#sort of training (american) people out of their accents

[newvegascowboy]

Ok so i personally believe that interstate trade in the wasteland is alive and well, especially along the coasts, but there HAS to be some like. Linguistic weirdness happening in the wasteland. With radio communication, I'm sure there's a "standard english" that prevents a lot of people from getting tooooo granular of a dialect, but it doesn't take that long for languages to change, really. Where are the pidgin languages? The new expressions? The funny sayings? The things that no vault dweller would understand because they come from an entirely different culture?

You'd probably have a lot of languages that are related, like the romance languages, or even Esperanto, where someone can parse the meaning even if they aren't a native speaker. Lots of English/Spanish variants of course, but can you imagine giving the Appalachian dialect 200 years to marinate? Cajun? Minnesotan?? The people in the Commonwealth should be speaking like theyre from another planet. The sole survivor is talking like a Jane Austen novel, unable to comprehend the words a Bostonian mind has had 200 years to come up with.

[inkskinned]

i love finding out how big this world is. my girlfriend has only visited boston a handful of times, but i grew up here. i told her we'd be going to do the tourist traps in salem, and she said - which salem?

to be fair to her, there are a lot of other states that have a town named "salem." and i think there's some evidence that the witch trials actually happened in what is now called Danvers. but the thing is - she thought "salem" was like, a made-up thing. there wasn't actually a salem, massachusetts - like there isn't a gotham city.

they don't talk about it that much where she grew up, is the thing! and this made me laugh. a week ago she was talking about her hometown and said something akin to "well the museum's kinda like the one in richmond," and i had to explain i still had no frame of reference for what the hell this museum was like.

i love finding out what knowledge i take for granted. i used to live with 5 other women. 3 of them were from south korea. they had to take, like, a solid fifteen minutes to explain their birthday system to my gay math-blind ass, laughing as they did.

that same month, our roommate from denmark taught me the danish word for wreath by accident - she'd been talking about decorations, used krans, and i'd been able to figure it out through context. i just picked it up and kept talking. our entire house used krans as the word. she came home and slammed the door one evening, mock-angry, shouting: you motherfuckers! it's a - a wreath!

and how often do you use certain words, anyway! i am cuban, so i was raised with certain spanish words sort of sprinkled in there; but never how you'd think. in middle school i asked someone to pass me the recogedor - in a completely american accent, like i was speaking english. i hadn't registered it as a spanish word. i mean, how often in school do you actually use the word "dustpan" - i'd only ever heard it in the context of cleaning my house.

there are places that you grew up that you, just, like, know. that you assume everyone knows. there are things and people and "common knowledge" that you have that, just, like. doesn't exist for me. i don't know what you call your public transportation system, but in boston we call it "the T". our train cards are called charlie cards because of a song where a father accidentally abandons his family, which was written because our system of transportation. in boston, most people would snort and say everyone knows that, kid.

i think you and i should go on a long walk - it's getting dark early these days and we need any sun we can manage. tell me about the first time you saw snow. tell me about the stuff everyone knows about your home. tell me about the cities "everyone's been to," about the food "everyone's already tried." who knows. maybe it will feel nice to you - watching someone learn about it for the very first time.

[lululandd]

rabid; (i.)

pairing: platonic simon ‘ghost’ riley x gn!reader

word count: 956

warnings: comedy, aftermath of torture, mild gore

note: heheh >:3 (also on ao3)

summary:

ghost has a love-hate relationship with his neighbour of six years. on one hand they’re quiet enough, nice enough, considerate enough and never once had bothered him in any way, but on the other hand he is a highly trained soldier with highly trained senses and the things he hears travelling through his walls are batshit insane.

part i. | part ii. | part iii. | part iv.

He guesses they are an entertainer or a comedian or some sort because on rare occasions, they—whether he wanted to or not—made him laugh. The absurdity of the questions and things that came out of their mouth really makes him feel like he has a glimpse of what a worry free civilian life could be.

On one particularly rowdy night he heard the one sided conversation about anal, which rapidly escalated to how peoples arseholes can stretch up to seven inches in diameter and therefore, theoretically could fit two smaller raccoons.

He listened in fascinated horror how that thought came into their mind, how they associated arseholes with raccoons, and why in christ fuck did they sound so cheerful about it. Maybe he’s just a battle hardened, workaholic soldier that has only seen carnage and suffering, but even if such a thought came to his mind, it would not be classified as a happy thought and he would not laugh about it.

Until eight months later where he’s interrogating an American that he really wants to just straight up murder and remembers his neighbour.

He opens the door that leads to the rest of the warehouse and calls out to his men, “I need two raccoons. Small but not pups.”

He was met with silence and a confused looks, but he saw Gaz and Soap get on it and round up several soldiers.

“Alive!” He barked at them.

—

Soap looked worriedly at Gaz, “What do you think he’s gonna do with live raccoons?”

The other man shrugged, “You think he’s gonna threaten him with rabies?” Gaz gnashed his teeth together, “Let them bite him or something?”

One of the Lance Corporals behind them chimed, “I kinda wanna see.”

In came a chime of ‘yeah’s from the other men.

—

Ghost had made sure the American in question heard his request of the live raccoons before taking a seat on the table holding all his tools and lighting up a cigarette.

He looked at the man’s surroundings, the litter of teeth and nails on the floor, three parts of his severed ring finger, and the blood splatters on the makeshift plastic floor. The cleanup crew’s gonna at least be a little happy about that.

“You like raccoons, mate?” He offers, lighting what seemed to be his third cigarette.

The question caught him off guard. “What?”

“Raccoons. Trash pandas. Those chubby lil wankers with grubby hands.” He curled his palms and did mock scratching motions.

“You’re crazy.” He spat.

“I am.” For even thinking of trying this over his neighbour’s demented jokes.

Fourty five minutes later Gaz came knocking on his door.

“Got your furry friends, boss.” He gestures at a cage sitting by the door. The animals seemed calm, they couldn’t have just nicked it from some random bins and throw them in there.

“Cheers, Gaz.” He saw the man linger. “Anything else?”

“Can we observe, Sir?”

“No.” came his quick answer. If he really has to do what he thinks he’s gonna do, he’d rather his men not see it. They’ve seen so much in their line of work already, he doesn’t want to add to their nightmares.

Imagining one of them having PTSD from seeing a harmless animal makes him feel guilty.

He took the cage from Gaz’s hands and placed it nicely on the floor, a little way away from the American’s feet.

“You know that saying?” He puts on his best southern accent, mimicking Graves. “What crawled up your butt and died?”

The man’s eyes widened and he tried so hard to shift further into his seat, trying to create as much distance between them as possible. Ghost lets the moment go on for a little longer. It makes all the difference, really; whether you rush into the torture or letting them sit and wonder about the choices they think they have.

“I heard somewhere that your arse can stretch up to seven inches in diameter.” He pointed at the raccoons, “The normal sized bastards can fit into a four inch hole. But I’m being nice today and gonna give these smaller ones some wiggle room.”

He can’t help but crouch closer to the cage and coo at them as the man starts yelling for help.

“So.” He said in a calm voice, listing his head slowly when the man had stopped screaming his throat dry. “Since I’m a very nice man today I’m gonna give you two options.”

