a flourish of his eyebrows at Rose and a quirk of a smile, he swirled the liquid around his glass, and sniffed it intently. (The show-off!) “Ahhh… that’s lovely. And do I detect… NO! It can’t be? Is that an overtone of... bananas?” He winked at Rose.

“Bananas, sir?” The waiter goggled at him. “I… erm… bananas?”

Rose clapped her hand over her mouth to hold back the bark of laughter building in her throat.

“Oh, I love bananas!” Adam cheered. “Always bring a banana to a party. And if you can’t do that, find a brilliant wine with overtones of bananas! This is lovely, don’t you think?” he addressed Rose.

“Lovely, yeah,” she agreed.

“Pour away, my good man!”

As the poor, perplexed waiter filled their glasses, he asked: “Have you had a chance to view the menu?”

Rose met Adam’s eyes and gave a little shake of her head. He turned to the waiter. “A few more minutes, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. I’ll come back in a little while.”

As soon as the waiter was out of earshot, Rose couldn’t contain herself any longer: “Oh my God! Bananas?!”

“Oh, I thought he needed to lighten up a bit. This place is all a bit hoity-toity, in my opinion.” His eyes suddenly widened. “I hope you don’t mind…”

“Are you kidding? That was the best thing I’ve heard all week. The look on his face!”

“I know!”

They did nothing but grin stupidly at each other over sips of their wine for a few minutes, breaking into hopeless giggles every so often.

Adam took a deep breath and a gulp of wine. “So,” he asked, returning the subject to their earlier conversation, “back to school, eh? Is that something you’d want to do?”

“I think so, yeah. I want to at least be able to say I got my A-levels. I let a boy convince me I didn’t need them, and it was the worst decision I’ve ever made. I feel like… I dunno, it would be like taking my life back.”

He offered her a warm smile. “Well, good for you! And then… uni?”

“Maybe… who knows? Would that matter?” She worried the corner of her lower lip between her teeth. Despite her hesitancy to come on this date, she was really liking this bloke. She could see herself spending more time with him… if he were amenable. ‘Course she wouldn’t let on to Shareen. Shareen would be insufferable.

“What? No! Of course not! Uni is not the be-all and end-all. There are so many other avenues to pursue if that’s what you want. It was right for me, obviously, but…weeell…” he tugged on his ear, “you certainly don’t need my approval.”

Rose offered him a grateful little smile and ducked her head. She sighed happily. “What I’d really love to do, first, is take a year or so and just travel. Explore the world.”

“Oh, I’d love to travel too! I’ve spent so long at school. I mean I’ve studied in the States, but I never really had much chance to look around, to explore. I love to explore!”

“Me too! I’ve never been anywhere ‘cept when me and mum used to cram into Cousin Mo’s old car and drive to a beach in Dorset for a few days on the summer hols. Mum must have gotten sick of my whinging. She finally left me behind when I was fourteen. Blimey, she and Mo must have had a grand ol’ time without me taggin’ along.”

They both laughed.

“Where would you go,” she asked, “if you could choose?”

“Oh, I rather like the idea of blindfolding myself and throwing a dart at a map of the world. Seeing where the wind takes me.”

“Oh, that sounds perfect! But, on your own?” Rose blurted out the words, not thinking through how they would sound. He would probably think she was inviting herself along on this imaginary trip they were planning. Bloody hell, she’d not known him for more than twenty minutes.

He shrugged, his cheerful expression crumbling a bit around the edges. “There is no one else… not really…” His fringe fell over his face as he pointedly turned his eyes to the menu.

There was history there, and Rose wanted to learn more, but in this moment she just wanted to be there for him. She found herself dismissing any worries about being too forward, and impulsively, she reached across the table and rested her hand over his, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “There’s me.” She licked her lips as his hand twitched under hers, sure he was going to pull it away.

Instead, he flipped his over so their palms were touching. A zing of something bloody brilliant coursed through her, and as their eyes met, she knew he felt it too, a shared energy. It felt so right. She swore she could feel the turn of the Earth, the ground under her feet spinning at a thousand miles an hour, like she was falling through space.

Stunned by the feelings exploding inside her, she opened her menu to divert her mind. Glancing up she saw Adam was doing the same.

A few minutes of awkward silence passed, their hands still touching; it seemed neither of them was willing to break the link between them. Finally, Adam spoke, gesturing to the menu, “So, what do you like, Reinette? It’s my first time here; I was hoping you could tell me what’s good.”

Rose let his words sink in. What was he on about? Hadn’t he selected this restaurant? Was this some sort of test? Frowning, she slid her hand from his. “It’s my first time here, too… Wait!” She pursed her lips as she processed his words. “Did you just call me… Reinette?”

His eyes bulged, his eyebrows disappearing under his fringe. “Oh, blimey! You aren’t…?” He ran a desperate hand through his hair. “I take it you’re not Reinette, then?”

Rose chuckled, shaking her head. “Never heard of her. And I’ll wager your name’s not Adam?”

“Adam?” He frantically ruffled his hair again. “Blimey! No, I go by Jonathan Noble.”

“Nice to meet ya, Jonathan Noble. Rose Tyler.”

“Rose Tyler, eh? Roooose Tyler. I have to admit, I like the sound of that. It suits you much better than Reinette. Aaaand, it goes a long way to explaining why you weren’t quite what I was expecting… Turns out, I wasn’t expecting you at all. I was expecting… well, Reinette, who I have to admit,” his voice dropped to a confidential whisper as he leaned across the table toward Rose, “seemed a little full of herself… a bit la-di-da, if you know what I mean?”

“Don’t I just,” she whispered back. “I got the same vibes from Adam. And then you… you seemed so…” she chewed on the corner of her finger, “…so… I dunno. We just seemed to click, yeah?”

He beamed. “Oh, yes! You know, looking back, now… I was a little surprised when you didn’t know what wine to order. I assumed Reinette was the sort that would be able to rattle on about fine wines until she was blue in the face.”

“I know! I kinda had the same experience with you… just the way you were dressed, yeah. I was expecting something a little more… proper, I guess.” His smile faltered and she felt a little rush of panic. “Oh, God! No, no! I didn’t mean…  I love this, what you’re wearing. It’s comfortable and, erm… approachable. It really suits you.”

“You think?” He flushed and tugged on his ear, his eyes filling with hope.

“Oh, yeah! And the Chucks… inspired!”

Rose glanced up past Jonathan’s shoulder, distracted by a woman who had just arrived and was putting up a bit of a fuss to the maître d’. “Erm, Jonathan…” she asked, trying to come off as casual, “…what made you think I was this Reinette-person?”

“Well, I was told to look for a beautiful blonde. And she told me she would have a blue flower… a lily! She’s originally from France. A blue lily! Oh…” He glanced down at Rose’s flower, lying beside her napkin, his mouth dropping open.  “Erm… you have a… a rose. Some genius I am, eh?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Oh, easy mistake to make. I mean, what are the odds: specifically a blue flower? But...” she grimaced, nodding toward the reception area, “I’m afraid the real Reinette might have just arrived.”

Jonathan spun around in his chair and Rose followed the path of his eyes. The woman sniping at the maître d’ was a striking blonde, dressed in a chic, expensive-looking pantsuit. She was holding a blue lily and peering around the dining room.

Rose’s heart plummeted. She would never be able to compete with such a beautiful, sophisticated woman. What would a genius like Jonathan Noble ever want with a chav from an estate in Peckham, when he could have the likes of Reinette? She picked up her handbag and swept her blue rose into it. “Thanks for being so nice, Jonathan, but it seems your date has arrived.” She offered him a tight smile as she stood to leave.

“What? What? No, no, no! Please stay… Rose Tyler.” Her name rolled deliciously off his tongue again and he begged her with big, sad, puppy-dog eyes. And then there was his delectable, pouting lower lip… oh, wouldn’t she just love to kiss that lip?

“I… I can’t. It’s not right. I mean she’s so… you know… and I’m not...”

“Please? Rose? I was enjoying talking to you; really, properly enjoying it!”

“Yeah?”

“Yup,” he assured her with a little impatient nod. “Sit, please.”

Rose hesitated.

“Please.”

“Oh, all right!” If this lovely man wanted to finish this date with her, who was she to argue. They really had been getting along very well, after all. That energy between them when they’d held hands… she’d felt a connection with him like nothing she’d never experienced  before. A delightful shiver ran down her spine at the memory.

“By the way,” Jonathan asked as she settled herself again, “what made you think I was Adam? Was it the tie?”

“Yeah…”

“It’s just you mentioned it when I first arrived.”

“Oh, right,” Rose laughed. “Well, you obviously were looking for the flower too… but you – I mean he – told me he’d be wearing a tie with blue flowers on it. And there you were: tie with blue flowers. The two clues together…”

“Pure coincidence.” He winked. “I’d even venture to call it serendipitous, and I don’t generally believe in luck.”

“Oh, you don’t even know me yet.” Rose flashed him a toothy grin. “I could bring you nothing but misfortune, you never know.”

He dragged his gaze up from where the tip of her tongue teased him from the corner of her smile to meet her eyes. “Oh no, Rose Tyler, you have already saved me from a fate worse than death.” He nodded to Reinette who was currently flouncing through the restaurant, probably looking for him.

Rose bit her lip, stifling yet another giggle. “I haven’t saved you yet. Look out! She’s headed this way.”

“Oh, if I believe in one thing, I believe in you.” He reached over the table to squeeze her hand. “You’ll save me. You are my lucky pants.”

“Your what?” Unable to contain herself any longer, she burst into a full belly-laugh, but she gulped it back quickly as Reinette swept up to their table.

“Excuse me?” Reinette spoke with a light but haughty French accent and gave Rose a critical once-over before turning her attention to Jonathan. “Are you Jonathan Noble?”

Jonathan offered the woman a perplexed frown. “You must be mistaken. My name is… erm…” he scrubbed at the back of his neck, “…Adam.”

Reinette pursed her lips, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “So, this means nothing to you, then?” With a flourish she showed him the lily.

“Oh, weeell, it’s a lovely flower… but, no…”

Reinette’s narrowed gaze flicked between the two of them, and Rose offered her a polite smile. With a harrumph, she moved away from their table to continue her search.

“Dodged that bullet!” Jonathan told Rose.

“Well, at least you didn’t get stood up.” Rose rolled her eyes, wondering what had happened to the real Adam.

“His loss. And my good fortune! See? You are my lucky pants.”

She shook her head. “You’re daft, you are! I guess we should take a look at these menus, yeah?”

He spent a few seconds flipping through the pages of the menu, then he sighed. “Actually… I know the wine is lovely – overtones of bananas and all – but since neither of us chose this restaurant, what do you say we pay for the wine and find somewhere else to eat. That is, if you want?”

Rose breathed a sigh of relief. “I know a really great pub not far from here that’s a little more my scene. They brew their own and they make the best fish and chips. I want chips.”

“Me too! Sounds brilliant. Shall we?”

Standing, she nodded fervently, and he threw some bills on the table to cover the cost of the wine, then offered her his elbow. She blushed, accepting his arm.

“Allons-y!” he chirped.

As they made their way to the maître d’ to offer their apologies, Reinette stormed up to them. “You lied to me! You are Jonathan Noble.” Her beautiful face was contorted in fury and she pointed adamantly at his shoes. “You told me you’d be wearing Converse with your… ahem…” she curled her lip, “...suit.”

“Weeell…” Jonathan’s shoulders tensed, and Rose could only hold her breath, waiting to see how he would respond. He flourished the arm that wasn’t linked with hers. “You got me! I admit. I lied. It seems there was a case of mistaken identity, two blind dates that got muddled up, and weeeell… Rose and I rather hit it off.” He was going for the honest approach, and Rose was quietly relieved.

Reinette, however, was livid! “Ridiculous!”

“I’m sorry,” Rose added, feeling the need to back Jonathan up. “He really did think I was you. We both had a blue flower, you see…”

Reinette snarled at Rose, then whipped around to face Jonathan. “I do not get… stood up! I insist you have dinner with me!”

Rose was distracted from Jonathan’s terse response by the insistent buzzing of her mobile with multiple incoming texts. She dropped his arm and scrambled in her handbag, finally finding the phone at the very bottom. The screen was lit up with no fewer than five notifications from Adam. It seemed he was running rather late, but told Rose, in no uncertain terms, that he expected her to wait for him.

“I’m worth the wait,” read his final text, followed by winky and aubergine emojis.

Rose rolled her eyes and fought her gag reflex. There was no bloody way she was going to wait for that tosser. And she was going to be having a few sharp words with Shareen about her (and her boyfriend’s) concept of what her ideal date looked like.

As it turned out, Rose thought as her eyes settled fondly on Jonathan, she had a pretty good picture of exactly what her ideal date looked like. And unfortunately, right now, he wasn’t faring well in his battle with Reinette. It was time for her to rescue him one more time.

“Tell ya what, Reinette,” she cut into the other woman’s rant, “a young man named Adam Mitchell is on his way here… right now. He’ll be wearing a tie with blue flowers and he’ll be expecting his date to have one of these...” She pulled the blue rose from her handbag and thrust it at the stunned Reinette. “Oh, and I don’t think he believes anyone could ever stand him up either, so you should get along famously.” 

With that, she slipped her hand into Jonathan’s, and as one, they turned toward the door and pushed it open. As they burst onto the pavement, they nearly knocked over a dark-haired young man, wearing a tie with gaudy blue flowers all over it.

“Oi!” he barked as they sputtered half-hearted apologies and hurried along the pavement.

“Was that…?” Jonathan started.

“Adam?” Rose finished for him. “Yeah, I think it must have been.” Their eyes met and they erupted into laughter and looked back over their shoulders to find Reinette and (presumably) Adam fuming in the doorway of the restaurant.

Gripping Jonathan’s hand tighter, Rose grinned up at him. “Run!” she shouted.

“Oh, yes!” he cheered as they took off at a sprint.

As she ran hand in hand with Jonathan, Rose felt as though she had something to look forward to for the first time in a long time. She had walked into Révélations dreading the evening ahead, but a simple mix-up had turned her blind date into a matter of pure blind luck. Now she was running toward a future full of promise and opportunity, a future she rather suspected Jonathan Noble would be a significant part of. 

She grinned. It was going to be fantastic.

[veorlian]

Idolatry - Concealed Carry

Note: Part 1/3 of the chapters on the Citadel DLC. Technically part of a much longer fic, but I think they stand up okay on their own! An everybody lives/nobody dies au except that I didn’t realize I could do that until 2/3 of the way through. Sorry Kaidan :(((((((

Pairing: Garrus Vakarian/Female Shepard

Rating: T for swearing and stabbing.

ao3 link

Excerpt:

Bullets rained down from the front of the restaurant, and Brooks let out a blood-curdling shriek. Shepard swore softly and dragged Joker down, lifting up their table as a makeshift barricade. A group of heavily armed individuals marched in, their faces masked.

“Tonight’s performance was brought to you by random acts of violence!” one of them shouted.

“Where’s Commander Shepard?” another yelled. “Find her!” They spread out through the restaurant, sending the civilians running.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose. “Two hours. I’ve been on shore leave for two hours. They couldn’t let me have an appetizer first?”

One of the mercs hauled away Brooks, kicking and screaming. Shepard grabbed the knife she had tucked away in her coat.

“Why do you have that?? We were going for dinner!” Joker hissed.

“Would you rather I didn’t have it right now? I have a few others, do you want one?” she asked, taking stock of the room.

“No???”

Full text under the cut!

...

The apartment was huge. Shepard was sure there were other, fancier words to describe it, but she sure as hell didn’t know them. An entire wall was a window, looking out into the night lights of the Citadel. There were walls wholly covered in green, verdant plants that she couldn’t identify. There was a damn waterfall. Shepard let out a low whistle, looking around. 

For the first time in weeks, she could breathe. These walls weren’t closing in on her, they were too far apart. The ceilings were vaulted like a church, reaching up into the sky. 

She wandered down to what had to be the living room (two giant couches, a fireplace, a grand piano??), and the TV flickered on.

“Shepard, good to see you,” Anderson said. There were new wrinkles creasing his forehead. She could hear distant explosions in the background of the vid.

“And you. How are you holding up?” she asked.

“We’ve had better days,” he said wearily.

“I know what you mean.” Damn, did she ever. “But why am I in this apartment?”

“I want you to have it,” he said, and Shepard’s brows reached her hairline. “I bought the place for Kahlee and I to settle down. Thing is, the longer I stay on Earth, the more I don’t want to leave. Figure someone should get some use out of it.”

“That’s...very generous. Are you sure?”

“It’s practical. We need you at your best, and you need somewhere you can take a break.”

“I-- thank you,” she said. “I’m guessing I don’t have a choice anyways?”

“Not even a little bit. Make yourself at home,” he said, smiling. “You take care, Shepard.”

“You too, Anderson,” Shepard said. He nodded and stepped out of frame. Marie replaced him. Her hair was more grey than black now, but she was smiling nonetheless.

“Good to see you in one piece, Jeanne,” she said. “I hear you killed a Reaper single handedly. Have I mentioned that you should be more careful?” Shepard grinned crookedly.

“Once or twice, maybe.”

“Apparently it bears repeating.” The affectionate exasperation was palpable, even with the light years between them.

“How are things there?” Shepard asked. Marie’s face became carefully blank, but Shepard had known her since she was a child. She couldn’t disguise the look in her deep brown eyes, or the small frown on her lips. Easy to forget, impossible to forget, that she was only 24.

“We’ll make it,” Marie said firmly. And then, “You’ll make it too. That’s an order, Commander.”

Shepard’s grin widened, and she sketched a salute. “Yes, ma’am,” she said. Marie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. That was all that mattered.

“Go and get some rest, will you? The bags under your eyes are visible from Earth.”

“Harsh, but fair,” Shepard said easily. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Jeanne.” The call disconnected, and Shepard glanced around her new place. Her new place. Even the church had never truly been hers. There weren’t many things she considered truly her own, she supposed.

There were recordings littered around the apartment. Apparently Anderson had taken down voice notes for his biography. She couldn’t help the small, fond smile that flitted across her face. Her hands paused above the one labelled Shepard on the kitchen counter (she’d never had her own kitchen before). She pressed the play button, and she listened.

“Sure, I can talk about Commander Shepard. Big topic. There’s been a lot written about the Commander, but most of it isn’t true. People are quick to judge. They don’t know the whole story, I don’t even know the whole story. But I know the woman. Worked with her, fought with her, trust her with my life. Shepard’s had some rough patches, who of us hasn’t? She’s been forced to fight a lot of battles alone. God only knows how she got out of some of that. Makes your head spin.” 

Anderson’s warm voice filled the apartment, and his every word was laced with pride. Shepard realized belatedly that she was crying, hot tears painting her cheeks. Gently, she sunk to the floor and rested her head against the cupboard. She thought of Aratoht then, as she always seemed to. Makes my head spin too, she thought.

“Thing is, you never heard a complaint. Never once got ‘no sir, I can’t do that.’ She never hesitated. Few people know what Shepard’s been through. I like to think I come pretty close. And I worry sometimes she forgets: there’s a whole bunch of people who lose sleep about her getting back home. Maybe it doesn’t need to be said. Maybe we’re just to dumb to say it. Soldiers like the Commander are rare. Women like Shepard...even more rare.” Anderson’s voice drifted away.

I just...you don’t need to do everything alone anymore, you know? Garrus had said. Maybe they were right. Her heart was so full. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the warm feeling in her chest. Loved, maybe? Not a word she was used to choosing, but it fit the bill. She carefully picked herself up and dusted herself off, wiping the tears from her eyes. 

Her private message terminal was blinking, and she went to check her unread messages. There was a note from Joker asking him to meet him at a sushi restaurant. Huh. She’d never had sushi before. No time like the present, she supposed.

Shepard glanced down at herself. Perhaps, she thought, her N7 hoodie and cargo pants wouldn’t be appropriate for an upscale sushi place. She wandered upstairs and peeked into her room (there was a hot tub. She’d...well, she’d never had a bath before. No bathtubs in the Alliance). She tugged open the closet and her eyes widened. There was that dress Kasumi had insisted she keep, but next to it was something else entirely. Reverently, she ran her hands over the fabric. It was soft to the touch, velvet maybe? She pulled it out.

It was a suit. It had to be a suit, although it was unlike any she’d ever seen before. The matching pants and jacket were there, but that’s where the similarities stopped. It was a deep blue, but as the fabric shifted in her hands it looked dark burgundy. There was a matching silk black camisole to wear underneath. It felt luxurious, soft as a cloud. She’d never owned anything this expensive that didn’t fire bullets. There was a small note tucked in the pocket.

Thanks for all your help. Consider this an early birthday gift. Who knows, by the time you take a break it may be your actual birthday. I think I’ve got the measurements right, but nobody’s perfect.  - Miranda P.S., there’s a white shirt as well, but it’s much harder to get blood stains out of white silk.

Shepard smiled down at the note, and very carefully got dressed, anxious not to damage the clothes. She tugged on the heeled boots that seemed to go with it, and examined herself in the mirror. Miranda might insist that she wasn’t perfect, but she’d done a damn fine job with this. The cuffs fell to the exact right spot on her wrists, and for the first time in her life, the legs were long enough. The boots had a low heel, comfortable and well-balanced enough that she could run.

And Miranda, blessed Miranda, had included a concealed pocket for a switchblade. Shepard loosened her strict braid into something a little more casual, and she smiled at herself in the mirror one last time. Then she left for sushi.

The lineup outside the restaurant was around the block and then some. The people waiting were distinctly unhappy that Shepard had a reservation. If looks could kill, Shepard would have been pushing the daisies. She strode past the glares with practiced ease. Joker was seated at a table at the back, and he waved her over.

“Just gotta save the galaxy twice to get a place here, huh?” he said. “Hey, maybe when we do it again they’ll let us eat free!”

“That’s the spirit,” Shepard said. “How are you enjoying your vacation?”

“I feel like I should go check the Normandy for missing parts,” he griped. “I don’t trust those engineers.” Shepard chuckled and patted him on the arm.

“She’ll be fine, Joker. She’s been through the Omega 4, she can handle a few repairs. Relax, you’re on shore leave.”

“I’m gonna need a lot more drinks with umbrellas in them,” he said mournfully.

“I’m the first human Spectre. I’ll get you two umbrellas,” she said wryly.

“Awesome use of power, boss! So, what’d you ask me here to talk about? Your note said it was important.”

“Me? You invited me here,” Shepard said, her eyebrows knitting together.

“Commander Shepard, please I need to talk to you!” A young woman in an Alliance uniform pushed her way forward, with the maitre d’ shouting after her. The people in line looked positively murderous.

“Can I help you?” Shepard asked politely.

“I’m Staff Analyst Maya Brooks of Alliance Intelligence. Someone’s trying to kill you!” the woman cried. Shepard and Joker exchanged a look.

“Uh, yeah. I think she’s aware,” Joker said dryly.

“No! I don’t mean the Reapers and Cerberus. Other people,” Brooks said. “They’re hacking your accounts, your communications, and it looks like they’re targeting you personally!”

“What information do you have?” Shepard asked. She straightened up, suddenly all business.

“Well--” Brooks began.

Bullets rained down from the front of the restaurant. Brooks let out a blood-curdling shriek. Shepard swore softly and dragged Joker down, lifting up their table as a makeshift barricade. A group of heavily armed individuals marched in, their faces masked.

“Tonight’s performance was brought to you by random acts of violence!” one of them shouted.

“Where’s Commander Shepard?” another yelled. “Find her!” They spread out through the restaurant, sending the civilians running.

Shepard pinched the bridge of her nose. “Two hours. I’ve been on shore leave for two hours. They couldn’t let me have an appetizer first?”

One of the mercs hauled away Brooks, kicking and screaming. Shepard grabbed the knife she had tucked away in her coat.

“Why do you have that?? We were going for dinner!” Joker hissed.

“Would you rather I didn’t have it right now? I have a few others, do you want one?” she asked, taking stock of the room.

“No???”

“Joker, I need you to stay calm,” Shepard whispered, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I’m going to take these guys out. When the coast is clear, go find the rest of the team. But I need you to stay here until it’s safe, understood?”

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” he said fervently. One of the mercenaries approached to look behind the table. Shepard caught his arm and sent him sprawling to the ground, following it up with a devastating jab from her omni-tool directly to the face. She grabbed his gun and held it at the ready. She glanced around her cover and saw two more mercs coming at her. One went down with a shot to the face, the other with a thrown knife to the throat.

“Joker, now!” she hissed. Joker got up and stumbled away as best he could. Once he was out, Shepard activated her tactical cloak and booked it across the room. If there was one thing she’d learned these long years, it was that the best fight was the one you avoided. Once she’d made it to Brooks, she tried to help her to her feet. A sniper appeared from above and fired a shot, hitting Brooks. Shepard backed away and each shot landed by her, sinking into the ground.

If only the restaurant hadn’t decided to use fish tanks as their floor.

Shepard went down, glass shattering around her. She seemed to hit every bone on the way down the side of the building, banging into the wall over and over again. She slammed into the ground hard, all of her freshly-healed wounds screaming obscenities at her.

“Commander!” Brooks called over the comms. “Are you alright?”

“Peachy,” Shepard groaned. “Can you find me a way out of here?” Dr. Chakwas was going to have a fit. She’d been off the ship two hours and she was already broken again. Ugh. At least the clothes seemed to be in one piece. Small mercies, Shepard supposed, as she struggled to her feet.

“Uh, yes! Keep going forward, I think!” Brooks said. Shepard grit her teeth.

“Thanks,” she managed. She slid down the ladder up ahead of her and took a look around. Somewhere in the wards, she figured.

“There’s a sky-car lot up ahead of me, Brooks. Could you find me a path there?” Shepard asked.

“Ah, yes! Of course!” Brooks replied nervously. Shepard tried very hard not to roll her eyes as she wove her way through the wards. She came up on some kind of market, and she caught sight of another group of mercs barrelling towards her.

“There she is!” one of them called. Shit. This outfit really wasn’t built for stealth, huh? God, she’d kill for a rifle right about now. Instead, she slipped back into her tactical cloak and hid behind a fruit stand. What a weird fucking day.

“Shepard! Are you alright?” It was a relief to hear Garrus’ voice, even if it was only through her earpiece. Tension she didn’t realize she’d been carrying dissipated, ever so slightly.

“I’m fine, but I could use a hand,” she said ruefully, aiming an incendiary blast directly to the face of one of her attackers.

“Joker sent me your location, I’m on my way,” he said immediately.

“This is a secure channel!” Brooks cut in. “You’re putting Commander Shepard at risk!”

“I’m what? Who is this?” Garrus demanded.

“Brooks, Garrus. Garrus, this is Brooks,” Shepard said. “Now please hush, it's a little hard to kill mercenaries with people arguing in my ear.”

“Shepard, I am sending backup to your location,” EDI said.

“Sounds good, things are getting a little dicey here,” Shepard replied. She glanced over the fruit stall and had to duck quickly as a drone came barrelling towards her. It exploded directly next to her, sending pieces of watermelon and blueberries flying.

“I will attempt to register surprise,” EDI said dryly. Shepard grinned crookedly at that. She dashed forward as another round of mercs came at her. She spent the next several minutes fading in and out of invisibility, running hell for leather past the mercs. Her legs, miraculously, stayed upright. Small mercies. She pulled into the car lot and slammed the door shut behind her. A shot zipped past her, missing by inches. … “Having a bad day, Shepard?” Garrus called. He took out the merc that had shot at her, and scanned the area for any more threats. It looked like they were clear for the moment. Now to find a way out of the lot.

“You could say that,” she said, pushing flyaway hairs away from her face. “Let’s look for a control panel.” His eyes finally came to rest on her and his breath stuttered in his throat. She was wearing that thing humans called a ‘suit,’ but not like any he’d ever seen before. His mouth was suddenly too dry.

“Nice outfit,” he managed. The look she gave him was unimpressed, but he wasn’t thinking with his brain at the moment. “Ah, control panel. Right.”

Shepard strode through the lot and glanced into the darkened office. She gently tapped on the glass. Garrus hurried after her.

“Could you open the doors up?” she said politely. The doors opened a second later. “Much appreciated.”

“Please leave,” the volus inside pleaded.

Garrus motioned for Shepard to stay behind him. Only one of them was armoured, after all. She raised an eyebrow and took point.

“So...you fell through a fish tank?” he ventured.

“We’ll talk about it later,” she replied.

“Damn shame,” he said, and now he was just doing it for the reaction. Midnight blue fabric. Not thinking with his brain. “I hear it was the best on the Citadel.”

“We’ll talk about it later,” she said more firmly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes. He gave her arm a quick squeeze, and then they both stepped onto the landing zone. That Brooks person had apparently radioed to say that a C-Sec shuttle was on the way. When it appeared though, the door opened to reveal a group of the same mercs that had been attacking Shepard. Garrus ducked down and dragged her with him. Bullets skittered across the ground around them.

“Any chance I could borrow that Widow of yours?” she asked breathlessly. He looked at her incredulously.

“I must not have heard you right,” he said. “You definitely did not just ask to borrow my favourite gun.” She opened her mouth to reply,  and then her eyes widened.

“Do you hear that?” she asked.

“Hear what?”

“Krogan coming through!” Wrex bellowed, soaring through the air. He slammed down onto the front of the shuttle, sending half of the mercenaries flying. He mowed his way through the other half, shooting, punching, and in one case, launching them off the shuttle. Shepard was grinning wildly.

“Wrex! What are you doing here?” she asked, running forward.

“Negotiating krogan expansion with the Council,” he explained. “But that AI of yours said there’d be a fight. So here I am.”

“Glad you could make it to the party," Garrus lied through his teeth.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Wrex said. He clapped Garrus on the shoulder harder than necessary. “Figured Shepard would need some help, if you’re the only backup she has.”

“Try to keep up, old man,” Garrus shot back.

“It may have escaped your notice, but we are being shot at right now, boys,” Shepard said dryly. Ah, right. Fair point. ... Once they were clear, they gathered in Shepard’s new apartment. Brooks was pacing back and forth, and Shepard put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

“Me? I got shot! Like, with an actual bullet. I took a desk job so I wouldn’t get shot! They said the medi-gel might make me jumpy, do I seem jumpy to you?” Brooks said.

“Hey, hey,” Shepard said soothingly, the voice she usually reserved for grieving families. “It’s okay. You’re safe here.”

“We need to stop those guys, they might hurt more innocent people! Like me! I got shot!”

“Yes. Do we have any leads?” Shepard asked. The door to the apartment opened gently and Liara stepped through.

“I may have some suggestions on that,” she said. “Are you alright, Shepard?”

“I think my ribs are bruised again, but what else is new?” Shepard said ruefully. “That C-Sec shuttle should have had officers in it. I’ll get in touch with Commander Bailey, see what happened,” Shepard said, punching in the number in her omni-tool.

“Wait!” Brooks said. Everyone turned to look at her. “Uh, wouldn’t anyone you contact also become a target?”

“She’s got a point,” Garrus said.

Shepard nodded brusquely. “You're right. We keep this between us for now.”

“Fortunately, I’ve brought a few people who can help,” Liara said cheerfully. The door was knocked on its hinges as every member of her crew -- and a few people who weren’t -- filed in. The apartment was large, but even so Shepard was going to need to figure out where to put all of these people. What, was there an event going on at the Citadel right now that had brought them all there? Well, besides her attempted assassination.

“The riff-raff have arrived. Garrus, hide the silverware.” Shepard’s voice was pitched to carry.

“Up yours, Shepard,” Jack shot back.

“What she said,” Zaeed added.

"I'll go see what I can find. Come find me when you have a moment," Liara said.

Shepard wandered around to speak with everyone, but it all just seemed to be variations on the theme of “haha Shepard ruined the sushi restaurant” or “Shepard, how could you destroy that sushi restaurant”? Evidently they’d collectively decided to forget that she hadn't exactly chosen to be shot at. What compassionate friends she had, she thought wryly. She gave up after a while and went to talk to Liara.

“What's the word?” she asked. The others slowly gathered around. There was barely enough room for them all to stand together. 

“That pistol you found, it’s not available anywhere on the market. I’ve tracked it to a weapons dealer named Elijah Khan. He owns a casino nearby. They’re holding a charity event tonight,” Liara explained.

“So we sneak in and talk to this Khan guy?” Ash asked.

“My sources tell me he’s locked himself in his panic room. We would need someone to sneak inside this vent system.” Liara pulled up a map of the casino interior. “And deactivate the lock.”

“I say we blow the place to high heaven,” Zaeed suggested.

“I’m in,” Wrex said immediately.