Fat rolls of tears had started to run down the man’s cheeks, his chest heaving as he begged for mercy.

“Do you want me to sedate these raccoons so they don’t claw your insides or do you wanna..” He remembers a word that floated into his flat one night, “..rawdog it?”

—

Soap had never seen a cleaner interrogation room before. Not from Ghost, the man’s usually so brutal about it. He remembers seeing parts of a live brain one time because Ghost had bashed their skull so badly and remembered having to shoot the person dead out of pity. But today? The intel was good, the man was still alive with almost all of his body parts; save for some of his teeth and nails and the chopped up finger,

and the raccoons.

They were alive and Ghost seemed to never have opened the cage at all.

—

When Ghost came home that month he heard his neighbour say something about a ‘little birthday celebration’ for tomorrow. He checked his watch and decided to walk to the bakery and get them some cake. That last operation went smoothly, and he has them to thank.

He can’t wait to hear what other mental things that will come out of their mouth in the future and apply them to his work.

[st-el-la-luna]

Thinking about being a civilian in Las Almas when shit goes down

You'd been invited to stay with a friend and, being in desperate need of a vacation, you'd agreed. It was fun, staying with them, meeting their family, learning about their hometown and childhood.

The fun ended pretty quick when these cunts dressed in black started killing everyone.

You and your friend had been out enjoying the night, eating, drinking, dancing. You were on your way back to their house when you heard it.

A gunshot.

Your friend tells you this isn't entirely abnormal. Tells you to ignore it and keep walking.

So you do.

But the gunshots are becoming more frequent. Louder too. They're getting closer.

A woman you vaguely recognize, one of your friends neighbours, rushes out of an alleyway, terrified and bloodied.

You can only understand so much about what's said before her head suddenly... Not there. Bits of skull and brain and blood spattered all over you as you watch her body drop.

You turn to your friend. "This is normal? Dude...."

You're friend tells you to shut the fuck up and that you need to run. As the sound of heavy footsteps and voices (American accents you register) get closer, accompanied by the sound of a gun being reloaded, you agree.

The two of you make a run for your friends house, passing all sorts of horrible sights. You're a block away when a gunshot rips through the night and your friend suddenly just... Stops.

You look back in disbelief. Their eyes wide with shock, lips parted, slack jawed... The new hole in the middle of their forehead. They try to say something to you, but all that escapes them is a choked groan. They throw you their keys, then collapse.

They're not dead yet. You can tell by their sounds and the rise and fall of their chest. A part of you wants to help them, grab them and drag them off to safety.

The other part of you recognizes the man dressed in all black (he looks suspiciously military but that doesn't make sense, killing civilians is a war crime... isn't it?), who's walking closer as he reloads his gun.

So you run.

Run and run until your legs are burning. Taking back roads and side streets, jumping fences, the adrenaline making it easy to ignore the way the barbed wire tears at your skin.

When you make it to your friends street, you find the door to their house is already open. Kicked down.

You find the dead inside.

A part of you wants to stop here, curl up and break down. The other knows that these people, these men in black, could come back at any moment. And so you do what you can to prepare yourself.

You empty your backpack of your belongings, filling it instead with anything you find around the house that might be useful.

A first aid kit buckled to the side. Rubbing alcohol and tequilla and whatever else flammable you can find poured into glass bottles, the lips stuffed with socks. Kitchen knives. Fire crackers and fire works. A couple flares. You manage to break open the safe and get a gun. An eight round revolver that you have no clue how to shoot but figure, hey, its better than nothing. At the very least, you could use it for intimidation.

You're heading to the garage where you're pretty sure you remember seeing a bow and full quiver of arrows (you were obsessed with the hunger games when you were younger, actually got pretty good with the weapon) when you freeze.

The man in black also freezes.

He's bloody and out of breath. Face smeared with dirt and oil. His mohawk disheveled. His blue eyes land on you laser focused. He's got a gun. A big one.

And he's looting the corpses. Your friends roommates, their bodies still warm as blood pools beneath them, some of their eyes still open, casting judgmental stares, lay there limp. And this fucker is acting like this is a D&D campaign.

You've got the revolver trained on him with shaking hands.

He points his gun (some sort of automatic things) at you. His hands are steady, practiced. His eyes sharp.

He opens his mouth to speak and takes a half step towards you.

You pull the trigger.

Nothing happens.

"Aye," the man speaks in a thick Scottish brogue. He sounds like he's laughing. How dare he laugh? If you could figure out how the stupid gun works you'd shoot him. "You've got to cock a gun like that 'fore you shoot it."

You freeze, your arm drawn back ready to throw the revolver at the man. His accent gives you pause. The other men in black, they were Americans. And this guy... His clothes are a bit different too. Though he's clearly also army.

You lower your arm hesitantly. "You're... You're not one of them."

"The Shadows?" he asks. "Tch, no. You'd best thank your lucky stars for that, they'd have killed you in a second flat."

"What the hell is going on here?" You demand, slipping the gun back into the makeshift holster you had made out of a couple belts. You step around the man to the garage and he follows.

"You're not from here, are ya love?" he asks as he watches you scan the shelves.

"I'm here on vacation," you say bitterly as you stand on your toes, struggling to reach the quiver of arrows. He pulls it down and hands it to you. The arrows are dusty and old, though still sharp. He hands the bow to you as well, albeit unstrung, and you let out a quiet hum in thanks. He watches as you string the bow, a brow raised. He looks like he's going to say something, but you cut him off. "You didn't answer my question... What's happening? Who are those people?"

He hesitates a moment, you notice his ear piece. Someone else is speaking to him. "Aye, i know, I know, but I cannae very well leave her here now can I?"

At the mention of being left, you panic. There's a pair of handcuffs on his belt. You grab them and before he has a chance to react, you've cuffed your hands together.

And swallowed the key.

Yeah... Not your brightest moment.

The man looks at you dumbfounded. Then speaks to the man in his ear. "Uh... Lt? Got a bit of a problem..."

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Masterlist

[tinygarbage]

Do I Wanna Know?

part one

pairing: simon “ghost” riley x f!reader (Cheese)

word count: 4.4k

summary: december is passing and you start to wonder what you mean to your lieutenant.

warnings: 18+, MINORS DNI, alcohol consumption (reader and ghost have 3 drinks), no use of y/n, reader is mentioned to have hair (no specific length), readers call name is “Cheese”, American reader, mutual pining, fluff, implication of severe anxiety, swearing, military inaccuracies, drunk soap and gaz, not really edited lol (let me know if i missed any)

au: this chapter is inspired by hozier’s cover of “do I wanna know” by the arctic monkeys 😚 i linked it in the title just in case y’all wanted to give it a listen! im thinking about one more part for this bad boy :)

༝̩̩̥͙ ༓༝̩̩̥͙ ⊹

    The pub is busy when you step in. Loud music and noisy chatter smacks you in the face as you shove your hands into your pockets. You feel your heart beating faster as your eyes search for the team's faces. The painfully familiar feeling of anxiety crawls through your brain as you walk through the crowded space. People are dressed in all sort of attire, a mix of casual and fancy outfits scatter across the dark pub. Party hats and sunglasses work of people heads. Cheap, plastic necklaces around peoples necks. They all chatter, drinks in their hands as they watch TV at the bar or cheer of the people on the karaoke machine. You recognize a Bon Jovi song being sung horribly by a middle aged woman. Her friends crowding the stage with their phones in hand, drunkenly recording her screeching performance.