“I’m open to other suggestions,” Shepard said. “Any other suggestions.” Zaeed politely flipped her off.

“Bringing a large group would arouse suspicion,” Thane said thoughtfully. “A covert infiltration would be best.” Shepard nodded.

“Alright, just a small crew then. I’ll need someone to take point with me, and then someone else will crawl through that vent,” Shepard said. “Any takers for the vent?” She looked around the room for volunteers. They were not forthcoming.

“Mechs are not allowed in case they are used for cheating. Legion and I will not be able to enter,” EDI explained. Shepard’s eyes swung to Tali and she raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me!” Tali protested. “They’d uh...pick up my suit!” Shepard shrugged.

“What you need is somebody trained in zero-emissions tech. No electronics, no metal. Just undetectable polymers. We had a course back at Op-Int, disabling a bomb with these little tweezers. See, the bomb was filled with shaving cream…” Brooks trailed off as she realized everyone was looking at her. Shepard smiled at her reassuringly.

“Alright Brooks, you’re our alternate,” she said.

“What? Me? I couldn’t...what do you mean alternate?” Brooks asked. Shepard smiled ruefully.

“I wouldn’t want to put you in more danger. You’ve already been shot once. And since I’ve had two gun mods go missing since I got back, I have a sneaking suspicion that there’s someone here who can lend a helping hand. Kasumi?”

The galaxy’s best thief materialized, sitting on the kitchen counter. She had a cheeky grin under her hood.

“You’re getting very good at that,” she said cheerfully.

“Sure would’ve been awkward if I’d been wrong,” Shepard replied wryly. 

“Damn, I should’ve stayed hidden!”

“What do you say to a heist with me?” Shepard asked. Kasumi hopped down from the counter and sketched a bow.

“I’d be delighted,” she said.

“There’s just one problem,” Liara cut in.

“Current estimate: 57 problems and counting,” Mordin replied. “Additional 34 if you decide to take the krogan.” Shepard couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across her face.

“Well, one of the problems is that it’s black-tie only,” Liara said. Shepard raised an eyebrow and glanced down at her outfit. It was still damp from crashing through a fish tank, but otherwise undamaged.

“Will this do?” she asked, motioning to the suit.

“It’ll more than do,” Garrus said huskily, and then coughed awkwardly when several sets of eyes turned to look at him. “What? I’m just answering the question.”

“Who’s going with us then?” Kasumi asked, and Shepard grinned.

Bright lights flashed in Shepard’s eyes as she and Garrus walked down the literal red carpet, arm-in-arm. Maybe one day they’d get to go somewhere nice without worrying about a nefarious plot. For now, she was on vacation and she was going to enjoy herself, attempts on her life be damned.

“You clean up well,” Shepard commented. He had on another of those intricate turian outfits, with more buckles than fabric, in a combination of black and white. He wore it well. They were, she imagined, quite a striking couple. For one, they were a good head taller than anyone else. For two, well...

“Yeah? Then it’s a damn shame that all eyes are on you,” Garrus replied.

“I did the best I could without a carapace or a crest,” she said wryly.

“Well your best has my mandible on the floor. Damn!” he said easily.

“You two are adorable,” Kasumi said from somewhere to Shepard’s left. Shepard flushed a brilliant red, and she heard Kasumi laugh brightly.

Shepard and Garrus mingled with the wealthy clientele, occasionally providing support for Kasumi as she travelled through the vents. Shepard realized, suddenly, that this was the bright and shining culture she’d seen from afar when she was younger. This was what she’d wanted to experience. As far as she was concerned, they could keep it.

Distracting the guards to disable the alarms wasn’t exactly a walk in the park, but they managed it. But when they arrived in the panic room, Khan was already dead. Shit.

“It’s never that easy, huh?” Garrus asked.

“He received a call a few minutes before he died. Give them a ring and I’ll see if I can trace it,” Kasumi said. The large screen behind the desk flickered to light and a figure appeared on the screen. Their face was concealed by static, and their voice was altered.

“Elijah? Come crawling back?” they asked.

“Guess again,” Shepard said. Kasumi's hands flashed across her omni-tool.

“You. I see you’ve recovered from flopping on the floor like a fish.”

“You’ll have to do better than that. The last guy that trash-talked me was a few kilometres taller than you.” Shepard leaned back, crossing her arms.

“Brave. I thought as much, but it won’t matter. You have nothing. All you can do is wait for the hammer to fall. I’m going to take everything you have, and everything you are.” The call ended.

“Gotcha,” Kasumi said brightly.

“Shepard, someone’s wiped the drive. Bit of a messy job though, there might be something left,” Garrus said.

“Between EDI, Legion, and Tali, I’m sure we’ll be able to find something. Let’s go.”

They were once more gathered around the pool table, now with even less room than before. They were discussing the information they’d been able to find on Khan’s drive, mostly information about the guns that Shepard’s attackers had bought. Glyph flew over and hovered above the table, flashing red.

“Commander, I have found your Spectre code being used at the Citadel Archives,” he said.

“What would they want there?” Shepard asked.

“Shall we go find out?” Liara said.

“But who? We can’t bring everyone,” Brooks piped up. Shepard grinned.

“Why not?” she asked. “All hands on deck for this one.”

“Very well, but who will take point with you?” Liara asked. Wrex coughed pointedly. And then Javik coughed even more pointedly. Tali coughed politely, but also pointedly.

“Garrus and Jack, you’re with me. Everyone else, divide up into three teams of whoever is least likely to want to kill each other.”

“What happens if I want to kill bird-brain?” Jack asked.

“Think happy thoughts,” Shepard suggested.

“Those are my happy thoughts,” Jack replied snarkily. Ah. Some things never changed.

They’d barely made it into the archives when they walked into a trap. The others were up on the catwalks above, and every door in the room slammed shut. A figure appeared behind Brooks and pressed a gun to her temple. They were shadowed, and even Shepard’s excellent vision couldn’t quite make them out.

“Don’t move, or she dies,” they said.

“Who are you?” Shepard demanded. The figure chuckled darkly.

Why do I know that voice? Shepard wondered. The figure tossed Brooks aside, and strode forward into the light. She wore the same uniform as the mercs, but her face…Shepard stared back at her own Roman nose and burning red hair. Only not quite. This nose had never been broken, and there wasn’t the familiar patchwork quilt of scar tissue across her face and neck. 

“I’m you, but better,” the other Shepard said. “Without all the doubts and the wear and tear.”

“Huh. This officially takes the cake for the weirdest thing that’s happened to me,” Shepard said. “Let me rephrase: what the fuck is going on?”

“Cerberus spared no expense when it came to bringing you back. Me, they made for spare parts, in case you needed an arm, or a lung, or a kidney. When they had you, they discarded me,” her clone snapped. Shepard’s brows knit together.

“Well if you’re me, then we should be working together,” she said. The clone scoffed.

“Why would I bother helping you? Why should I care? You took everything from me, and now I’m going to take everything from you. But there was no way I’d fool your friends, so I needed to get rid of them as well. All the people that turned their backs of their responsibilities to join the cult of Shepard,” the clone spat. The cult of Shepard…?

“No one will ever believe you’re me,” Shepard said, trying a different tactic.

“Sure they will, when I’m flying your ship,” the clone replied. Shepard froze and then immediately started keying into her omni-tool.

“Traynor, I need you to lock down the ship, understood? Here are the command codes,” she said quickly. Her clone smirked and waved a hand in front of her.

“Good idea, if only that message had been sent,” she said. She keyed up her own omni-tool and raised her voice slightly. “Traynor, this is Shepard. Prepare for departure. Here are the command codes.”

Shepard’s hands balled up into fists. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before someone steals my ship.”

The clone shrugged nonchalantly. “We’ll see about that.” She turned to leave.

“Tell me,” Shepard called after her. “Do you know your own name?”

“It’s Joan,” the clone replied smugly. Shepard grinned, baring her teeth. 

“Guess again,” she said, and she activated her tactical cloak.

They fought their way through the archives, the other teams racing on the catwalks above. Liara’s information drone, Glyph, scouted ahead. Occasionally he returned, saying that he mistook the clone for Shepard. Shepard tried very hard not to roll her eyes, and she mostly succeeded.

“The other Shepard’s still alive!” one of the mercs yelled.

“The next person who says that is a dead man!” the clone snapped over the comms.

“An accurate observation,” Legion said.

“What do I do??” Brooks cried. “They’re firing at me!”

“Just follow Shepard's lead and let us do all the heavy lifting!” Liara called.

“Touché, T'Soni!” Garrus shot back.

“Think you comedians could actually hit something?” Shepard shouted, ducking to avoid oncoming enemy fire. 

They forged on through the archives, passing by clips of history. One by one, the teams stopped responding. Shepard pushed on faster, concern creeping up on her. And so she rushed headlong directly into a trap that she should’ve seen coming. Shepard set foot onto a platform and a forcefield appeared around her, Jack, and Garrus

The clone stepped forward, smiling smugly. Shepard tried to shoot her, but the force-field stopped the bullets dead. Shit. Shepard felt light-headed. She was locked in a small space. A very small space. Oh god, such a small space. Her heart hammered in her chest and she fought to control her breathing. She reached for her familiar, cold veneer. Like hell she was going to show weakness in front of the enemy. 

“Well well, the great Commander Shepard. But not for very much longer.”

“Where are my friends?” Shepard spat.

“Locked up in iridium vaults forever. And it’s all your fault,” her clone taunted.

“The Alliance will stop you--” Shepard began.

“Will they?” Her clone cut her off. “What do you think, Staff Analyst Brooks?” Brooks sauntered forward from the shadows.

“I wouldn’t know.” Her voice had shifted, becoming deeper, more assured. “I don’t actually work for them.”

“You bitch,” Jack spat.

“I’m with Jack on this one,” Garrus said. Shepard arched an eyebrow and crossed her arms. When she spoke, her voice wasn’t her own.

“This feels like the time when the villain explains their grand plan,” she said. “So what the hell?”

“Really we just wanted your Spectre codes,” Brooks explained. “But then you had to insist on surviving. So, I had to improvise.”

“Then I must say, I'm impressed,” Shepard said.

“Oh?”

“Your optimism is impressive,” Shepard clarified. “You threw, what, fifty mercs at me and you thought that would finish me off? For such a smart woman, that's remarkably short-sighted of you.”

“I think I've made up for it now. Let's see you get out of a locked box.”

“What, this? No, I've been in far worse situations than this. Last week I was trapped at the bottom of an ocean in a mech. This is nothing.”

“You seem remarkably calm for a dead woman,” Shepard’s clone said. Shepard’s eyes flicked to her and she sneered.

“I could say the same of you. You can change the records, but that doesn’t mean a damn thing. You know the name on my file, but you don’t know the first thing about me. How are you going to convince Anderson or Hackett or--”

“Or General Shepard?” Brooks cut her off. “We’ll deal with her.”

Shepard stilled. Her erratic heartbeat settled. Her words, when they came, were soft. “If you threaten her again, I will make you wish that I’d only killed you.”

“That's quite a threat. I might even be afraid, if Commander Shepard had said it. But you're nobody,” Brooks said.

“And you're on borrowed time,” Shepard replied. Brooks' expression faltered, just a tiny bit, at whatever she saw in Shepard’s eyes. Shepard’s clone scoffed loudly, breaking through the tense silence.

“You know the one thing about us that they can’t replace? Our handprint. It changes based on life experiences,” the clone said. Shepard thought of the scars that used to twist across her palms. “But now I’m going to replace yours.” The clone pulled up a terminal and pressed her hand down.

“Hello, Commander Shepard,” the computer said. The clone grinned smugly.

“Goodbye,” Brooks murmured. “I guess this is where legends go to die.” She and the clone waltzed away, seemingly without a care in the world. The platform jerked beneath Shepard and walls slowly closed around her.

“I’m going to strangle them,” Shepard vowed.

“I’m all for that, but we’re still trapped in this fucking box,” Jack pointed out.

“With limited air,” Garrus added. Shepard hummed noncommittally. 

“Hey Glyph, you still out there?” she called.

“Yes Commander.”

“Get us out of this thing, and then go find the others. Nobody steals my ship, not even me.”

Joker pulled up in a sky car just as the last stragglers pulled themselves up onto the roof.

“I’ve got room for Shepard and two more, and you better decide fast because those assholes are stealing my baby,” he snapped. 

“I could drive--” Shepard said.

“NO!” The sound of the entire crew shouting the word echoed across the rooftop.

“Fine,” Shepard muttered. “Garrus and EDI, with me.”

“I wanted to go,” Wrex grumbled.

“You should have thought of that before you insulted my driving,” Shepard said. “Joker will be back for you soon.”

Joker hit the pedal to the floor as soon as everyone was in the car. A moment later, there was a whirring sound from the back seat. 

“They’re trying to take control of the ship--” EDI said. Her eyes spun around, and sparks flew off of her. She shut down.

“Crap,” Garrus said. EDI powered back up, her eyes still askew.

“Are you...okay?” Joker ventured.

“I am functional, but I have no control of the Normandy. I feel...lost,” EDI said brokenly.

“Don’t worry, we’ll have you back in no time. You have my word,” Shepard said.

“Thank you.”

They arrived on the Normandy just as it was starting to pull away. Traynor was in the entryway, sputtering various unflattering things about Shepard. She caught sight of Shepard and she held her toothbrush threateningly in front of her.

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “You were...you were back there! I was minding my own business, and then you marched in and fired me! I barely had time to grab my toothbrush!”

Shepard held up her hands. “That’s a Cision Pro Mark IV. It uses tiny mass effect fields to break up plaque and massage the gums. I know that because you told me, because I’m the real Shepard. The one you saw earlier was a clone.”

“I--”

“I wish I had time to explain, but we need to get on the ship. No one knows it better than you do, Traynor,” Shepard said quickly. Traynor thought for a second. Apparently she decided to go along with it, because she leaned down to examine the ground.

“There should be a ventilation shaft around...here.” She pulled up a piece of the floor. EDI shook her head.

“You would need something that could precisely manipulate mass effect fields,” she explained. Shepard met Traynor’s eyes, and Traynor determinedly turned on her toothbrush.

 Crawling through a shaft wasn’t exactly ideal for Shepard’s over six-foot frame, but she just about managed it.

“If you’d told me this morning that a toothbrush was going to save the Normandy, I’d have been very skeptical,” she whispered. “Remind me to reimburse Traynor, I think it broke.”

“Shepard, you--” EDI began.

“Later. Remind me later.”

They opened the grate into the CIC with guns blazing. The mercenaries were no match for them. EDI looked like she was running on sheer, unadulterated rage. She grabbed hold of a dying mercenary. Her voice was like ice. “Where are they?”

“Cargo bay,” the merc managed.

“Thank you for your assistance,” EDI said, and shot him in the face. Shepard met Garrus’ eyes and shrugged helplessly. They made their way to the elevator, and Shepard’s heart dropped to the floor. Mako’s cage, along with her carefully assembled collection of model ships, was resting in a garbage bin. There was a note on top with handwriting that was almost (but not quite) the same as Shepard’s.

“Please get rid of this, a ship is no place for…oh that is so not okay. They messed with my hamster guys. Now it’s personal,” Shepard hissed.

“Was it not personal before?” Garrus asked.

“I-- well, yeah. But Mako’s defenceless. What was a little hamster going to do to them--”

“I suggest we keep moving,” EDI cut in.

“Right, right. Of course.” Shepard hit the button on the elevator.

[homenum-revelio-hq]

Welcome to the Order of the Phoenix, Kait!

You have been accepted for the role of ANNALISE FAWLEY! We loved your thoughts on the very Hufflepuff nature of Annalise’s loyalty-fueled treachery and all the details you gave of her “normal” life before she lost her sister, and can’t wait to see all the trouble she’s going to cause for the Order. We’re so excited to have you join us!

Please take a look at the new member checklist and send in your account within 24 hours! Thank you for joining the fight against Voldemort!

OUT OF CHARACTER:

NAME & PRONOUNS: Kait, she/hers

AGE: 25+

TIMEZONE: EST

ACTIVITY LEVEL: I’m returning to in-person work after 3+ months of WFH, so I can’t say with absolute certainty what my activity will be, but I’ll definitely be able to post every couple of days at least!

ANYTHING ELSE: No triggers. I have a bit of rp experience, in a similarly character-focused, literate marauders rp.

CHARACTER DETAILS:

NAME: Annalise Fawley

AGE: 23

GENDER, PRONOUNS, and SEXUALITY: female, she/hers, identifies as straight

BLOOD STATUS: Pureblood

HOUSE ALUMNI: Hufflepuff

ANY CHANGES: Nope!

CHARACTER BACKGROUND:

PERSONALITY:

Everyone knows Annalise—she’s one of the many Fawley cousins, a cheerful former Hufflepuff, a familiar face at pureblood soirees. But not all that many people really know her. Very few know that she’s good at sketching but definitely can’t paint. Or that she’s an excellent liar, even if she almost never uses that skill. That she often feels shy when she has to meet new people. That she doesn’t have a temper, but she does hold grudges like nobody’s business.

A relatively private person, Annalise has always been content to live a simple life, compared to many other pureblood women. She’s happy with her flat and her job and her friends. She adores her sprawling family— anywhere she turns, she can find a familiar face. And she delights in the social whirl of pureblood society— the beautiful dresses and jewels, the gossip, the parties. The fact that she’s never at the centre of that whirlwind is perfectly fine with her.

A sociable extrovert with a touch of shyness, Annalise craves interaction but isn’t always great at making new acquaintances, and her shyness can sometimes make her seem standoffish to strangers. She’s certainly capable of saying the right things—her mother raised her well and she can handle whatever social situations she needs to—you can’t survive long in pureblood society if you don’t know how to hide your thoughts and say the right words. But Annalise has always been most comfortable around people she knows well. And there’s no one closer or more important than family.

While at Hogwarts, Annalise had been sorted into Hufflepuff house, and it had been an absolutely perfect fit. She has always been patient and hard-working; though far from a prodigy in any of her classes, she managed to earn consistently good grades simply by putting the time and the work in applying herself. This has continued into her adult life. Not coming from money, she has worked since finishing school, and even though she’s jumped jobs a few times as she tries to figure out what she wants to do, she’s never had a bad word from an employer.

And of course, loyalty. The Fawleys as a whole tended to value loyalty, especially to family, and Anna was no exception. She never snitched on her sister for stealing a cookie when they were little, never dated a friend’s ex, and she’s always said that she would kill for her family. It had been meant as a figure of speech… but, well…

These traits are the sort that normally define people from her house as cut-and-dry good; there’s a reason Hufflepuff boasts the fewest dark witches and wizards of any house, after all. But after Leina’s death, every one of those values honed in on finding justice for her sister. Annalise has always believed that those in the wrong should be punished, and since she obviously can’t rely on the Ministry to avenge her sister’s death, there was only one choice: become a Death Eater, and make those responsible pay.

BRIEF OVERVIEW OF FAMILY:

Annalise Fawley was the younger of two daughters. Or, she is the younger. She’s not quite sure. Are you still a younger sister, if the elder has died?

Leina Nott, nee Fawley, had been a year older than Annalise, but when they were small they’d always claimed they were twins. Though there was a difference in height, they had looked similar enough that a stranger probably would have believed them. But more than in appearance, they were as close as twins. The age difference was near enough that Leina didn’t remember a time when Anna hadn’t been around, and when they weren’t visiting the many Fawley cousins scattered around the country, they mainly had each other for company.

The sisters grew apart somewhat as they grew older; Leina having had a year’s head start at Hogwarts, and Annalise being sorted into a different house, meant they didn’t spend quite as much time together as they once had. But they were still close, even if they disagreed at times. Not very long after finishing Hogwarts, Leina became engaged to Josiah Nott. Annalise never quite understood her sister’s decision to marry him; yes, he was wealthy and well-connected, but he wasn’t exactly likeable—not to mention he was so much older than them! But Leina seemed happy enough, and even more so after her son Theodore was born.

The match had been quite a coup for Leina; though the Fawleys were a perfectly respectable family, part of the Sacred 28, and automatic invitees to all the best parties, they weren’t from money. Their branch of the Fawley family tree was one of the less important ones—Annalise’s father Alistair had been the younger son of a younger son several times over, so they’d never had the opulent wealth of many of their peers. But they’d never quite lived in poverty, either. The one thing that the Fawleys were rich in was connections, and through a combination of Hufflepuff work ethic and a touch of nepotism, Alistair worked his way to a high-ranking position at the Ministry, and was able to keep his family comfortably sheltered and clothed and fed. He always made it clear to his daughters that there was nothing shameful about hard work, and he lived that example as he climbed through the ranks.

Annalise’s mother, Calliope, left her own job at the Ministry once her husband began to advance and their daughters were born. She needed the time when she was raising two children—the Fawleys were never quite in a position where they could afford help. These days, though, she has an awful lot of time on her hands. Enough time to have absolutely devoted herself to arranging Leina’s marriage and planning her wedding, and more recently, fussing over her grandson, and pushing prospective husbands in the direction of her younger daughter.

Leina’s murder hit the whole family hard. Family was everything to the Fawleys, and with her death, their family was broken. Alistair has thrown himself into his work, while Calliope has been focusing all her attention on caring for Leina’s child, Theo (and though she’d never say so much to her mother, Annalise hopes it stays that way; she does not have time right now to fend off her mother’s matchmaking.)

Annalise, of course, has been busy. After the initial shock, it wasn’t sadness threatening to overwhelm her; it was anger. These people, these self-proclaimed do-gooders, they’d broken into Leina’s own home and murdered her. Because she’d been in the way. They’d taken her sister’s life and shattered her family, and she was going to make them pay. She was going to burn the Order of the Phoenix to the ground for what they’d done.

OCCUPATION:

For the Fawley girls, there were two options: earn a living, or marry money. Though her parents certainly expect her to marry a pureblood wizard sooner rather than later, they haven’t pressured Annalise too much about this; Leina had made such a good match, after all, that it bought her some leeway. She certainly wasn’t opposed to the idea of marrying well, but she also wanted to actually like the person she married.

So, while her sister opted to marry up, Annalise chose the employment option. She was her father’s daughter, after all, and she was not afraid of hard work. After finishing Hogwarts, she moved through several different jobs, helped here and there by a recommendation from a Fawley relative. She was an assistant for a while, spent a bit of time in the Ministry, and passed one very unpleasant summer waiting tables.

For the past year or so, she’s worked at Twilfitt and Tattings in Diagon Alley. It’s a perfect job: decent wages and commissions, hours that don’t conflict with her social life, and a generous discount on robes (a very useful perk when you don’t have a bottomless Gringotts vault to spend on new dress robes for every party). When she first started, she mostly just worked the cash register, but she’s picked up more responsibilities over time, and has recently started design work as well.

Working in a high-end boutique means that she has very steady contact with all the well-to-do of the wizarding world. As she pointed out when she approached the Order—who knew what sort of conversations she might overhear? And, of course, the revolving parade of customers will make it easy for her to smuggle information back to the Dark Lord, too.

ROLE WITHIN THE ORDER/THOUGHTS ABOUT THE ORDER:

Annalise is filled with grief for her poor sister’s untimely death. She knows that her brother-in-law is almost certainly a Death Eater, and he put Leina in danger by conducting Death Eater business in their home—and now her nephew is left without a mother. She’s determined to help the Order stop the carnage before anyone else can be hurt in the crossfire. And, with her pureblood connections and her job in one of the most upscale stores in Diagon Alley, she is a definite asset to the Order.

As far as the Order is concerned, that is.

Annalise is a wolf in sheep’s clothing—and she makes a very convincing sheep. Wide green eyes filled with tears, insisting that it was that bastard Josiah’s fault that Leina died—that she wanted to help end the war before any other innocent lives were lost. There’s a chance some people might be suspicious, but she is pretty certain most people couldn’t fail to be convinced. Especially when it’s mostly true. She did blame Josiah, for putting her sister in danger in the first place, for not being more careful, for not protecting her. And she did want the war over before anyone else she cared about was murdered. The part she didn’t add was that it was the Order, not the Death Eaters, that she was determined to stop at any cost.

As far as Annalise is concerned, it’s not even that risky a plan. Certainly these cowards are capable of murder—her sister’s grave is testament to that. But she is confident in her ability to convince the Order her intentions are good. She’s always been an excellent liar, after all, able to think quickly on her feet. Yes, she will be the perfect spy, and by the time she’s finished with them, every single one of these courageous and honourable cowards will be dead.

Though her grief and anger are driving her to waste no time in burning the Order to the ground, Annalise has always been a patient woman, and her anger has always been the sort that burns cold and slow. She’s playing a long game, and she can’t get caught before she has found a way to destroy every single one of these people. The Dark Lord doesn’t expect daily intel, or trivial hints about the Order’s day-to-day operations—certainly she is to pass on what information she can without getting caught, but her focus is on rising through the ranks until she can learn valuable information. The type of information that will bring this entire organization to its knees.

SURVIVAL:

So far? She’s survived by not being involved. But her sister wasn’t involved, either, and now she’s dead.

The Order isn’t as ruthless as the Dark Lord and his followers, but Annalise is still going to have to tread very carefully. They clearly are willing to kill, after all. She can’t pass over information that might expose her as a spy—only things that most people in the Order know, or information that she comes across by snooping, that can’t be traced to her. But letting the Dark Lord down could be dangerous, too.

Everything about her position is dangerous; quite aside from the risk of discovery, she could be killed by a Death Eater as easily as anyone else in the Order, since only a handful know she is one of them. And if the worst happens and she’s found out, there’s no telling how much help will come. Though Annalise would never have described herself as a reckless person before, she probably wouldn’t have said that she was overly cautious, either—but she’s going to have to be, now.

RELATIONSHIPS:

Family is the most important relationship, as far as Annalise is concerned. Her parents have both been devastated by Leina’s death, but like Anna, neither are wallowing in it. Her father, always one to lean on the side of emotional unavailability, has retreated into his work, while her mother is devoting herself to caring for her motherless grandson. The three of them don’t really talk to each other anymore—her family has been shattered.

After an initial retreat from public life to mourn her sister and plan her revenge, Annalise has returned to socializing and attending parties. Though most of her thoughts and energy are now devoted to destroying her sister’s killers, the social scene is a good distraction at times when she just can’t take it. An extrovert who is prone to shyness, she’s rarely had close friends outside of her family, so the friendships she’s maintaining are relatively shallow—but it’s easier that way.

Joining the Order gave her a few shocks—in terms of how many people she recognized. The number of purebloods from good families is astonishing. Vanity, Greengrass, Selwyn and Macmillan—these are names she knows, faces she’s seen at parties. The Yaxleys—she knows they are Death Eaters, so what in hell is Branwen doing here? Could she be on the same page as Annalise, or has she actually fallen for the Order’s bullshit?

And the McKinnons—they might not have been quite high society, but she’s still surprised to learn of their involvement. The fact that Marlene is using her family’s house for the Order—that she has werewolves camped right outside—does she not see that she’s putting her family in danger? It’s so selfish! And Alaric—she’d known him at school, they’d been in the same house, and she knew her parents had tried to arrange a match between them. She probably dodged a bludger, there. Learning that he was working with the Order was disappointing—but at least he’s not actually one of them.

Frank Longbottom is a distant cousin, and it’s dreadful to know that there is family here. Does he just not care that they killed Leina? But she’s willing to use that connection to her advantage. After all, the entire extended family shares one value in common: family is important. So of course he’ll look out for her.

She doesn’t recognize Peter Pettigrew or Severus Snape. The names are vaguely familiar, since they were only a few years below her at school, but they’re not even a blip on her radar. The fact that the Dark Lord has other spies in the Order is not known to her—and she certainly wouldn’t have picked Pettigrew as one of them.

At present, she doesn’t know that Lily Evans was the person responsible for her sister’s death. If that fact is revealed to her, it’s going to take all her self-control and willpower to keep her cover and not avenge her sister on the spot.

OOC EXPLORATION:

SHIPS/ANTI-SHIPS: No ships in particular, just chemistry. Honestly, Annalise growing close to anyone in the Order (romantically or platonically) would be fascinating, since she’s only there to see them all dead!

WHAT PRIVILEGES AND BIASES DOES YOUR CHARACTER HAVE?

Annalise did not come from money, but her family was never poor, either. She is a woman in a patriarchal society, but she is a woman from a well-connected and respectable family. Her bloodline is pure, going back at least a dozen generations. Annalise’s position is unquestionably one of privilege—not extreme luxury and decadence perhaps, but certainly privileged enough that she’s been able to opt out of caring about the war until now. She is aware of her privilege to some degree—knows the value of her connections and status—but she doesn’t really think about it.

While she’s dimly aware of her privilege, she has no concept at all of her biases. She really would consider herself among the more progressive of purebloods. She works for a living, after all, and while she’s never been moved to fight for Muggleborns rights, she’s never actively fought against them either. It’s not like she supports the Dark Lord’s ideology, after all. And while she certainly thinks that any sort of contact with the Muggle world is to be entirely avoided, she’s never felt the urge to go around murdering them for fun.

Certainly she looks down somewhat on Muggleborns, and half-bloods to a lesser extent, but that’s not a bias—it’s just a fact that purebloods are superior. It’s nothing personal! She had plenty of half-blood friends in Hufflepuff, after all. It’s just the way it is. Sure, there are some half-bloods who exceed expectations, but they’re the exception, not the rule. As for certain Muggleborns—well, Annalise has always privately believed that the more talented of that lot probably have some magical blood in their history. Honest-to-goodness talent can’t just spring up out of nowhere.

In the same vein, half-breeds are dangerous and have no business socializing with regular folk. That isn’t bias. It’s fact. Werewolves—they’re wolves! The fact that there is one of their kind in the Order—well, it’s just another nail in the Order’s coffin, as far as she’s concerned.

WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO? The amount of attention and detail that has gone into this rp is incredible. I’m all about worldbuilding and the world you’ve created here is fascinating! I also just love Annalise’s bio—she’s a loyal, hard-working, and patient Hufflepuff, who is channelling that loyalty and hard work and patience into burning the Order to the ground. She’s not fuelled by lust for power or pureblood idealism—this is personal. That’s the most Hufflepuff way to go dark, and I’m here for it. I’m so interested to see how she’ll balance the need to stay under the radar and out of suspicion, with the need to advance and gain access to more information—as well as how she’ll cope as she gets to know people in the Order better. It’s easier to hate all of them when she doesn’t actually know any of them.

PLOT DROP IDEAS (OPTIONAL): I’d definitely like to see information that Annalise passes on, be put to use against the Order. Also, plots that will challenge her and put her in difficult situations—for example, if a Death Eater is taken hostage by the Order, will she be able to risk setting them free?

ANYTHING ELSE? Just that this group looks so great, and I hope you like my app!

[cheshiresense]

And here’s the other thing I wrote on discord. Still a ramble but shorter.

AU where Tsuna listened to his intuition more (even with his Flames sealed, his intuition was powerful enough that it helped him avoid bullies or just gave him a nudge whenever Hibari was headed his way or there was a quicker route to wherever he was going; he's learned to rely on it even if he didn't know what 'it' was before Reborn showed up) and was also a little more proactive post-Kokuyo arc.

I still headcanon that Tsuna and Mukuro formed a Flame/Guardian bond after their battle. So after one too many times of Reborn scolding him for sympathizing with an enemy or flat-out telling him that they'll probably be locked up in Vendicare forever whenever Tsuna asks what's going to happen to Mukuro and co., he decides to try and figure it out on his own. Locked up forever isn't a good enough answer for him.

Shamal is generally an unreliable pervert in Tsuna's opinion, but he's also a professional assassin with years of mafia experience under his belt (Tsuna can't believe his life has reached the point where he can say this stuff with a straight face), so he stammers and nags an answer out of the distracted doctor when Reborn isn't around under the guise of needing to learn more about the mafia, and Shamal, who's a little more helpful when Tsuna isn't asking him for a cure, grudgingly delivers. Tsuna finds out Vendicare procedures - what crimes are too much even in the mafia world, under what circumstances the Vindice would cut in, even their trade policy - and by the time they part ways, Tsuna feels ready to throw up but also knows how to contact the Vindice and even a vague idea of what he's going to have to do to get Mukuro released into his custody.

(Some part of him can't believe he's doing this at all. But the sliver of Flame that's always flickered like a candle at the back of his mind and in the depths of his chest drives him on with more fervour than Tsuna's ever felt for anything, and even just the thought of Mukuro spending the rest of his life in the horrors of Vendicare that Shamal painted for him makes him feel sick to his stomach. He can't just not do anything.)

So basically Tsuna rings up the Vindice and is all like whattup im the future vongola decimo (because his word needs weight) and that's my guardian you have in your custody (because invisible spiritual connections made of soul fire apparently mean a lot in the mafia world), what can i do to get him and his minions back.