    Your heart races and your breathing quickens as your eyes continue to dart between the overwhelming amount of people. You were already late. Dreading coming since Simon gave you the invitation during training one day. Quietly mumbling about how the guys were carrying their tradition of going to Price's favorite pub. Inviting you to come along. Which you immediately accepted. Not stopping to think about the fact that crowded pubs make your head spin and stomach flip like the worlds most dangerous amusement park.

     "Cheese!" You hear Soap's thick accent call out through the crowd. His voice immediately sending a soothing blanket over your jittery nerves.

      Your head snaps in the direction you heard it from to see your team grouped up together at a large booth in the corner. They all sit tight together. Gaz and Soap clearly having indulged in their alcohol quickly. Soap's cheeks are rosy and his faux-hawk is tossled slightly. He's wearing a dark grey hoodie with some band graphic fading on it. Next to him sits Gaz. Who's wearing his worn baseball cap backwards. A navy hoodie with a grey and blue flannel over it. His eyes droop as he seems to be searching for where soap spots you. Across from them sits Simon and Price. Price wearing his typical beanie and a flannel. He's in the process of taking off his brown leather jacket. Next to him is Simon. Wearing a black hoodie. You cant see anything but his broad frame and the hood pulled up. But you can guess he's wearing his "civilian" balaclava or a black surgical mask.

    As you approach, Soap is still waving his arm like a maniac and Simon slides out of the booth. Turning slowly to watch you approach. You don't even try to bite back a smile as you get closer. He's in his black surgical mask and a pair of dark denim. Thick leather boots on his feet. Jeans cuffed to reveal the lighter denim on the inside. Hiding the very top of his boot. His pale hand reveals itself, gesturing for you to slide into the booth. To sit right between him Price's broad frames.

     You slip right in. Sitting close to Price. Your cardigan brushes against his flannel and he looks down at you. Giving you a sweet, genuine tight-lipped smile. "Hey, Cheese." He rasps, nudging your shoulder lightly.

      You smile back in response. Glancing back over the busy pub as Simon squeezes in next to you. Both of your arms pressed against each other. "It's packed." You observe, adjusting between the two large men.

     "Well, you did show up at 22:00." Gaz chuckled.

      "How long have y'all been here?" You ask. Your American accent standing out in the pub full of Brits and Soap.

     "Y'all!" Soap repeats in a southern accent. Surprisingly nailing it despite the fact that he's completely tossed.

     The group ignores it, Gaz answers. "Soap and I got here around 19:00. Price and Ghost got here about an hour ago."

     Before you can respond to Gaz, Simon speaks up from beside you. His gaze darting from you to the glass of whiskey sitting on the table in front of him. Pale fingers fidgeting with the wrapper of a straw. The straw from Price's coke. "How come you came so late?" His voice is quiet. Only being heard by you and maybe Price.

    "Oh, I was calling my parents. And i got a little distracted."

    It wasn't a lie. Not entirely. Just withholding the full truth. Not wanting to explain the fact that you had been doing every single chore and calling every single family member instead of getting ready to meet them at the pub. So you just wear a baggy, knitted cardigan over a grey cami. The lavender color of your cardigan and it's marble white buttons standing out amongst the men you were with. Who were wearing rather dull colors. A pair of light wash jeans on your bottom half and your trusty converse. The pair you've had since senior year. The fraying canvas and scuffed soles giving them character. And a sense of nostalgia. A birthday gift from your older brother. Who saved up all of his tips that he got working as a barista while attending college.

You shift awkwardly under his intense stare, waiting for any sort of response from him. Nothing comes. Instead, Soap leans over the table and speaks loudly. His accent thicker with the more he drinks, "Gaz and I have bets going on some pool games, you want to join?"

"I'll pass, I'm not very good at pool." You chuckle, speaking up so they could hear you over the crowded bar.

"That's better for us, means you'll lose!" Gaz chimes in, leaning against Soap.

"Maybe next time. What are you getting anyways?"

"Loser sings karaoke. Winner chooses which song." Soap answers with a drunken giggle, Gaz joking in. You've never seen either of them this drunk before.

"You're going to force an entire bar full of people to listen to your awful singing?" You laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Cant be as bad as the Cougar screaming on stage." Gaz nudges Soap as they laugh loudly. God, they were obliterated already.

Time passes and eventually Price has moved to the bar, leaving you and Simon to watch as Soap and Gaz play pool together. You cant tell who's winning, so Simon updates you with each play. You now had a vodka cranberry sitting in front of you. After Price begged you to let loose for once and stop being a "block of cheddar." Whatever that meant. But when he said it was on Shepherd, you couldn't refuse ordering a few drinks on the dreadful man's pocket. Price giving a big belly laugh as you make a remark about Shepherd's bald head.

With the drink and Simon's calming presence, you feel your anxiety starting to rinse away. A second drink comes and you and Simon are still pressed together despite having more room in the booth now that Price disappeared. The two of you watching Soap lose brutally in a game of pool. Most likely due to the fact that he can't even stand straight. You watch as him and Gaz stumble to the karaoke machine, which is vacant now that people are more focused on midnight approaching. Typing in the song Gaz had chosen as the pair giggle and try to read the screen. Their vision most likely blurred and spinning. The song starts playing once everything is set up, the microphone in Soap's hand as he leans on Gaz for support. Probably needing a glass of water more than a song. You cant help but giggle as Come on Eileen starts playing. Typical karaoke song.

You're still sat in the booth with Simon, watching as Soap curls his arm around Gaz. His singing getting louder and increasingly incoherent as he attempted to read the words on the screen. His accent thick with each word. You wish your hearing was non existent as you watch the shit show in front of you. Simon sitting silently at your side.

"We're going to have to roll that man out," You say with a grin. Soap's an idiot but he's the team's idiot.

"I say we leave him to Price." Ghost replies, glancing at you while you take a chug of your drink.

You glance over to Price, who has his arm loosely around a blonde. A charismatic smile as he leans against the bar, the pint of dark beer half empty and her flashy margarita with nothing but the salt around the rim and the flimsy umbrella laying. It's place as a decoration looking rather sad in the empty glass.

"It seems like Price is on his own mission," you say with a raised brow.

"At least the old man is getting out there," he grumbles. You watch subtly as he lifts his mask to finish off his whiskey. Catching a glimpse of a scar down his pink lips. The sight bringing a familiar pool of heat to your stomach. Your ribs squeezing from the desire building.

You swallow your alcohol infused thoughts, turning back to your drink when you notice his brown eyes shifting under your gaze. You weren't being nearly as subtle as you thought. He had felt the tension build between the two of you the moment your eyes landed on his lips. Clearing your throat you speak up, "Yeah, he's been getting irritable lately. Maybe some stress relief outta do him some good."