And the Vindice are like we'll trade you criminal for criminal, and they pull out their Most Wanted list and be like Do You Have So And So like the world's most illegal game of Go Fish.

And I just want Tsuna to go out there and kill someone for Mukuro. Like, he obviously doesn't have anybody on the Vindice's list, the only people he's fought so far are the ones Reborn forced him to fight. But the Vindice gives him names of criminals hiding in Japan, people even they haven't been able to find, but Tsuna with his Intuition can. He just needs to get his hands dirty.

But he does it. He accepts the deal the Vindice offers him - two of the world's worst criminals in exchange for Mukuro and both Ken and Chikusa. Preferably alive but dead is fine. He won't even have to lug the bodies all the way to Italy. The Vindice needs proof but they'll go to him when he calls.

Tsuna disappears for two weeks. In the end, it's not that hard. Reborn's stopped following him every minute of every day now that he has Gokudera and Yamamoto constantly hovering around him, but it's easy enough to ditch them both when they get into another one of their shouting-laughing arguments at school. He has some money and food, and he has his gloves but they won't do him much good without one of Reborn's bullets so he also pickpocketed a silencer from Reborn's bafflingly large arsenal. That turns out to be pretty easy too because Reborn's been trying to teach him how to assemble and fire various weapons for weeks.

(Half his friends flip the fuck out when they finally realize he's missing. Hibari is mostly just irritated because one of Namimori's students is skipping school. Reborn retraces Tsuna's steps with all the ruthless determination of a hurricane and within three days tracks down Shamal and gets him to spill everything he unknowingly told Tsuna about the Vindice. The only problem left is they don't know who Tsuna is hunting down for the Vindice, and not even Reborn is quite ready to dial them up to demand answers. Reborn would be impressed with Tsuna's new display of a spine if he wasn't doing it for Rokudo Mukuro what even is his obsession with that Mist honestly, did Mukuro do something to him in their fight??)

Fast-forward a couple weeks and Tsuna's done it. Sure, he almost got killed once or twice, but the truth is his targets have been keeping their heads down for years, and they've grown complacent, confident in their ability to evade the Vindice and go about their lives without constantly looking over their shoulders.

They still dabble though, from time to time. The Vindice were helpful enough to give Tsuna everything they had on them. The first has a partiality for baby-faced teenagers. Tsuna is exactly his type, and it's not hard to walk past the guy's shop a few times before luring him down a dark alley one afternoon. He doesn't even realize he's been shot until Tsuna's put a hole in his head ("Headshots are your safest bet for a fast kill, Dame-Tsuna, are you paying attention?"). Tsuna also spends the next two minutes heaving up the contents of his stomach. He's not that bothered by the blood, if he's honest; he's seen his own blood often enough that he's more or less desensitized to it. But he's just killed someone, and he's never done that before, and for a moment he regrets - fiercely - what he's set out to do, for a boy who might as well be a stranger and probably won't ever thank him for this.

(But Mukuro isn't a stranger, is he? Somehow, even though he hangs out with Gokudera and Yamamoto practically every day, even though he lives with Lambo and I-Pin and Bianchi and Reborn, even though he interacts with Hibari and Ryouhei, Tsuna still feels like it's Mukuro he understands best. His motives, his goals, his reason for living and fighting and killing, his hatred and his anger and his fears - somehow, when it comes to Mukuro, he knows it all.)

So he keeps at it. The regret fades, his resolve surges, and he's pale but steady when he calls the Vindice for them to pick up the body. And then it's on to the next target.

The second criminal - a black widow responsible for slaughtering three whole Famiglia down to the last child after marrying into them - gives him more trouble, mostly because Tsuna misses his first shot and alerts her to Tsuna's presence. They end up cat-and-mousing halfway across the country, clashing in a warehouse and resulting in Tsuna finally lighting his Flames all on his own out of sheer desperation after the woman shatters two of his ribs and has her hands around his throat and a wild gleam in her eyes before Tsuna bursts into Sky Flames that consume her before she can scramble away.

She screams and screams as Tsuna's Flames devour her, hot and hungry and relentless, and Tsuna doesn't think he's ever going to get the smell of overcooked meat out of his nose again.

By the time he figures out how to put it out, the woman is very dead, but at least she's also still recognizable. Tsuna doesn't throw up this time, mostly just numb and cold and fucking exhausted. Everything hurts, he's bleeding from a head wound, and he's pretty sure he won't be able to talk without sounding like he's been gargling gravel.

Still, he might as well finish this, so he calls the Vindice, and he gets the distinct impression that they're actually impressed with him, which is just fucked up, nobody should be impressed by murder, especially when Tsuna is committing it. It's not like he even did it well. Reborn would probably sneer at the shoddy execution. Tsuna's a mess and about to keel over, and he really just wants to go home and sleep for a week or possibly forever.

He does end up falling unconscious, so he misses the Vindice cleaning up the evidence of a murder before leaving through their portal, only to come back with a truly confuzzled Mukuro and minions. They give him the bare bones of it - they're free but under Tsuna's custody because Tsuna was the one who traded for them; if they break one of their laws again, even the future Vongola Decimo won't be able to save them. And then they leave.

Mukuro is left with a baffled Ken and Chikusa and an unconscious bleeding mess of a boy who was his enemy and now his saviour, and...

He should just go. He's free, and Tsuna's in no state to even try and stop him, let alone succeed. He should take Ken and Chikusa and book it out the door while he still has the chance. Who knows, Tsuna might even bleed out without medical attention soon, and that won't even be on Mukuro.

But something in him rebels at the very idea of taking even one step away from this stupid boy. He hates to admit it but fighting Tsuna - and perhaps even the way he lost to him and all that glorious burning resolve - gave him more than a decent idea of the kind of person Tsuna is. And he hates it because he wants to think Vongola Decimo and associate it with evil, with the trash of society, with Estraneo, except he can't, because this is Sawada Tsunayoshi, who fought for his friends even though half of them didn't give a damn about him when he was growing up alone, who even then - beaten and bruised - protested when the Vindice came to take Mukuro away, who freed him and very obviously doesn't expect anything in return, and apparently Mukuro isn't completely heartless after all.

AND TL;DR MUKURO MISTS HIS WAY INTO AN UPSCALE HOTEL AND PATCHES TSUNA UP, AND WHEN TSUNA WAKES UP, HE HIIIEEES AND MUKURO SMIRKS AND THEY DANCE AROUND THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM WITH VAGUE THREATS AND HAND-WRINGING AND SOME BACK AND FORTH SNARK BECAUSE APPARENTLY WHEN TSUNA ISNT SCARED OF HIM, HE HAS A VERY DONE-WITH-EVERYTHING MINDSET THAT MATCHES WELL WITH MUKURO'S DARKER HUMOUR.

AND THEN TSUNA GOES BACK TO NAMIMORI WITH THREE CRIMINALS IN TOW, AND THEY PROBABLY PICK UP CHROME ALONG THE WAY BECAUSE TSUNA IS A BLEEDING HEART AND MUKURO RECOGNIZES HIS LONG-LOST SEVERAL TIMES REMOVED TWIN OR SOMETHING, SO THEY TOTALLY STEAL HER FROM THE HOSPITAL THEY FIND HER IN THROUGH A COMBINATION OF TSUNA'S INTUITION AND MUKURO'S UNEXPLAINABLE CHROME-SENSE.

REBORN TOTALLY FLIPS HIS SHIT WHEN HE REALIZES TSUNA HAS EXACTLY TWO GUARDIAN FLAME BONDS NOW, AND NOT ONLY ARE BOTH OF THEM MISTS BUT ONE OF THEM IS ROKUDO FUCKING MUKURO AND EVEN HE KNOWS BETTER THAN TO ATTEMPT TO SEPARATE A GUARDIAN FROM THEIR SKY, BUT THAT ALSO MEANS REBORN'S GOING TO HAVE TO PUT WORK INTO ACTUALLY HELPING TSUNA FORGE REAL GUARDIAN BONDS INSTEAD OF JUST THROWING FLAME POTENTIALS AT HIM THE WAY THE VONGOLA HAS DONE FOR GENERATIONS. TSUNA KNOWS THE DIFFERENCE NOW AND HE'S NEVER GOING TO ACCEPT ANYTHING LESS.

AND BASICALLY WHEN THE VARIA/IEMITSU/VONGOLA COME CALLING, TSUNA HAS ONE VERY POSSESSIVE MIST AND ANOTHER VERY DEVOTED MIST, AND THEY ABSOLUTELY DON'T TAKE ANY SHIT FROM THE MAFIA.

[zukofenty]

just my luck

➜ Summary: The one where Katara whisks away her picture-perfect life the night she kisses a stranger with the worst luck in the world.

“I lost all my good luck!” Katara screams. “Everything I touch turns to shit!” 

“I mean, have you considered fucking a leprechaun?”

➜ Genre: Modern!AU, Journalist!Katara, Girl group manager!Zuko, Music Producer!Zuko

AO3, @zutaraweek

“I am too pretty to be punched!” Katara yelps, ducking and clenching the holding cell’s bars until her knuckles turn white. 

  “And I thought I was too pretty to commit tax fraud, but here we are.” Ty Lee rolls her eyes. “That’s just how the pussy crumbles.” 

  “First, you need a gynecologist. Second, I think the saying goes ‘that’s how the cookie—’” Nothing in life could have prepared Katara for the tiny girl to deliver a resounding punch that has her head rattling against the jail cell. 

  “I lost all my good luck!” Katara screams. “Everything I touch turns to shit!” 

  “I mean, have you considered fucking a leprechaun?” 

  Katara sighs, still recovering from the intense nosebleed Ty Lee bestowed on her. “Where the fuck would I even find a leprechaun?” She promptly shoves wads of tissues up her nostrils. Of course, the next one she reaches for actually had a spider in it, and she thinks killing herself just might be easier on her soul at this point. 

  “Just say you like Megan Thee Stallion and all of a sudden all the men under 5’7” start giving you a 5’11” attitude. Easy peasy.” 

  She’d managed to limp her way back to Suki and Toph’s apartment from prison, after getting a call that her apartment had flooded, destroying everything in it. Only her apartment. She was barely holding on to her broken YSL pump in one hand and her pride in the other. Emphasis on limp , because while calling taxis to instantly stop for her was always her thing , now she was nothing but an ant (in head-to-toe Prada) on their radar. If they do stop, the taxi either gets snatched up by someone else, or the drivers tell her, not so kindly, to eat a dick. 

  Nevertheless, she’s still determined to have a positive day, walking and humming a Rihanna song to try and calm her nerves. But, because this day was sent by Satan himself (Jeff Bezos), she was drenched, face to booty to toes, in drain water by the seemingly hundreds of Uber Eats whizzing by, trying to get someone’s Buffalo Wild Wings order to them quickly. 

  “I can’t believe you guys actually think all that stuff’s real!” Suki scoffs, diligently painting her toenails a pretty pastel purple and not giving any mind to the conversation. 

  “Tell me, how would you explain this bitch’s life?” Toph points an accusatory finger in Katara’s way. “Katara has been living life as the main character. For fuck’s sake, you won prom queen five years in a row at Ba Sing Se High!” 

  “A lot of people win prom queen—” 

  “We went to Omashu High!” Toph adds with frustration. “You even won the year after you graduated!” 

  Toph and Suki could never quite wrap their heads around Katara’s life. 

  For as long as they knew her, she was always the luckiest girl in the world. 

  At seemingly every turn, the girl had all the luck in the world on her side. I mean, just the other day she was accidentally delivered Rihanna’s dry cleaning, because of course she lives in the same fucking building as Rihanna, the goddess herself. See, Katara was the type of person with the luck to manage to find an upscale apartment on their shitty salary in the city for nearly half of what Suki and Toph were paying to sleep next to inbred cockroaches. 

  “Bitch, you do not have the range for that.” Toph snatches the dress away before Suki or Katara could make a face and whimper a soft ‘gimmie gimmie’ that surprisingly always worked.  

  “I might not, but at least we could clone Rihanna now.” 

  Toph pauses. “Say what?” 

  “I’m getting the girls and gays that album, no matter what.” 

  Katara went to return the dress after getting in a helicopter with her date of the night, People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, Haru (before the mustache). On top of all that madness, she said Rihanna, in the shimmery, Fenty Beauty Body Lava coated flesh, even complimented her makeup. Suki almost shit herself when Katara was added to the Fenty Savage PR list. 

  Katara would walk outside and the clouds seemed to part as if on her command. She could wear all-white in the city without a bird unloading one on her shoulder, or one of those guys on the street flicking feces in a pudding cup her way. Jammed streets or congested traffic never ceased her from being ten minutes early to every meeting, event, or even accidental movie set she walked on and got cast as an extra instantly. The lead actor, Academy Award winning Bolin, is still sending her detailed DMs about the various ways he would harvest her toenails because it reminded him of her. 

  And you know those Airpods or laptop scams that go around on social media you have to train your grandparents not to click on? Or those princes that email you promising to marry you after you send them your banking information? Guess which bitch manages to actually win over a prince’s heart and his inheritance? 

  Katara had the universe wrapped around her finger, and it didn’t seem to mind bending to her will. 

  Fresh out of college, after much clawing and fighting and miraculously switching coats with an editor at a restaurant, Katara managed to snag a job at Nyla magazine and secured spots for her best friends, too. They’d been reading the entertainment magazine before they could even process solid food. While they were all saddled with a mailroom job, Katara’s quote unquote irresistible charm had landed her as a scribe to record meetings when their original conveniently broke a nail. 

  Of fucking course, the day their entire team is stuck in a broken elevator is the day the CEO of White Lotus Records was coming into the office to discuss Nyla ’s next cover star. 

  Their next big thing, teen singer, Song was still hesitant to work with a magazine aimed at young adults with unhealthy coping mechanisms, compared to the J14s and Tiger Beats with the foldable poster at the back you could steal if you were quick enough at Walgreens. 

  “ Young lady.” Ugh, why do old men always sound so fucking condescending? You know how easy it is to push an old person? “You know how much dough I make so I can regularly spend it on drugs? Every minute of my time is worth $964.” While Piandao gets up for his assistants to put on his fur coat, Katara slams her hand on the table. 

  “I promise you this cover story will be worth every minute of your time. I’ll even pay you $965 at the end of my presentation if you hate it.” 

  And who could say no to that sweet (and scary) face? 

  When editor-in-chief June waddles back, glazed with sweat after someone farted their entire Del Taco Thursday three chicken soft tacos for $2.49 deal in her face , their cover story was booked. The carnival themed, masquerade party to celebrate Song’s new cover was already scheduled in Google Calendar. Soon enough, Katara was handed her own office, Tesla, and platinum corporate card to start planning the entire event. 

  Everything was going fine . There were acrobats doing flying yoga in the sky, a fortune teller she hired at the last minute that everyone loved. Music was playing, people were dancing without a care in the world, and everyone was having a good fucking time. She even snagged her bitchy boss a date with her hot neighbor, and her Painted Lady costume was designed by Vera Wang herself. By the end of the night, her brain was scrambled from the paperwork and yelling and pen marks all on her hand. Yet, with her luck, she still managed to kiss the cute guy who asked her to dance. 

  Well, at least she knew he felt and smelled like a cute guy, considering half his face was covered by a mask. 

  He was a bumbling thing, managing to stomp on her feet a few times even when she reassures him at the end of the day. Despite being all broad shoulders and muscles, he seemed to shrink in on himself at that moment.  “I’m really, really bad at dancing.” She gave him a weird look and Zuko had to remember that he had stolen a backup dancer named Lee’s gig for the night to sneak into the event.  

  Katara rolls her eyes. Dancing, much like nearly everything else, always came easy to her. “So what if you gave a girl a black eye and another guy a concussion?” Her laugh is so pretty and her waist between his warm fingers just felt right. 

  He lets himself laugh, too. Wrapped up in the girl’s spell. Forgetting any thought of trying to win over the White Lotus CEO. 

  She leaned in first, and he was more than happy to reciprocate. Zuko didn’t have time for impulsive decisions, not when the universe was actively always trying to kill him. For some reason, he couldn’t help but be drawn in. Her soft lips against his felt like a plush dream, and all he didn’t want to wake up to reality. Not when in that moment, there were sparks and blood rushing to his head and soft skin peeking out of her expensive dress he wanted to discover more of. 

  One minute, Katara was throwing back a margarita in case she had dumb bitch breath that caused her mystery man ran off. The next, she was choking to death, only spitting out the olive on Suki’s face after Toph delivers a quick punch to her sternum, right between the titties. 

  “Eenie meenie miney mo, catch a stupid whore by her throat!” 

  “Stop choking me, June!”

  “No!” June screeches. How was Katara supposed to know she accidentally set her boss up with the ‘ King Kuei ’? The FBI’s most wanted illegal animal trader by day, male prostitute by night? And who knew that would land her a night in jail? 

  “The universe is a stupid fucking whore!” Katara sniffs, still trying to detangle the chunk of hair embedded deep into Suki’s blow dryer. Katara managed to not only break a mirror with the blow dryer in her mere ten minutes in Suki and Toph’s place, but also rip out a section of her hair after throwing said blow dryer in their bathtub which promptly caught on fire. The icing on the dog shit cake of the day was when she managed to cause the building’s power to short circuit, shutting off everyone’s lights.

  //

  The universe, for the first time in his life, was finally on Zuko’s side. 

  For as long as Zuko could remember, rain clouds suddenly appeared when he walked outside, even despite what Alexa told him earlier that morning. 

  “Alexa, what’s the weather like today?” 

  “Completely sunny with a chance of naive bitch,” the smart speaker might as well have said. 

  Zuko was sure of four things in life. 

  Adderall and 7 up were never a good combination 

Alexa was always watching for an opportunity to strike fear in his heart

He could never catch a fucking break

Having a waterpark poncho always on hand never hurt

  He heard from his Uncle Iroh his family was perpetually cursed. Something about a fame-hungry witch with the last name Kardashian in the past life, and one of his relatives eating said witch’s ass that inflicted the present day curse on his family.

  Everyone he knew was impossibly clumsy. Random flooding accidents, cars always running into you, bugs trying to get their fuck on in your ear. It was like the universe said yeet! On their good fortune.

  What does he wish for every year on his birthday? For it to be easy just to be him . To be easily liked, like Adele, or Dippin Dots. He wished life could be easy enough for him to take a shit without the toilet bowl accidentally caving in, or a lightbulb somehow always falling on his good eye.

  Zuko had always been relatively clumsy, worse than what Iroh’s seen before. After so many years of being shit-out-of-luck, and having literal shit on you at all times, he was used to being alone. 

  It stopped stinging a few years ago. Besides, he had his half-sister Kiyi to keep him company these days. 

  Nobody wanted to be around the guy who constantly smells like dog shit because he always manages to find a shit covered dollar bill flowing down the street. No one wanted to be associated with the guy who, without fail, splits his pants open every time he bends down.  Saddling him with yet another public indecency charge. 

  Like clockwork, at least two times a week, he was getting his face shoved into the concrete and handcuffs slapped on him. He started investing in a mouth guard about five years ago.

  It was like a safety hazard, just being him. There were so many times you could get struck by lightning before you were banned by the nation from buying umbrellas. 

  Predictably, he has been rejected from every job he applied to. His laptop has been hacked by so many Hentai porn bots he doesn’t even bother upgrading his Dell from 2013. He even started a conversation with the guy monitoring his keystrokes. Landlords chucked his application out the window before he could even give them his soul and a deposit, and while the doctors didn’t think he’d do it, he found out that yes you can survive being hit after someone throws a piano out their window while you leave the leasing office. 

  Sure, he came to the city with dreams of making it big, loving music since his mom taught him the difference between a treble and bass clef. But when he’s always accidentally setting his tsungi horn on fire? Breaking his nose open trying to put resin on his violin’s bow? Somehow getting a reed stuck in his throat and his sphincter (on the same day)? No chance in hell was anyone willing to risk their lives to let him play anything on stage. 

  So he stuck to writing and producing, watching YouTube tutorial after tutorial to learn mixing, because he thinks it’s safer for everyone involved. 

  “Zuko, someone tried shoving Nutella up their ass and shat it back over the bathroom.” He looks up from his laptop to see a plunger too close for comfort near his face. 

  “Why?” 

  “Some weird sex thing! I don’t fucking know.” Jet points to the elderly couple nearby. “You ask them why!”

  Zuko takes a deep breath in. “No, I’m asking ‘why?’ because my shift doesn’t start for another two hours.” 

  He was a janitor at the bowling alley across the street (it was the only place that would hire him, but he thinks they felt bad for him after he ugly cried and ate out their supply of shitty, frozen curly fries). 

  “You know I love you, Zuko! But these!” Jet cups Zuko’s chest with two, oddly gentle, hands.  “Make our alley’s world go round.” He even gives them a squeeze for emphasis. 

  “Let go of my man titties,” Zuko glares at Jet. “ Now .” 

  “You’re the breast.” 

  Zuko’s eye twitches. 

  It wasn’t all bad. After all, the alley does let him make music in his free time, and the girl group he was “managing” can perform their sets on Fridays. 

  “We’re firing you!” Mai pokes at his chest and has him readjusting his glasses from the force. 

  It was a Monday and his week was starting off better than most. He was scraping green colored poop from the walls and was already being threatened at 9 a.m. without any weapons in sight. 

  “You don’t pay me!” He points out, which only seems to get everyone in the room angrier. His sister and her friends formed Shooters 4 Rihanna when they were pre-teens. They wanted to be a group trying to make it big in the pop scene, and quickly signed to a record label together. The girls were promised all their years of childhood training would pay off when they would debut as young adults. That was, until their CEO was broadcast on TLC’s My Strange Addiction for his habit of collecting Mark Ruffalo’s nose hairs, and confessed to killing someone for it. 

  Investors weren’t too happy. 

  While all the girls could see was repressed childhood trauma, Zuko saw that and potential star power. 

  Every single member already had years of dancing and singing lessons under their belt. They could play their own instruments, write their own songs, and had the stage presence. A few Twitter DMs later (from his multiple accounts, because they thought his profile picture made him look like a fucking creep and blocked him years ago) they were dumb enough to trust him with their future. He’d been trying to get them signed for months to no avail. Somehow fucking up, or electrocuting himself in the process of showing an executive their new single. 

  “This was a mistake!” Jin shoveled the curly fries in her face. 

  While Yue was always one to stay positive, her sad ‘ I miss pickled fish ,’ had the rest of the girls wanting to leave, too. Going back home, just give up seemed sensible. Why waste your prime years on a pipe dream?   

  He stopped them, plunger in hand. Against all logic, and partially because they could smell the desperation, the girls gave him one week . 

  One masquerade party later, he managed to throw Piandao out of harm’s way, taking the brunt of the taxi running into him. 

  “ Are you fucking stupid !” The CEO screams. The boy had blood flowing from his scalp, but looked as alive as ever handing over Shooters 4 Rihanna’s demo CD. 

  “A little.” Zuko admits. He could feel his bones still intact, and judging by the blood it wasn’t anything serious. Piandao gives him a call the next day after listening to the tape. 

  By some miracle, or Kardashian curse lifting, the girl group and him were shuffled into the city’s upscale penthouses, and their debut single was slated to be released on the radio the next day.

  While he headed for lunch at a nearby cafe (one he couldn’t afford to eat at just last week) he can’t help but notice her . 

  //

  “Ma’am, I have already told you our restaurant’s motto! No eat, no shit!” The waiter glares down at her. “Either pay up or get out, broke bitch.” 

  Katara was caked head to toe in mud, tissues shoved yet again up her nose. Haru had invited her out to his dad’s art show the night before. After insulting the literal piece of shit art, she tripped over the clump of clay on display and landed face-first in his million dollar creation. 

  Of course, it would land her in prison, and of course Ty Lee would be there, too. “Move bitch, I’m gay! ” When Katara was too exhausted to budge, the girl, yet again, socked the shit out of her. 

  Katara just wanted a plate of steaming breakfast foods, but of course all her cards declined. And of course, she has a meltdown because she was fucking tired, hungry, and was about to throw hands.

  She grabbed the salt shaker. “Look, I’m just going to try one thing before I go!” 

  “It’s the bath salts,” she hears one woman whisper. “Those fashion bitches are always on bath salts.” 

  “Just smile politely. We’re witnessing mental illness.” 

  She didn’t expect that throwing salt over her shoulder would land in the waiter’s eye, or cause him to collapse on the table of Mormons nearby. Or something to catch on fire, or someone to get stabbed with a fork with a pancake on it. 

  She certainly didn’t expect a (cute) stranger to be so gentle with her, helping her escape the madness and handing over his turkey on rye. Or him following her as she tried to save face and sit on a random bench away from any nearby birds’ tiny assholes. 

  “You look sad.” He’s not mocking in the slightest.

  “What does that even mean?” She went from sad to affronted in just a second. 

  “What’s wrong?” Fuck this guy and those eyes that were so damn enchanting . 

  “I don’t look sad.” She says with the roll of her eyes. “I am fucking sad.” She was blackballed from every newspaper in the Four Nations, the prince she was talking to did indeed end up stealing her savings, and on top of all of that, her undereye concealer was creasing. 

  “You!” Katara points her finger in the fortuneteller’s face. 

  “Me?” Aunt Wu looks beyond irritated. “Look, I can’t predict when you’ll get a fat ass, just buy a resistance band and leave me—”

  “You’re the one who told me whatever Wheel of Fortune would spin back on me! And Alex Tribek would take away my good luck or something!” Katara was crazed and running on two hours of sleep, but she had a bone to pick. “My perfect life is gone.” 

  “Wow, that was a lot to unpack.” Aunt Wu locks her shop’s door. “Look, can you think of anything strange that happened that night?” 

  “Besides someone telling me to make them toilet wine in prison, no I don’t think so!” Katara grunts out petulantly. 

  Aunt Wu smacks her with a stack of tarot cards. “No! Jesus! What else happened?” 

  “Can’t you just tell me? Childhood trauma has really fucked with my memory.” 

  “You kissed someone, didn’t you?” The fortuneteller scurries to her Kia Soul before Katara could retaliate. “Maybe he needed that luck more than you do!” 

  She tried kissing every single dancer that was working that stupid party, and came up with nothing but mono and the feeling of defeat.

  “Did you know, I even fucking sharted myself today!” She smacks her forehead repeatedly. “At twenty-fucking-three! How fucking embarrassing . All I could do is run to the H&M with my cheeks out to buy a pair of sweatpants.” 

  “I know a job looking for someone,” he says and even when he’s staring at her with nothing but understanding, she’s still apprehensive.  

  “Don’t care, didn’t ask, plus you’re a colonizer.” If she had any energy she would’ve put more force into the shove. “Why are you even helping me?” 

  She looked like shit on a dick and he was just smiling at her. “Let’s say, I just know what it’s like to be SOL.” 

  “What’s the catch?” She stares at him down and pouts. He’s wearing an Armani shirt with an Off-White belt, which was already offending her senses, but on top of that he dared pair the atrocity with a pair of knock-off Converse. He couldn’t have sprung for a real pair, he just had  to get the off-brand from Costco that made everyone’s ankles look like cankles. 

  New money . “I am not letting anyone suck my toes for money, again. Try a different girl.” 

  Zuko grows positively red, but at least it brings the ghost of a smile to her face. “No toe sucking. Only on Wednesdays.” 

  She delivers a well-aimed kick to his crotch. While she’d expect him heaving and puffing, he’s unphased. He’d put on his MMA fighter grade, groin protector out of habit, even though he’s getting kicked a lot less in the ball bags lately. 

  “So, you’re trying to convert me to Scientology?” Katara scoffs. “I’ll pass, Asian Tom Cruise.”

  “Not that either.” He sees the defeated look in her eyes, the same one he’s seen in himself. There’s a spark there, though. A willingness to just keep going. Something he lost years ago. “Trust me.” 

  “No.” 

  “All good.” He shrugs. “Can I at least help you up?” Before she could bite back, she turned to the spot on the bench where he was pointing.

  Wet paint. 

  He’s taking her mustard covered hands (the sandwich exploded in the foil) in his soft ones without question, and peeling her off the bench. 

  “Of fucking course,” she huffs. 

  //

  She thinks he knows. He knows the fact that she wants him sticking around. Even with her adamant protests against it, he’s persistent. 

  Stopping by after long days at the studio to her shit job, handful of first aid supplies at the ready.  

  He’s just always there . 

  He’s there when she’s scraping gum from under the alley’s tables and almost swallows one that had “Live, Laugh, Love” carved into it. He quickly stops her from choking, practically an expert at the heimlich with how many times he’s almost died from drinking boba. 

  There when she electrocutes herself changing the alley’s light bulbs to catch her as she falls straight off the ladder. He’s not even phased, pushing a fried piece of hair sticking up the heavens and staring at her as though she squirted cupcake frosting from her nipples. 

  He’s there with his first-aid messenger bag, all duct taped and falling apart and it makes her want to say sorry to Alexander Wang for daring to wear it with his Spring 2019 boots after Zuko forces her to carry it around. But then he’s pulling out a tube of toothpaste from the bag while she’s cooling her burnt fingertips on a 10 year old Yerba Mate can, and she’s reminded why he’s so firm about it. 

  “Earth Nation trick to heal burnt skin.” He’s too concentrated on rubbing the paste into her flaming skin to notice her staring. She remembers that he included her favorite Fenty gloss in the bag after handing it off to her, and blushes. 

  “I don’t need your help, you know.”  Katara was always the one fighting for her own dreams. She didn’t want to stick back living the life other people imagined for her. Even all the luck in the world couldn’t help her escape a sleepy town or an unsupportive family. 

  When they came to the city, she knew her friends let her take care of them on purpose. It was second nature, what she grew up on. She’d always been the one looking out for everyone, even if they didn’t ask, and they let her do it because they all needed a coping mechanism. Toph’s is cake cutting videos, Suki’s is practicing her crying face because she always wanted to be a pretty crier, and Katara’s is being overbearing. 

  She was confused. As many times as she tried drilling through his thick head that her grandma was a nurse, that she could easily wrap up every cut, bruise, and swollen toe, he never budged. For the first time in a while, someone was there, stubbornly making sure she was okay. 

  “I know?” He says it as though it was obvious. “I’ll make you a deal, though. Just let me help you out, just this one time?” He gently taps her fingers wrapped in Minion bandaids he got her just because he knew she hated them in public, loved them in private. “I won’t do it again.” 

  He’s teasing and it’s obvious he knows she’s putty in his hands. Though, his newfound look (she helped with) balancing boy-next-door with heartthrob is not working on her heart. Her pussy, sure. Not her heart, though. She swears. 

  “That’s what you said last time,” Katara protests, without any energy behind it. 

  He sends her a lopsided smile. “I know.” 

  Zuko wasn’t about to let any hair on her pretty head get hurt. 

  While Kiyi already had enough of a bad case of bad luck, considering all the Power Ranger figurines she had super glued to her face by fourth grade boys, Katara’s was just something else. 

  It reminded him of him . Whatever stroke of good luck he had, he knew the universe takes in ten-fold what it might give. So he’s taking advantage of every bit of luck he has for a girl without any. 

  While he’s been stabbed many a time walking back home at night, somehow he’s in the clear when he escorts Katara back to her apartment. Or the times he buys her Water Tribe take out because she’s still figuring out how that prince managed to spend $10,000 on Swampbender diet pills. Or when he sneaks in before her shift to do some of her tasks for the day (he still has the keys), so he doesn’t have to worry about her bruising her pubic bone with the vacuum, or breaking the ceiling with a slippery bowling ball. 

  He wasn’t all used to his new life. The designer shoes, the fancy parties, the attention . Girls in the past would look at him as though he wasn’t more than shit at the bottom of their Jimmy Choo, but his good luck brought this newfound female attention that was exhilarating and terrifying all at the same time. Especially when, all he wanted was to catch her eye. 

  She was his good luck charm and didn’t even know it. 

  Since he’s met her, everything just was going right . She brought Toph over with her guitar to string together a few verses the day they were in desperate need of new lyrics to go with the beat he’s spent the last few nights cranking out. The day after they released it on Apple Music, the song went #1 on Billboard. Piandao had even booked them to play the Hard Boulder Cafe for their first performance, and tickets were sold out. 

  Even when things just seemed to get better and better for him, the universe doubled down in its punishment for her. 

  He’s there when she’s walking back from work, drenched to the bone because she missed all trains for the day, a taxi said her face looked stupid, and she was just tired of it all and wanted to go home and eat processed frozen food and die. 

  Zuko’s there, though. Without fail.