You hear a small huff of laughter next to you, watching as his shoulders shook slightly under his black hoodie. A small smile creeps on your lips. Not able to hide the giddiness you feel every time you manage to break his shell. Even if it was something as subtle as a huff of laughter or a sheepish expression.

"Can't remember the last time I've seen the poor bastard do anything for himself." He responds, a hint of a smile in his voice. It was light, airy. But it was everything to you. A moment worth a mental picture in your brain.

"Good for him," you conclude with a proud nod. Watching as the blonde places a hand on Price's bicep. Which looked like it was screaming to be let out of the flannel he wore.

Your eyes flick back to Simon, admiring the curve of his nose. The very top of it peaking out from the surgical mask. The mere sight of him drowns out Soap's awful singing. Drawing you in and letting your mind wander to all the places you wanted the talk, blonde man to take you. You couldn't help but imagine how his nose would feel against your skin. His breath fanning on the open landscape as his lips trace every inch of you. Breathing you in with each peck. You imagine how it's feel as he leaves a trail of kisses down your stomach. Or pressed against your sensitive bud as he buries his face in your dripping cunt. Jesus, Cheese. Slow down.

With that last thought in mind, you stare down at your drink. It's your third. And probably your last. Given the fact that midnight was approaching minute by minute and you needed to be sober to try and get Gaz and Soap out. Simon was on his fourth and final glass as well. Announcing he was cutting himself off before he would have to endure a nasty hangover the next morning. Soap was finished singing, gesturing to you and Simon that they were going for one more round. A round that would probably tie them over to midnight.

And it did. Leaving you and Simon to drag him and Gaz out of the bar and to the Uber you had ordered. Price having left swiftly after midnight with the blonde he was chatting up. Her dragging him out as they laughed like a couple of teenagers. Price giving you and Simon a smug smile and a wink as he passed. You waving goodbye and Simon glaring at him. Pissed at the fact you two were left to taking care of the drunken babies screaming in the karaoke machine. Especially when Soap turned into a runner after 3 pints.

You and Simon wrangle the drunken toddlers into the Escalade. Gaz sobering up quick once you had buckled him in and gave him a bottle of water that the bartenders were handing out. On the other hand, Soap was being a straight menace. Making Simon's life ten times more difficult than it needed to be. Acting like a toddler in the middle of a bloody, screaming tantrum. Trying to slip out if Simon's tight grasp to take off through the streets. You and Simon having to resort to scaring him into sitting still in the Uber. Leaving you in the middle of him and Gaz, holding onto Soap's hand as he babbles. His thick, slurring accent completely impossible to understand. He even asks you a question. One that Ghost has to translate for you.

     "Why do they call ye Cheese?" He slurs, head turning to look at you.

      "Grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin." You explain with a shrug. You had gotten used to people asking by now. But internally you were certain you had told him already.

       "Oh," he pauses, his lips pressed into a small pout as he thought more about it. "Well, that's silly."

       "Your name is Soap. What if I think that's stupid?" You say flatly, watching his pout grow.

Eventually, you're back to base. Gaz walking up on his own, but you stay next to him. Ready to catch him if he takes the wrong step or needs to puke. Simon practically carrying Soap behind him. Who's now singing old Scottish folk songs while Simon grumbles profanities. Your favorite being a threat to make him sleep in the bushes. Which causes infectious laughter from the Scot. Which you are quick to quiet as there's other people on base.

Once you're in the confines of your groups own little sector. You and Simon get Gaz into the respective rooms. Propping them on their sides in case there were any accidents. Leaving a water bottle and a couple tablets of Advil for their heads in the morning. Simon was partial to dumping them and heading to bed. But you made sure they were out of their jackets, in their beds, converse with blankets, and had water for the morning.

Soon, you find yourself in Simon’s room. Listening to him grumble endlessly about the behavior from the other three men you live with. You watch in the corner as he lazily unties his leather boots. Body hunched over completely as he sits at the edge of the bed. Kicking them off with a bit of a tipsy struggle. Letting them plop at the end of his bed with a large thunk!

Awkwardly, you shift in your place by the door. He had invited you to come in. But this side of him was so foreign to you that it still felt wrong. Like you were in forbidden territory. But you bury the anxiety. Reminding yourself that the flipping of your stomach could be blamed on the three mixed drinks you had indulged in.

He’s sat up now, stretching his back. A loud crack sounding through the room as his spine arches like a cat. You watch as his hand reaches for his surgical mask. You don’t think twice of the motion. You’re occupied with a fuzzy brain. Crossing the room with a shy stride, blinking a few times as your vision adjust to the dim lighting in his dorm. Your eyes flicking back up to catch his movements. And it isn’t until the mask is pulled completely off that you realize what is happening.

“Simon?” You ask quickly.

His eyes snap to you, head turning towards you ever so slightly. Revealing the rest of his face to you. And god, he’s fucking gorgeous. The curved bridge of his nose that you always noticed is paired with a straight, and narrow length. Slightly tipped downwards. The pale scar you noticed earlier seeming to glow in the dim lighting. Crossing through his pale pink lips. His jawline strong and the shape of his face a little longer than you’d ever noticed when he was wearing the mask.

“You take that thing off?” You ask without thinking. Voice laced in disbelief and shock.

He lets out a huff of laughter. A small, boyish grin tugging at his lip. “Of course I do.”

You stare at him for a moment longer, taking in his strong, prominent features. Trying to drink in every centimeter to engrave in the back of your brain. “Why are you taking it off now? I thought you were hell bent on hiding your face.” You question, frowning slightly.

“You’re the only one who hasn’t seen my face.” He says bluntly.

“What? That’s no fair!”

“Perfectly fair.” He responds. You find yourself speechless. Now you got to put a face to the snappy, dry comments he had an endless supply of. Seeing the full expression of his face when he’s giving an unimpressed stare. You adore it.

“Why haven’t I seen it?” You ask, faking offense with a dramatic gasp.

“Because you’re insufferable.” He answers dryly. But the crooked smile on his lips give his intentions away. You grin, moving your body from its place on the edge of the bed with him. Leaving over to snatch the balaclava that rests on the nightstand where he had tossed the surgical mask. His “civilian” balaclava. The one with the skull print. “What are you doing?”

“Trying it on.” You giggle.

“Don’t touch it.” He says sharply, moving to reach for it.

Your reflexes are heightened. Holding his mask out to the side with a giggle, trying to push his massive body back. But he's too big and overpowering. Not to mention the three drinks you had were still buzzing through your system. He grabs your hand on his chest, pulling you into him as the other arm snatches the skull mask. He tosses it to his nightstand before using both hands to pick you up from the edge and throw you down gently on the middle of  his bed. The wooden bed frame creaking with age. "You're a brat," he says in deep voice. His dark, playful glare making your heart spike as you're pressed against the mattress.

      "Am not!" You argue, laughing as you realize he's about to tickle you. Picking up the lower half of your body as he inserts his larger frame between your denim covered legs. You wonder if it's third grade again as his hands move from holding you down to your sides.