  He’s there with his fucking Tesla and personal driver and Chanel top and she couldn’t be any more embarassed. 

  “Get in!” He hesitates before approaching. “Also, maybe let’s put down the umbrella?” It was inverted anyways, and looked three seconds from whisking her away into the storm. 

  “No, I’m good!” Katara insists. She was afraid that falling for Zuko, going to bed and waking up thinking of him was messing with her brain and she didn’t know if she wanted it to stop. 

  “You could get hit by lightning.” 

  “That can’t—” She ponders it for a second. “You know what, fuck you.” 

  He throws his expensive jacket over her to quell the shivers, and when she protests, seeing as it was a Valentino Lacquered Nylon Jacket, he bundles her even deeper in the thing, buttoning it up until she’s complaining from the warmth.  

  “You’re laughing at me.” She pouts.

  He’s covered completely in bubbles. Not her fault he decided to strip off his shirt to throw in the cycle with her wet clothes, and she got distracted by the abs and dumped the whole bottle of laundry detergent in the washing machine. 

  Zuko shoves her face into a pile of the suds. “I am, yeah.” She looks upset and he stops the mirth growing on his face. Reaching out to her, instead. “Katara, I’m sorry did I—” 

  She might’ve leaned out to accept his embrace, but then she’s flipping them over, pinning him down to the floor. Her warm, still soaking wet body, pressed against him and her arms coming out to pin his hands to the ground. 

  He gulps. 

  “This would be more fun if you let me peg you afterwards.” 

  Her laugh vibrates her whole body and he couldn’t help joining in, too. 

  He let her have her pick of his dress shirts, and she looked so much at home. Little strands of her bangs framing her face and growing curly with the addition of water. Her brow furrows when she mentions her leave-in conditioner washing away with the suds, and he takes advantage of the momentary distraction. Flipping her and placing two hands at the sides of her head. 

  She knows he’s covered in the bubbles, just so she wouldn’t feel anymore of a stupid bitch than she already does. He never seems to mind it, even when Katara was frustrated and just couldn’t figure out why all this was happening to her and dragging him into every single accident. 

  “What would you say to the universe, right now?” She’s curled up on his couch and he’s massaging the balls of her feet she presses in his lap. 

  “Welcome to your tape.” 

  “Katara, no.” 

  “That bridge off of Fourth Street? Looking really easy to jump off of right about now, universe.” 

  He lets her take his bed that night after he cooked up his famous komodo chicken and both Kiyi and her complain about having a food-baby.

  “Hey, Katara.” He whispers while her eyes could barely open. He tucked her in those blankets all ethnic people have, the super fluffy ones with a tiger on them that are always wrapped in a plastic bag.  “You’re cute.” 

  “Yeah?” She breathes out, crinkling her nose and blinking those long lashes and making his heart skip beats. “Hey, Zuko.” 

  “Yeah?” 

  “I think I like you.” 

  He pinches her cheek. “I think I like you, too.” 

  //

  He was right. As soon as life blessed him with everything he’s wanted and more, it whisked it away just as fast. 

  He’d mustered up the courage to invite her to a studio session after everyone in Shooters 4 Rihanna insisted on meeting her. Their songs were getting a little too emotional and they wanted to meet his muse. It was going well, too well. He even catches all the lamps she knocks down. When she rights herself, she manages to knock down the table with their food. Double bagging existed for a reason, just like he warned her! But, of course, the bags holding the takeout she was supposed to surprise him with broke from the bottom. He’d go hungry, that day. But, anything for her, though. 

  She looked so into the session, asking him if she could play with the buttons, leaning into his chest when he hesitantly surrounds her space. His two lean arms coming out to steady her waist when she trips on herself and sends him a sheepish smile that has him hypnotized. 

  Katara normally felt lightheaded around him, but she felt absolutely faint as soon as Piandao walked in to finalize the details of the performance, and Zuko started talking about some lucky masquerade ball. 

  She couldn’t hear much else, body getting up before she even registered it. 

  Before he could fully get into his chair at the mixing console because just one little note in their new song “Rihanna Impregnate Me” just sounded off, she’s tugging him up. 

  “Can I kiss you?” 

  “W—what?” She’s holding him up by the collar of his shirt. 

  Katara smirks. “I really want to kiss you.” 

  “I mean, uh, yes! Definitely a ye—”

  It’s everything he’s imagined, hoped, prayed for the last few months and more. She’s sweet and soft and tasted like lip gloss and the toothpaste he had stowed away in her bag. When he’s leaning in for more, ready to do things like give her his heart or do her taxes for her because he couldn’t think straight and his heart was guiding him through the motions, she’s gone. 

  //

  Katara’s gone when Ty Lee somehow gets into, yet another, tax fraud case and can’t make their performance. 

  She’s gone when he needs her by his side because even though he’s not performing he still manages to feel fucking sick. He wants her holding his unnaturally sweaty palms and telling him it’s going to be okay, just like what she does during his late night writing sessions where she stays up and refuses to sleep until he does. 

  She’s gone when the band has to answer to an angry crowd, an angry CEO who already sees the articles lambasting the girl group’s unprofessionalism and was ten seconds away from pulling the plug on his dreams. 

  “Zuko!” 

  He hates his heart rushes, even when it was about to break because of her, too. 

  She's gotten her perfect life. She’d gotten the job back, her apartment back, Rihanna even sent her a secret song for fuck’s sake. 

  She must really love this fucker, because she was giving up a chance to stalk Rihanna so he could be happy. 

  “Maybe he needed that luck more than you do!” Was running through her head the entire week she avoided him.

  “I don’t know what to do, Suki!” 

  “Why don’t you both fuck leprechauns?” She says between bites of string cheese. 

  Katara sighs. “Why are yours and Toph’s minds built like that?” 

  “I heard my mom tried punching her stomach every day, hoping that I wasn’t going to be a result of St. Patrick’s Day sex. That’s why my head’s lopsided.” 

  He felt nauseous. Not only did 3 of the girls just spew their lunch into whatever container they could get their hands on, of course Azula has gone missing. “Katara not now I—” 

  She comes to him flushed, extensions stuck to her hand after running too fast and accidentally grabbing someone’s hair. Her feet hurt, her heart hurt, but in this moment she knew. She knew he needed this more than her. He was soft and kind and took people in and cherished the moments with his half-sister because he missed all the ones with Azula. He worked so hard now because he was afraid she hated him, and even when he was on the verge of giving up, he still pushed through. He gave people chances, even when the universe was never as kind to him. 

  After she presses her lips to his, suddenly Azula presses a button from the underground room she was trapped in, appearing on stage in front of their very eyes. They have the best show the Hard Boulder Cafe’s seen in decades . Their contract is extended, and he opens a bottle of champagne to celebrate without taking his eye out. 

  He was the luckiest man in the world. 

  Though, when he turns, he realizes. 

  His girl’s missing. 

  //

  “Katara!” She tried shuffling away, but accidentally slips on a few drug needles someone threw carelessly on the ground. 

  She’s still nursing the sore spot on her forehead, where the champagne cork hit. “Zuko, please just...go.” She waves him off with a bandaged hand. 

  “I know you’re going to be stuck here for the next three hours. Because trains never come on time for you no matter what.” 

  Even in the middle of the nearly dead station, he was right. Every stop flashed to delayed .  

  “Then you’ll be robbed by someone on the train, and then you might even get spit on by the guy with the imaginary dog who’s afraid of whoever gets too close to it, and then you’ll get an eye infection.” 

  Katara wipes the snot at her nose. “So?” 

  “So?” He laughs, tucking his hands in his pockets. “I’ve lived a whole lifetime of bad luck, and I can’t let you do that for me.” 

  She lets him turn her to face him, lets him gather her up in his arms and hold her like she’s delicate and irreplaceable, and not just a girl with mascara running down her face and her heart stolen by someone she couldn’t love. 

  “Even in a lifetime of being shit out of luck, I still got the chance to meet you.” 

  “Zuko, stop.” Katara wipes at her tears. “Our luck will just get switched, and I always figure things out, I always do. But, I just want you to keep this. You put it to better use than I would’ve.”

  Zuko shakes his head. “I don’t want it anymore.” 

  “I said that to my bladder infection, and that didn’t work. What makes you think that will work now?” 

  “I can live without it.” He smiles. “A few bumps and bruises are the price I’m willing to pay for you in my life.” 

  She’s blushing, hands coming up to bring his head closer to hers, to see every little detail of him.  

  “You’re so fucking stupid.” She whispers, millimeters away from his lips. 

  The grin splits on his face without his permission. “I am, yeah.” 

[howrry]

off to the races

a/n: if you’re having trouble picture what the dress looked like its here! anyways i loooooved writing the banter between them. here’s ceo-daddy-whatever-you-want harry going on a date with bartender!y/n :*

w/c: 5.4k

warnings: this has explicit hard drug use! if that’s not your thing please don’t read this! i certainly don’t recommend anyone use any drugs and it solely exists for the sake of this plot! also he rails her

***

Courtney stormed into the kitchen from the bar, untying her waist apron as gracefully as she could and throwing it on one of those metal rolling counters. "Have I ever mentioned I hate my job?" she bit as soon as the door slammed shut behind her.

You finished your glass of ice water, bracing yourself to go out there yourself. You relaced your shoe and adjusted your own apron. "How bad could it have been?" you asked only half rhetorically.

"He asked for a virgin martini!" she huffed, pulling the hair tie from her thick dark hair and letting it spill into her face. "Do you want me to bring you an olive in a glass?"

You laughed, mirroring her actions by tying up your own hair. "No way. You're exaggerating."

"Y/N, I argued with this elderly man for three whole minutes. He insisted he came in last week and was served a virgin martini and it was the best thing he'd ever had in a bar." Courtney went back to fish through the pockets of her apron to get the money she'd collected from the tip jar.

"Oh, are you talking about the guy that just left?" Becca, another coworker, asked from the sink. "Yeah, I served him last week. I gave him a martini glass with water, lemon bitters, and a splash of cranberry juice. Told him I cut it with a 'virgin wine'. He tipped me a $20," she brushed a chunk of blonde hair that fell into her face and went back to washing the dishes.

"God, thanks for letting me know!" Courtney groaned, counting out her share of the tips, pocketing the money and giving the rest to you. "Have fun out there. I think some business meeting was in town so there's a bunch of gross older men out there wanting their fuckin' margaritas." She casually popped open the first two buttons of her uniform's black button down as she stuffed her money in her chinos pocket.

"Watch your mouth!" Becca yelled, making the other girl laugh as she clocked out. "You'll be fine, Y/N. Rich guys tip well!" she encouraged.

"If they tip you at all," C warned just once more before slipping out the back door.

You shrugged your pessimistic coworker off and went out into the bar. The new girl who'd been out there alone seemed relieved to see you, as it was starting to get a little hectic. "What can I make for you?" you asked her, at the same moment that she shoved a sticky note covered in drink orders in your hand. Okay, time to get to work.

***

You'd been working at an upscale bar for about four months now. It had always been a dream of yours to work as a bartender, and you put yourself through the first three years of college working in and out of dingy places near your campus. Just as you started your last year towards your degree, the owner of your current workplace visited your bar by sheer chance and was impressed by you and offered a job on the spot. Your new pay was nearly double your old wage and you made much better tips, but God the patrons were terrible.

Working at a bar is virtually never smooth sailing. No matter where the joint is located, you get most of the same problems. Making drinks can get messy, and all the handiwork involved in you job made nail polish impossible. Some guys got way too fucking drunk. They tried to drive home after just one too many beers. Even the snotty rich fellas would put their manners side and start shoving others around if they thought someone was ogling their wife in a weird way. These were no picnic to deal with, but working in the nicer areas came with its own set of challenges.

Y/N learned almost immediately that rich guys were ridiculously entitled. No matter which order you serve them, at least one of them will gripe by the time you reach them. Some of them made gross comments (fortunately, your boss has a no-tolerance policy for this and with a wave of the hand, a bouncer would carry out the offending customer). They complained about how well their drinks are made and demand them to be redone. Working at shitty bars had way more freedom, because regardless of how you treat the obnoxious customers, you'll still have people who come back. But in the nicer places, reputation matters. Sometimes you have to remake that drink, even if it just means transferring it to a different glass and adding new garnish when they're not looking and handing it right back to them.

That almost always works, by the way.

Anyways, the day was terrible, just as Courtney warned. It was a Murphy's Law kind of shift and nothing sounded better than going home, kicking your shoes off, and never having to live this day over again. Fortunately, she'd been wrong about the tips and you'd had to send your coworker back at least three times to dump the tip jar out back in the office as it had been overflowing. But did it make up for how lousy the rest of the shift was? Maybe. A little.

The most beautiful words a bartender can hear are, "We close at 11." You had worked at places that stayed open until as late as 2 AM, but your current bar was closed and locked up before the day even changed. Your shifts were great, typically only being about four or five hours and getting home at reasonable hours, but the time spent there just felt tedious.

You swore it was a human instinct to check your watch incessantly whenever it's the last 15 or so minutes of your shift. Even when there was so much left to do, something about twitching to look at your wrist too often was so much more appealing than working. Usually, the only thing to stop the tick is if an interesting patron walked in.

And one did.

He was tall, commanded the room, dressed up but in all black. His hair was timelessly loose and curly, and his hands peaking out from his blazer sleeves revealed that he might be hiding some tattoos. It was suddenly like you weren't wearing a watch at all.

"What can I get for you, sir?" you cooed, maybe just a little off the mark of being subtle.

"I'll take a tequila shot, and pour one for y'self, too," he said deeply, sitting at the bar and combing through his locks with his fingers. He intimidatingly peered over you as you awkwardly scrambled around.

"I think y'know I can't do that, sir," you said apologetically, fishing out a glass and breezily pouring a shot. While putting the bottle of tequila back, you grabbed some abandoned empty glasses from the bar and moved them behind the counter. Your coworker had gone to the back an hour ago to close the kitchen, and multitasking happened to be one of your strong suits.

"I don't, actually." His hand came up to rub at his bottom lip, and you noticed the nails were painted a dark blue, almost black. The other hand grabbed the drink you slid towards him followed by a lime wedge. He didn't take it yet.

You pulled the white towel off your shoulder and wiped down the area in front of you. "It's the X-ray problem at the doctor's."

The man's pointer finger spun around the rim of the glass. "I'm sorry, the what?"

"Okay, so, you're an adult man. I assume you've been to the doctor's before."

"That'd be a correct assumption, yes."

"Have you ever had an X-ray done?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I feel like everyone has."

"Probably most people. Anyways, the doctor tells you the X-ray is completely safe, but they go to Egypt to push the button."

The man laughed, and it was honestly music to your ears. You even felt your mouth involuntarily curl up a tiny bit. "You're right. But what's that got to do with this?" He lifted the shot glass and gestured towards you with it.

"The amount of radiation that one X-ray exposes you to is so negligible its rounds off to zero, but if the doctor stands in front of the machine for 8 hours every single day he goes to work, he'll definitely get every kind of cancer." You picked up a shot glass from the stack of them behind the counter. "If I have just one shot with every person who asked, I'd definitely get alcohol poisoning."

He let out another one of his gorgeous laughs, and you could no longer hold back a bashful smile. "But is the bar not about to close?" he asked.

"We are."

"And you don't seem drunk at all t'me," he hummed, scratching his stubble.

"You're quite observant." You nodded approvingly towards an old man on the other side of the bar who drained his lager glass before tossing a few dollars into the tip jar and shrugging on his coat. You rinsed the glass in the sink before putting it in the tray to carry to the back.

The man at the bar dragged his eyes at the leaving customer, aware that you and him were now alone. The shot he'd ordered still sat in front of him. "So I guess it couldn't hurt to actually have just one, hmm?"

You wiped your hands on a clean towel, thinking it over. To make the deal sweeter, the man pulled out a $50 bill and put it on the counter between the two of you. In all honesty, you weren't impressed. This was a nice bar, to be fair. It wasn't completely rare that big shots and new money heirs came in and shoved their fortunes down everyone's throats by getting everyone's tabs and tipping in the double and triple digits. His money didn't make you shrug and pull out another glass to fill-- no, it was something else.

He seemed so familiar. You couldn't put your finger on it, but something about him felt like you knew him already. And frankly, he did make a good point. The day had been super rough, your feet were aching, and you hadn't had a drop to drink all night. Even taking the tip out of the equation, it didn't sound like a terrible idea. What would one little shot hurt?