    He then laughs and tickles your ribs, causing you to gasp out into a fit of giggles. Your hands shooting up to his wrists to stop him as you try and speak through the laughter erupting from your chest. He laughs mischievously. His hand moving down to your stomach and up your sides again. The action making you laugh even harder while begging him to stop. Words broken and squealed as you giggle. He finally stops the tickling but he keeps his hands on your sides, looking at you with a crooked grin on his face.

    You try not to dwell on the fact that you've never seen him smile before. And have never ever imagined it would look this good. Or boyish. This felt completely out of character. And it was. All you could think to do was blame it on the glasses of whiskey he had downed just before midnight. But that wouldn't stop you from memorizing each inch of his face without the mask on. Taking in the sight of his blonde lashes that are just a little bit lighter than his thick eyebrows. Or the scar running down his cheek to his jaw. The line dark and uneven, a contrast to his pale skin.  The other scar just below his nose and through the pale pink lips that spread thin with his smile. He was everything.

    The veins in his pale hand popping against your hips as he keeps your ass in place on this thick thighs. "You are and you know it." He finally says, a bit breathless from laughing at you.

    "You're so mean." You say breathlessly, giving him a playful pout.

    "I know, that's why you love me...right?" He asks you, with that charming smile and a smug voice to match. His hands on your sides, leaning down towards your face.

    You just giggle again, nodding slightly as you admire how he looks above you. Your breathing starts to calm as you two sit in the warming silence between each other. Your back is against his sheets, hair spread on his pillow. He's sitting between your legs. Your thighs pressed over his hips as his large body leans over you. As your giggling ceases, you notice him getting closer and closer. Your heart beats faster as his face leans a couple inches forward. Stopping for a second to look over your features. His breath was warm. The scent of a heavy mint mixed with a bit of whiskey. The slow exhales fanning your jaw slightly as his eyes flicker to your lips. His hands on your sides started to get lower the closer he got. Thumbs digging into your hips lightly. Like he was trying to imagine how your flesh would feel gripped beneath his bony fingers.

     Suddenly, you realize what's happening. It hits you like a train coming full speed ahead. You feel your heart lurch as a fire erupts through your hips. His thumbs brush over the skin that is exposed. The cardigan you're wearing rides up to reveal more of your skin peeking between its hem and your jeans. Wires in your brain start to connect when you realize the severity of your situation and your rising feelings. This was Ghost. Simon fucking Riley. These thoughts weren't allowed. These feelings are forbidden. This isn't real. This isn't him.

    You sit up, scooting back as you come to your senses."I...I should probably get back to my room." You clear your throat. Trying to even your breathing.

    He moves back, sitting up completely as your close proximity starts to sink in to his senses. You hear him swallow slightly, shifting back more to allow you to move. Sitting up, you shift towards the edge of the bed. Your feet dangle as you try and calm down the screaming arousal pumping through your veins. As you sit there, you wonder what thoughts run through his brain. Was this all good fun? Was this something he wanted or thought about? Were you something he thought about?

    "Right," his voice deepens and his dark eyes run cold, "you should probably go."

Fuckin' hell. The tension in the room grows thick. It's painfully obvious the affects of the alcohol have taken over their senses. Creating a false perception of each other in a close proximity. You internally calm yourself. Reminding yourself that you're human and a very large, brutally attractive man was hovering over you just second ago. Of course you'd be turned on. But he's your lieutenant. The second in command. The man who'd take over if Price left or retired. Your superior.

"Right." You repeat. Your voice just above a whisper.

    Another consequence of drinking rears it's ugly head when you feel tears start to burn at the corners of your eyes. Why were you so upset? You scold yourself, repeating the fact that you were the one to stop things from progressing. And he's your superior. Not like it should happen anyways.

    But your scolding only goes so far. Instead, a dark shadow of guilt and shame starts to crawl over your skin. You pull your cardigan tighter against yourself as you stand up from his bunk. Your converse tapping on the floor as you start to step away. Glancing at the way her shifts to sit on the bed. Long, large legs planted on the floor. His pale, striking face observing you.

    This type of look wasn't different from the look he always gave you. But this time, you could see his entire face. You can see his thick brow knitting together as his dark eyes scan over you. His eyes stained with dark circles. You could see all of the flaws he so desperately wanted to hide from everyone. But you. The face he allowed you to see. The one with a crooked smile. The sheepish smile that he'd try to bite back. Or the way his nose was a little crooked at the end. And it scrunched up when he lets out a boisterous laugh.

    But all you see is the dark wall that began to rebuild itself. The glaring eyes and the shadow from his thick brow. The rest of his face void of expression as the hand on his leg squeezes his thumb a few times. A nervous tic you had noticed. Something he does when he has so much more to say. When he has an overwhelming amount of feelings bubbling up in his throat. Threatening to spill out like when a toddler spills their milk. Accidental. Inevitable. 

    Slowly, you make your move. Spinning around and walking towards the door with your arms wrapped around your torso. Feeling the overwhelming urge to crawl into yourself like a little shell. Hiding from the reality of you being completely enamored by him. Hiding from all of the pining you shamelessly embraced. Shielding yourself from the fact that you want him to pull you back into his bed. Knowing that if he did, it would ruin this. All of the effort you made to get this close to him knocked over like Jenga blocks. Leaving him to be nothing but a stranger. This is for the better. You know it's for the better.

    A choked breath stops you in your tracks. Your footsteps halt and you turn your head over you shoulder. His large frame still sat on the bed with hunched shoulders. His voice monotonous, speaking out your name into the dimmed room. "Happy New Year."

    Your words come out fragile, on the verge of tears. "Happy New Year, Simon."

༝̩̩̥͙ ༓༝̩̩̥͙ ⊹

moot tags: @annasinterests @pertinentpostmortem

[mantisgodsart]

Did you know? You have to post art for people to see it. Wild, we know. Anyways, we finally drew our Bau's swords, and we're going to make you decipher their extremely thick (designated south Appalachian from our American Accent Experts) accent. Also comes with bonus notes under the cut.

"Y'see, the thing with weapons is that if y'ain't careful wit'em y'can really tear up a man. Throwin' metal aroun' th'place doesn' come without consequences. It c'n take a lotta work ta master any weapon't all, an' even more work t' keep from hurtin' anyone y'wouldn't want to." "Take m'swords, for example. These're cuttin' blades, n' they're hooked't th'tip. Y'see this sorta thing fer sport, usually, but they're a bit useless fer actual fightin' cuz they don't cut shell. Y'need t'have some dexterity t'put 'em to work, 'cuz hitting shell with 'em's worse'n useless. Dulls yer blades, 'n such. Y'need ta hit b'tween th'shell, or't does nothin', 'n any actual hit'll be real likely t'kill 'r maim." "Mine've got swordbreakers in'm, cuz I don' really use'm t'cut. Bit narrow t'really club with, but I like'm narrow cuz I like t'get inta guards. Th'hook's made ta get inta joints, but't works just's well t'grab shit outta bags'r hands, n' th'extra grabbin' bits make't a bit easier t'nab that." "'f I miss, worse't happens is't some bug gets'r shell sliced, 'n tha' doesn't mean much, y'know? No major hit, 'll scab over'n a few hours'n be fine. 'f I used a crushin' weapon, though, 't might actually hurt 'em." "'n a pinch, they'll work jus' fine fer th' original purpose. Fit th' hook 'nto a limb, give'a shallow cut, 'n most people'll back off once they know y'could've ripped a limb off. Makes't harder for'm t'wield a weapon, too. If's somethin' real fussy like a velvet ant- they don' clot like other bugs, so y'can't really draw blood from'm- then'm usually stronger'n em, so disarmin' works jus' fine, 'n I can hold onto 'em if'ey still wanna pick a fight." "…'sides, carryin' aroun' two'a these makes me look real cool, don'tcha think? All fancy'n such."

Bau's specific accent for the in-universe setup rather than the "translating things" is, like. Distinctly "cricket or grasshopper who has not really made an effort to, like, get around the fact that their mouthparts aren't super made for the sorts of sounds used in bugnish" which is perceived as a Hick Accent because a lot of crickets Do tend to work around similar, like, Perceived As Hick Industries Done By Mostly Uneducated People. It takes Effort to sort of train yourself to speak in a way that will read to other bugs as More Educated, and Bau has just sort of… never bothered? Best they've got is enunciating it a bit more clearly, chief. They're not relearning how to speak a whole language to be seen as Slightly More Educated.

In terms of actual in-universe sounds that are Not translated to English they'll just sound a lot chirpier. You could probably interpret some of the words in there as adjacent to the sort of shit you hear out of birds. Might be able to unintentionally set off the fight-or-flight of bugs who used to be heavily preyed upon by small songbirds if cussing violently enough. Sometimes you accent sounds with actually making the standard cricket-chirp sound if you're trying to be sexy.

Sometimes you also do this when you are pissed off at people, This is because crickets are Like This and a lot of them will fucking fight each other for the approval of a potential mate.

Anyways, the fun part of Bau's weapons is that they are deliberately built for being showy and impressive and letting them do flashy sleight-of-hand with their opponent's belongings while also being hideously inefficient enough as actual weapons that bringing them onto the battlefield in the first place actively seems like a terrible strategic decision.

[aoioozora]

CoD Ghosts OC: Adelheid "Storm Petrel" Krause - About

Finally got around to making an informative post about Adelheid! Let me know if you have any suggestions :)

Basics:

Full name: Adelheid Krause Callsign/Codename: Storm Petrel, Petrel Personal nicknames: Adelie, Heidi Age: 28 Birthday: December 22, 1999 Height: 6'0 / 182cm Hair color: Ash brown Eye color: Green Ethnicity: German Citizenship: American Place of birth: Dresden, Germany Languages spoken: German, English, Spanish Branch: US Marine Corps Rank: Sergeant

Childhood:

Adelheid was born on a cold winter night in Dresden. She was born out of wedlock to her teenaged parents; her mother Emilia was 15 and her father Erich, who was 16. The couple stayed together and raised Adelheid with the help and support of their parents. By the time she was 14, her now-married parents managed to earn enough money to immigrate to the United States, where they settled in Fredericksburg, Texas, specifically because of the German settlements there.

Her father, a huge basketball fan and an excellent player himself, worked as a basketball coach in the same high school that Adelheid attended. Her mother was a housewife. Adelheid expressed an interest in joining the military when she heard the stories of their old veteran neighbour who was a Marine. As soon as she finished high school, at the age of eighteen, she joined the Marine Corps.

She has had a rather normal childhood in Germany since she was just like the others, but moving to the United States, especially with a thick German accent didn't make it easy for her to assimilate with her peers in school and in the neighbourhood. The struggles to assimilate were felt by her parents too, and pulling by financially was difficult, causing tensions in her home. To not trouble her parents too much, she learnt independence young.

She was eighteen and in the middle of basic training at the time of the ODIN strike.

Personality:

MBTI: ISTJ- A (Logistician)

Adelheid is very solitary and prefers her own company most of the time. Her circle of friends is very small and intimate and makes friends with people very slowly, preferring to take her time to get to know them. She does get lonely sometimes, though.

As a German, being responsible, punctual, and disciplined came naturally. She is very practical and logical, sometimes almost to a fault. She is a perfectionist and will push herself to excellence, but would not go too far as to destroy her health in the process.

She can be extremely rigid, adhering to rules too closely, and her logical-mindedness makes her struggle with being empathetic. Though it's a struggle, she does try her hardest to understand other people's perspectives and feelings.

She is hyper-independent and tends to bottle up her emotions to not inconvenience anybody, though it ends up being an inconvenience to her more than anything.

She is honest. While it's a good thing, she sometimes struggles with gentle honesty. Being German and living in Germany, she is used to honesty being dished out straight. On the flip side, this trait makes her a trustworthy and reliable teammate and friend.

She is knowledgeable. She spends downtime with her nose in books. She likes to read all sorts of genres but likes historical books the most.

She is calm and level-headed. Partly due to bottling her feelings, very few things can get an actual rise out of her. Some things that piss her off are sudden plans with no planned out structure, and disregarding established rules. Stability and order are very important to her.

Her love and kindness is shown in acts of service and gift giving. She's not exactly the most openly warm and caring, but she has a tenderness and care that is often misunderstood by others. The way to know if she loves and adores you is if she cooks or bakes you anything. She's not big on words of affirmation (she's German, come on) but the highest compliment from her would be "nicht schlecht" (not bad).

She's not very expressive, and if you say something funny to her, she'll manage a small, polite smile and chuckle. But on the rare occasion when she does smile widely or laugh genuinely, she accidentally dazzles anyone who witnesses it.

Behind the Name:

Adelheid means "noble" or "nobility". She was given this name because her parents believed they descended from a line of Prussian nobles.

Krause is an old Prussian noble surname that means curly.

Behind the Callsign:

While nicknames and callsigns in the US military come from a soldier's embarrassing moments, Adelheid got hers differently.

She exhibited bravery and pluck during a mission in rescuing several of her fellow soldiers who were injured and stuck in especially sticky mud under the flood waters and couldn't come out no matter how much they tried. Far from help, she singlehandedly pulled out and carried the others one by one and brought them to safety despite nearly sinking in the marsh herself. She screamed for help over the wind and pouring rain, knowing that more Marines were following behind them (she forgot that she had an intercom to use).

Reinforcements heard her cries and quickly came rushing. By this time, she had gotten almost everyone out and was emerging from under the flood waters carrying her fellow in a fireman's carry. In the flash of lightning, it was a sight to see a giantess carrying a man on her shoulders like he was just a sack of wheat, not to mention being drenched and weighed down by her wet clothes and gear, screaming from the bottom of her lungs in the dark.

But adrenaline is one hell of a drug, especially for a Marine.

They helped her get the men to safety, and after it all, she passed out from sheer exhaustion. One of the more poetic and philosophical Marines quipped that she reminded him of a poem of a storm petrel, how it "bravely cried and flew in the wings of the storm" and how she "walked on water" like Peter from the Bible. The other Marines thought that 'Storm Petrel' was a silly name and nobody called her that except for the philosophical Marine.