You dabbed some water on the back of your hand and salted it, though he went straight for licking his own hand. Once the two of you were ready to take your shots, he raised his glass towards you. The smirk on his face when you clinked your glasses together made something swirl in your lower belly, but you knew the tequila would extinguish that feeling immediately.

Lick. Shoot. Suck. You'd been a pro at this since that spring break you and your friends took to South Padre Island freshman year. The liquor barely even burned at this point, and you hummed while biting at the lime in your mouth as the man sputtered just a little bit.

"Here," he groaned, picking up and trying to hand you the $50.

You waved your hand a bit at him, reaching your hand up to let your hair out of the tie. "Don't even worry about it. You were fun talking to, it's not necessary."

"I insist." He seemed steadfast, and you didn't feel like arguing. You sighed and took the money gratefully, moving to slip it into the pooled tip jar. His hand suddenly shot out and grabbed your wrist gently. "I didn't put it in the tip jar for a reason."

You breathed through your nose carefully, a little turned on at his boldness. Your hand slowly retreated and stuffed the bill into your back pocket, and the man smiled once more.

He tossed a bit more money onto the counter to pay for the shots you two just took, and scribbled something out onto a napkin. He nodded towards you and left the bar just as the clock struck 11. Becca emerged from the back to go lock the front door and didn't seem to notice you were frozen. When you finally grabbed at the napkin he'd left, it was difficult trying to read his scrawled handwriting. "Harry," was the only thing written on it, followed by 10 simple digits.

That's when it finally clicked. This was Harry, the frontman of that band from ages ago. You remember your younger sister being a huge fan of them maybe ten years back, but it was a bit out of your generation. He seemed so much older now with that behind him, and he was quite charming. And you just got his phone number!

You stuffed the napkin into the same pocket as the money he'd given you, hurriedly cleaning the bar and getting ready to go home. You didn't tell a single coworker who you'd just talked to and clocked out as fast as you absolutely could. It almost felt like it didn't really happen, and if you talked about it out loud it would turn out to be a twisted elaborate dream.

Another pro of your bar's early close: busses were still running to take you home after work. On the way back to your apartment, you typed out a quick text to your new friend. I don't suppose I ever told you my name. I'm Y/N

Quick and simple. Not wasting time. You'd never been one to be patient or drawn out, and assumed most people didn't either. Playing those wait-three-days games had ended up fizzling out most of your friends' relationships and you hated to see it.

He responded. It was lovely meeting you, Y/N

Your lips curled into a soft smile as the dots popped back up on your screen.

When might I be able to see you again? You hummed at your phone screen, thinking over what to say as the automated voice on the bus informed you that your stop was close.

I work on Tuesday next week! you offered, stuffing your phone into your pocket and hopping off the bus. As you shoved your apartment key into the lock, your cell buzzed with another reply from Harry.

I was thinking about a time where neither of us are working, but you're adorably funny. He sure was a charmer.

He ended up inviting you out to a night in the city. The party scene wasn't terribly unfamiliar for you (your college friends had always been down to get lit), but it was always at frat houses or people's apartments and not clubs that served Dom Perignon under thousand-dollar chandeliers.

The night he took you out, you'd chosen to wear a loose silver mini dress that gleamed and reflected lights around you. It was simple but flashy, something you thought Harry would appreciate. A huge part of you wanted to stop the dressy part of your outfit right there given how often you work on your feet, but you had this pair of black strap heels that had never left your closet and deserved a night out just like you did.

Something inside you expected Harry to have a driver or whatnot, but he actually pulled up in a black Cadillac, and even went up to knock on your apartment door. A true gentleman. Opened the car for you and everything.

"I was a little nervous about riding together," you admitted once the two of you were on the road together.

Harry made a noise of confusion. "How come?"

"You know when you're on a first date, and in the car or the Uber or whatever, there's that small talk before the small talk you have at the destination? Ugh, that's my kryptonite in terms of second hand embarrassment."

"The first time we met, we immediately started talking about the dentist and alcohol poisoning and going to Egypt. I think we'll be fine."

"We did not talk about going to Egy—!" you started, but he cut you off.

"Anyways, I wanted to thank you for coming out tonight with me," he announced.

You exhaled sharply through your nose. "You? Thanking me? How come?" you asked.

"Well... you met me so recently. We've had maybe three conversations. For all you know, I could be a psycho murderer."

"So could I."

He didn't see that coming. He couldn't stop a half-snort, half-giggle from escaping him. "I s'pose, but isn't it more likely to be me?"

"I think that's sexist. We should hold both genders accountable for their shortcomings."

"You consider being a psycho murderer a shortcoming?"

"Exaggerations can go both ways."

He sighed. "I'm just tryin' to say thank you. Most girls wouldn't go off with a strange man." When he realized exactly what he'd just said, he immediately tried to backtrack. "Well, I— Not that I'm constantly asking strange women to go off with me. Just a figure of speech."

It was your turn to snort at his goofiness. "Now I don't believe that for a minute. A man as attractive and charming as you should never be looking far to get his rocks off."

His eyes narrowed but his focus was on the road. "Who are you?"

"I'm Y/N," you declared simply, leaning your elbow against the car door and resting your temple on your palm. "I'm from the suburbs around here. Went to the same college as my parents. Took the same major as my mom. Put myself through school by working at an upscale bar where I meet lovely characters like yourself." You looked over to see how he was reacting to your light teasing and he was staring straight ahead, smirking.

"So you're in school?" He pulled up to a red light and looked over at you.

"I'm a senior." His head cocked confusedly and you sighed. "I'm in my last year. I graduate next semester."

"Congratulations, love." Green light. "Always wish I'd gone to school, jus' a little bit of me does."

"Hmm? Why didn't you?" you asked absentmindedly, picking at one of the crystals on your dress.

Harry actually laughed. "I was, uh, a bit busy during that time of my life."

Your head snapped up and you opened your mouth awkwardly. "Oh!" You felt so stupid. He just seemed so normal to talk to, it was easy to forget who he was and just connect with him.

"S'not stupid, it's actually quite refreshing to feel like a normal nobody sometimes," he said.

Ah, you'd just said all that out loud. "Sorry," you mumbled sheepishly. "And thanks for calling me a nobody."

The two of you had arrived at the venue. "That's not what I meant, love," he tried to get out before a valet boy in a red vest opened your car door for you.

The second your heel made contact with the pavement you were suddenly stunned by a great flash of white-- someone had just taken your picture. You blinked a couple times for your eyes to refocus, but another flash went off, then another and another. You were really close to stumbling back if someone hadn't grabbed your wrist and tugged you towards the inside of the bar.

It was Harry. Once the two of you were inside he immediately showered you in apologies. "'M so sorry, love," he said in your ear. "Didn't think that one through. We'll go in through the back next time. Hope you're okay with being on DailyMail."

Whoa whoa whoa. Next time? Through the back? DailyMail?? It was amazing how nonchalant Harry was about having paps up his ass all the time. Being famous honestly didn't seem to be all it was cracked up to be.

The bar was designed like a speakeasy. It paid homage to the Mafia days of the establishment and the lighting was low and sensual. Harry got the two of you a table and ordered some cocktails.

"How're yeh doing?" he purred, asking you once you'd settled in and gotten your beverages.

You smiled, gently gnawing on the lime twist from your Cosmo. "This is lovely, especially when I'm not the one making the drinks."

He laughed, stretching an arm behind him and shrugging off his coat, leaving him in a simple white button down that was probably not as buttoned as it was meant to be. "I'm gonna scan the room and see if I know anyone here. I'd love for yeh to get to know some new people."

After looking around a bit, he found a friend of his named Nick, a charming and tall man who had a personal space issue (not giving people any of it, that is). He let you and Harry join him and his crew, and everyone was having a lovely time together, sipping cocktails and enjoying the live music performed by a talented woman in a red dress.

That is, of course, until your hand slipped while holding an orange drink and managed to spill it on Harry's white shirt. You rushed out a hundred apologies before he could even compute what was happening but he fortunately had a good spirit about it.

"It's alright love!" he laughed, inspecting the spot. It wasn't ruined. "It's just a shirt. 'Ve got a hundred more at home. I'll go clean this up."

"I'll help you," you offered, still feeling bad. He nodded and the two of you went to the bathroom of the club, a wheelchair-accessible room really only meant for one person.

It wasn't a tight fit, though, and the two of you could comfortably move around in the space. Harry locked the door behind you two and  tossed his coat onto the counter while you dabbed at the orange stain with a wet paper towel. It was already starting to lift a bit and looked like the fabric might even be salvaged.

"See? All worked up for nothing." He gave a soft, reassuring smile and your stomach turned giddily. "It especially won't be a problem if I just keep m'jacket on all night."

Harry readjusted his coat, shaking out the lapels. As he carried out this motion, something flew out of the inside pocket that caught your eye. It was small and lightweight, but plopped down onto the floor purposefully. It was a tiny plastic bag, not even as big as the palm of your hand, and filled with a fine white powder.

The awkward silence that filled the bathroom was oxygen-depriving. His mouth opened to say something but he blanked. Even though the music from the club was floating in the air, neither of you two were quite listening to it anymore. Harry's gaze switched from you to the bag at least twice while trying to think of something to say, but you beat him to it.

"Is... is that—?" you started, staring down at the baggie.

"I... understand if this is a deal breaker," Harry explained, picking up the drugs and placing them back in his coat. His hands flew up to nervously toy with his hair.

"I want to try it," you whispered.

"Smoking backstage joints with Kacey was one thing but it's--" he stopped. "I— You— what?"

"I always have," you confirmed, eyes fixated on the pocket where he'd just stuffed the blow. You glanced back up to make eye contact. "You don't have to give it for free. I can—"

"God, no," he said. "You're not gonna take your clothes off just for some coke."

"Uh, I was going to say I'd pay you for it, but real smooth, Casanova," you snickered, making him roll his eyes.

"I wouldn't make yeh pay for it. I mean, this is a date isn't it?" he reminded.

Your shoulders tensed up at the idea of mooching off the Harry Styles for coke, but relaxed when you realized he seemed genuine. "I suppose." You paused for a minute, thinking about what to say next. "My roommate in the second year of college took home the ugliest guys just to rail a line of theirs, so it's probably pretty damn good."

He laughed, lowering his eyes comfortably. "You're not gonna do a whole line first," he said lowly. "Maybe jus' a key bump to see how you feel. D'y'know what that is?"

You smirked. "Yes. You scoop a little bit on a key and just snort that."

"Look at you," he purred proudly. "Are you okay with doing that, doll?"

You leaned your head on the wall. "Yes, sir."

Harry beamed at you and dug into his pocket. "Fuck," he groaned, "the valet boy has m'keys. Have you got yours?"

You nodded and dug into your purse for your keys. He giggled at your keychain that looked like a waffle. "Don't laugh! It's easy to find when I'm in a rush."

"I'm not judging!" he defended, isolating the key with the widest tip. "S'actually quite cute." While holding that one key between his fingers, he opened the baggie and gently squished it around. He then carefully dug out a little scoop of the soft white powder using the key. "I'm gonna do one first so you can see how it's done, then you can try one y'self, okay?"

You nodded, and he handed you the baggie to hold as he carefully kept the key steady. You watched as he meticulously brought it up to one of his nostrils, holding the other one shut with his free hand. He sniffed deeply, and once he'd cleared the key, he pulled it away and let go of his nostril to full inhale. Finally he sighed and shook his head, blinking quickly.

"Harry?"

He fluttered his eyes once more before smiling. "Wow. Never gets old." You laughed with him and he delicately took the bag back from you. "Are yeh ready?"

"Yes," you whispered. He scooped another bump out, this time a bit more erratic and unsteady. He handed you the keys and resealed the bag, slipping it into his coat pocket.

"All yours, pretty girl."

You pursed your lips for a moment and plugged one of your nostrils. You thought your hands would be shaking at this point but you were steady as a surgeon when you brought it to your face. It'd be like taking a pill, right? Like, if you failed to swallow the entire mouthful of medication and water in one go, it won't go down, so if you just did one tiny sniff you would probably choke or cough your guts out. You inhaled deeply, ensuring you got every fleck of coke off the cool metal.

Even after you'd pulled the keys away and let go of your other nostril, you were frozen standing still. Harry observed you and laughed out loud. "Y/N, exhale!"

You finally let go of the huge breath you'd just taken. Your face immediately began feeling a bit tingly and then went numb. Your brain felt like it went into hyperdrive, your skin was on fire, your heart was racing, and something deep inside you told you to run.

"How do you feel, baby?" Harry asked, and you realized his large hand was cupping your cheek.

"So fucking good," you breathed. Your eyes scanned over his face. He had shaved for the evening, since there was no stubble and he'd been a bit scruffy that night at the bar. His lips were wet and red, and his jaw was sharp as steel. This was the first time you'd really gotten a good look at his eyes and they were gorgeous. Pupils blown out by the coke, green from what you could see, littered with flecks of gold. You wanted to get lost in those eyes.

"Y/N?" he asked softly, feeling uncomfortable with you scrutinizing his face. "Are yeh sure you feel al—hmm!"

He was cut off by you diving forward to kiss him. Neither of you had even a second thought about this. Your hands were furious; both of you were pulling at buttons and zippers to expose more skin without even breaking for air. One of your hands strategically slipped down to slide over the bulge in his trousers and he gasped into the kiss.

"Can I—" he breathed over your face.

"Yes, God, yes." At the confirmation, Harry pulled you off of him completely and turned you around to face the mirror, pushing you down by your back. He pinned you between himself and the bathroom counter, your hips digging into the edge. His cock aligned with your center, grinding and shamelessly moaning before tugging up the bottom of your dress and sliding your panties to the side.

His fingers skimmed over your folds, getting to know your core and swirling around your clit. "Hmm, seems like someone gets excited when they've got a li'l blow in them," he mused. "Fuck, pet, your clit is so swollen, someday I'm gonna have to get it on my tongue."

You whined, wanting that to happen right now but were delighted nonetheless to hear his pants unzipping.

"But right now, I have to get m'self in you." You felt him fumbling around behind you before he was pressing against your entrance. "S'this okay, doll?"

You nodded desperately, dropping your head and pushing back so that the head of his cock pushed its way inside you. He groaned and grabbed your hair, pulling you up to look at yourself in the mirror. Harry guided his hips forward until finally the two of you were fit snugly and started fucking in and out of you.

If your lipstick wasn't fucked up already from the drinking and making out, it was now that he was dipping his fingers into your mouth and using the leverage to thrust into you harder. His hands smeared across your face a bit as he relentlessly buried his cock in you over and over.

At one point, you lifted one leg such that you could bring it up onto the counter beside you. From a third eye, the position may seem acrobatic and intense but was oddly uncomplicated and gave Harry a far wider range of motion. At this angle, he was unforgivingly stimulating your G-spot, turning you into a weeping puddle of whines and expletives.

"Right there harder holy fuck Harry you're so deep keep going right fucking there," were only a sample of the pathetic things falling from your lips. You could be embarrassed at your words later, right now you were way too close to an orgasm to care.

Harry was spurred on by your vocalization, as one does. One hand dug into the flesh at your hip to make the two of you collide even more intensely, while the other hand snaked down to flick at your clit with the fingers coated in your spit. When you finally did cum, you were glad that he was pinning you down so tightly as your standing leg was virtually boneless.

As if watching you fall apart on his cock wasn't enough, you had to cap it off by begging the dirtiest things you could think of from him. "Cum inside me, daddy, please fill me up, show everyone who's cunt this is, please."

His hips stuttered once before he shoved the entire length back in you and came until his member stopped twitching. When he caught his breath, he pulled out and watched the soft white liquid seep out after him. He went to touch it and you recoiled.

"Sorry, m'sensitive," you weeped, and he ran his other hand through your hair while putting himself away.

"I should be sorry. Fucked the stand out of ya," he noted with a chuckle, assisting you getting redressed.

Once the two of you were presentable enough to step back out into the club and the thick sex atmosphere had wafted away, the tension grew. "So,  uh, it's getting kind of late, hmm?" you led. "Maybe I should be on my way." Part of you didn't want to leave, but all good things had to come to an end and it was better to err on the safe side rather than overstay your welcome.

He laughed, pulling you to him by your waist. His eyes scanned over you and the smirk on his face was downright devilish. "Oh darling, if you think for even a moment that this evening is over, you're quite mistaken."

Harry grabbed your hand and pulled you back into the noisy crowd of the club, where your night was just starting to begin.