The name began to stick when she and others were deployed on a sea mission to infiltrate and drown a ship. Since storm petrels are considered bad luck to sailors for their ability to sense storms, a storm started brewing no sooner she and the others set foot on the ship and began clearing it. The same philosophical Marine decided to keep track of how many storms she attracted (be it on land or sea) and he found that she did so 60% of the time. The name then stuck to her firmly.

For the most part, she is called Petrel.

A quote that defines her:

"My alone feels so good, I'll only have you if you're sweeter than my solitude.” - Warsan Shire

Her favourite stuff:

Favourite song: Sonne by Rammstein

Favourite food: Eintopf, Kartoffelsuppe, Shepherds pie

Favourite desserts: Baumkuchen, apple pie, doughnuts

Favourite drinks: Beer, affogato

Favourite colour: Yellow

Favourite books: Iron Kingdom: The Rise and Downfall of Prussia by Christopher Clark, Persuasion by Jane Austen

Fun Facts:

She has a massive appetite and can eat a LOT, which is not surprising considering her height and her physically demanding career.

She's never been in love or dated ever. Men find her too serious and she finds most men too frivolous.

She has a scrapbook journal that she likes to fill in with dried flowers and leaves, receipts, tiny plastic zip lock packets of local soil from her travels, and crumpled pieces of notepaper filled with her thoughts.

Depending on her mood, she'll either listen to metal, classical, or pop. She mostly listens to metal.

Despite living for a long time in the United States, Americanisms still baffle her.

She hates the Imperial measurement system even though she got used to it rather quickly.

She's a terrible singer. It's like chalk on a blackboard.

She can tie a cherry stem with her tongue.

That's all for now! More to come ;)

[jomiddlemarch]

Let’s stop all the clocks

“Erin? Erin Quinn?” 

Erin looked up from the book in her lap. It should have been one for one of her classes, but she’d decided to give herself a break and read the absolute trash Michelle had been going on about in the long phone calls that cut into Erin’s coffee budget. It was a quick read, she’d give it that, but she didn’t actually want anyone who knew her full name to have any idea she’d wasted even a second of her time on it and she tried to tuck it under a fold of the saggy, oversized cardigan she’d put on without thinking twice as she ran out the door. She’d been late, as per usual Mammy would say, and she’d consoled herself with the anonymity of train travel in a major metropolitan center. It wasn’t Derry. She’d not meet anyone who recognized her from Adam, as one of her lecturers had said, an idiom she’d not heard before but suspected Sister Michael would have adored.

She tried to place the man, who spoke with the same faded accent she had herself, though a little more posh. He looked like a generic example of thirty-year-old man, nondescript brown hair with no sign of a receding hairline, a bit of scruff around the jaw, broad shoulders, the usual American uniform of jeans and some themed sweatshirt, a bit ratty around the cuffs, not sharp in the least. She had no idea who he was, but anyone would admit he was entirely forgettable.

She, evidently, was not, as he knew her well enough to identify her with her head down, her hair bundled back with an elastic, wearing the glasses that had rapidly become more than an aesthetic choice for someone scaling the heights of academe. She’d said that once to Mammy, just so her mother would reply Catch yerself on in her most exasperated manner. 

“That’s me,” she said, trying to sound impersonally polite and not guarded.

“You don’t remember me. Not at all,” he said. Grinned. His eyes were blue and he was more handsome than she’d thought. It was the smile and the complete lack of being insulted that she hadn’t a clue who he was that made him appealing. And the blue eyes. His hands were nice too. 

“M’sorry, no,” she said.

“Dee. From Peace Across the Barricades,” he said. “Dee Foster.”

All Erin could remember was Clare screaming her head off, convinced the deaf boy was going to murder her in front of them all. And James clumping about in those pink waterproof trousers, calling himself a lad when he was the least laddish boy who’d ever lived.

“You gave me an Ulster Bank key-chain and some Rolo as a gift?” he said. “I think there was also a pencil.”

It came back to her in a flash. Maybe like the one people said you had before you died.

“Oh my God, Dee! Dee Foster!” She repeated his surname, as if she’d ever known it, as if she’d remembered him quite well in a fond, old-timey fashion, and not as the boy she’d made the most gauche pass at, trying to stick out her unremarkable boobs and cock her head to one side while he’d gawked at her in astonishment.

“You’re looking well, Erin,” he said, still smiling.

“Did you even like Rolo?” Erin heard herself ask, the most absolutely stupid question she could have come up with. Michelle’s eyes would have rolled right out of her head at it, if she could manage to keep them open. A set of twins ten months after her wedding had nearly done her in, even when the boys started taking a nap outside of the enormous double-pram that had become her latest and worst enemy.

“They’re all right, yeah? I prefer a Mars bar, if I have the choice,” he said. 

“Rolo are nice though,” Erin said. “If you like a caramel center, there’s none better.”

She suddenly heard how she was related to Colm. Any minute now, Dee would make an excuse to flee and she would not be able to blame him.

“Yeah. It’s a funny thing, seeing you here,” he remarked. He leaned back more in the plastic seat. It seemed fleeing was not the the top of his list.

“They say it’s a small world,” she replied. “Doesn’t seem that way on the subway, all crammed together, all sorts—”

“No, not like home and that was a small place,” he said.

“Small in some ways, miles apart in others,” she said. There was a long pause, a sort of companionable one where she was able to recall she had indeed put on some blush and a bit of mascara before she’d left the flat. Apartment, they called it here, though her American friends were always terribly charmed when she spoke as she would have at home. They found it quaint, she knew that, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t the most likable person, so she had to play the cards she had been dealt. Being the winsome and quirky Irish lass had gotten her this far…

“I regretted it, after,” he said.

“You regretted Peace Across the Barricades?” Erin said. “It fell far short of what he wanted, Father Peter, but it was well-meant even if he was rather full of himself—”

“I regretted turning you down, when you wanted to make out. When you asked and told me you hadn’t any moves,” he said. “You were wearing plaid pajamas and a choker necklace.”

She blushed as she hadn’t for a solid decade. 

“I shouldn’t have, it’s so embarrassing—”

“I said I regretted it, saying no. Even if you didn’t really know me,” he said. “You were so shy and also, what brass, to make such a proposition.”

“Michelle said you were a ride,” Erin offered.

“Christ, it takes me home to hear that,” he laughed. “Flattered, too, mind you.”

“I should’ve tried to get to know you. Not treated you like a, like a piece of meat. I’m sorry for that,” she said.

“I’m not,” he said.

“No?”

This was the oddest conversation she could recall and she spoke to Orla nearly every week.

“If you’d been more polite then, more considerate, there’d been nothing to talk about now. I wouldn’t have blurted out your name in a train station waiting room because I wanted to talk to you again. To see that smile of yours,” he said. “Make you blush.”

“You’re quite the charmer,” Erin replied. She blushed harder, if that was even a thing.

“You’ve been too long among the Americans, Erin,” he replied. “This is just Londonderry—”

“Derry,” she interrupted.

“Just so,” he said. “I wished I’d gone over to you, when our parents were all there, arguing. I wished I’d gone over and said something, anything, you wanted to answer. Given you the last Rolo, maybe. Taken the chalk from your hand and written something else on that board. Something you’d have remembered me by.”

“You wished it, eh? Past tense?” she said. She could never leave well enough alone and not everyone cared for her endless monologues about the niceties of the English language. She’d have taken the words back if she could.

“Present tense as well,” Dee said. “Where are you off to?”

“Back up to Boston,” she said. She felt the urge to explain what she did there, her studies and such, and clamped her mouth shut. He hadn’t asked and there was a runaway train taken over her tongue, God knows what she’d come out with if she allowed herself the leeway.

“Isn’t that lucky? I’m headed up there myself,” he said. 

“Luckier they don’t assign seats on this train,” she said. Fuck it, this was a chance she had to take. “If you wanted to maybe make that old wish come true—”

She broke off because he’d suddenly stood up. He was tall, had probably grown more after she’d last seen him, and she had to crane her neck to see his face.

“Or not. You probably have other things to do, work or something,” she said, trying to claw back any shred of self-respect. Her pride was long, long gone.

“I was only going to get some snacks for the trip,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the nearest shop with its racks of sweets and bottles of water, juice, all the brightly colored health drinks full of chemicals she could never stomach, though they were said to be good for a hangover.

“Oh, all right then,” she said.

He came back with a plastic bag filled with terrible American chocolate and more satisfying packets of crisps, Cokes, those weird cheese-filled pretzels she couldn’t ever get enough of even though they were inarguably rather disgusting.

“I got some Rolo for old time’s sake,” Dee said, then fished out a little plastic square and held it out to her. It said I love NY but the love was a red heart. “And a keychain. This is my move, Erin Quinn. I hope it’s good enough.”

After they’d moved back to Belfast, she kept her housekeys on it, the letters obscured by the scratches on the plastic, the red heart clear. They gave Rolo as a wedding favor, to the bafflement of their parents, and the knowing looks of Michelle, Clare and James. Orla had only nodded sagely and Dee knew well enough by then not to inquire what she was thinking.

@asteraceae-blue I decided to post this one first because it's a sunny Saturday morning here and that felt like rom-com energy, not angst

[anonymousboxcar]

My Stanley (RWS) Headcanons

I’ve finished an AU series to do with Stanley, but I still find my mind going back to him! Here’s an assortment of headcanons I’ve developed lately.

A headcanon with an asterisk (*) next to it relates more to my AU series, while one with a dash (-) is more canon-compliant.

———————————

-Built for trench railways in WWI, Stanley only spent a month in the U.S. before going overseas. He still has most of his accent because he spent a lot of his early life working with American servicemen.

-(He also realized that it annoyed some people, making him lean into it out of spite.)

-His accent somewhat softened, however, after exposure to European accents. He knows a smattering of French he picked up from the trenches in France as well.

-He also picked up smoking cigars from the trenches, when an officer tried to use his firebox to light a cigar. Stanley protested until the desperate officer offered to share the cigar with him.

-The other officers thought this was hilarious. Soon, they too began sharing their cigars with Stanley. He enjoyed feeling like one of them and grew to crave the taste of cigar smoke.

*These days, Stanley doesn’t smoke any tobacco or nicotine products. It can’t hurt him, but he knows now the secondhand smoke could hurt the humans that work with him. His years in the mine forced him to quit anyway, leaving him free of cravings.

-Stanley doesn’t know much about “the States,” but he doesn’t like admitting that. He wishes that he spent more time in his country of origin, with Baldwin Works and his Baldwin siblings.

-All he knows about the U.S. comes from his late-night talks with American servicemen, who were eager to talk about and remember their homes. It was then he realized that most of these men were, in actuality, quite young. Many of them were still teenagers.

-He saw some flashes of action during his service, but he saw the aftermath of action more often. It was no easier on him once he knew the casualties were too young to even drink.

-A consequence of this is that Stanley developed a soft spot for children. Following his transfer to the Mid-Sodor, he’d take extra care if he had children as passengers on his trains, speaking with a gentleness that belied his usual bluntness. He wanted them to have the childhood that the soldiers of the Great War lost too soon.

*It wasn’t until after his rescue from the mines that he realized he’d lost his own childhood of sorts. Baldwin Works built him for war. There was no innocence, no idyllic phase. There was no time to grow into his frames.

*To an extent, his efforts to ensure happy childhoods for people was him projecting his own wish for a better youth.

*It’s still difficult for Stanley to talk about WWI and his military service. But after seeing he was more affected by it than he thought, he’s begun to open up about it more often. This continues to illuminate aspects of his years on the Mid-Sodor. For instance…

-Stanley had no conception of civilian railways before he came to the Mid-Sodor. He didn’t know how to socialize with civilian engines, crews, or passengers. As a result, he seemed rude and disrespectful. (Though he could be genuinely rude when it came to Duke, who he sometimes thought of as an old stick in the mud.)

-Derailments were also commonplace on the trench railways. Not only did he and his siblings derail often, but so did many other engines due to the precarious nature of their tracks and their light rolling stock.

-As a result, Stanley grew to perceive derailment as a part of daily life. He grew to “not give a dime about a few spills.”

-He was telling Duke what he honestly thought: that it was normal. And once Stanley determined the problem was with his gauge and not the track, he figured they would regauge him soon.

-The military repaired him because it was necessary for their operations. It was common sense. He didn’t think it was any different on the Mid-Sodor… until it was too late.

*Nowadays, Stanley still refuses to sit in the very back of a shed, or to go into a mine. He hates being confined to any place for too long.

*These are his limits. He accepts this, and so do his friends. However, after some thought, he begins exposure therapy of sorts with some cramped spaces. “I can avoid a mine, but what if I get stuck in a tunnel?” he asks. “I gotta learn how to deal with stuff like that.”

*It’s all very difficult sometimes, but it’s possible. It’s worth it in the end. Every end, he’s decided, is a new beginning.

[koukouture]

Random HCs abt command but specifically Hassen and Nikola

Note: “Command” just sort of refers to the people who hand out missions. So Celica, Asimov, Nikola and Hassen

Okay okay so Nikola very obviously Slavic coded, I think Russian bc he’s immune to the cold lol like in Luna’s interlude he’s watching Lucia train in the snow in nothing but a SUIT. That out of the way

A friend suggested that Hassen is Pakistani American and honestly? I can get behind that. I do think he’s only half tho bc this guy is a white man 💀 I’m sorry but being raised in an orphanage did not help him.

Nobody in command can cook. Absolutely nobody. Except for Celica. Bc that girl can do everything

I also think that Celica can speak like five different languages. She’s just built like that

I think it’d be funny if Celica is trying to explain something and she just blanks and forgets how to explain it in all five languages.

Nikola gains an accent when he’s really angry. It’s like a scale the angrier he gets the more Russian he gets. (idk but personally I gain a weird Filipino accent when I’m frustrated does this happen to anyone else?) If anyone hears him yelling in Russian they better hide because Nikola does not yell

Oh yeah and on that, I don’t think Nikola yells. Yes he’s very menacing and scary and you know when he’s mad, but he never yells. And it’s because he has a nice, tight lid and control over his emotions. Basically you REALLY have to screw up in order for him to yell at you.

Hassen is scary for a different reason and that is that he’s super patient. When he’s mad he’s twice as a scary because once again, you have to really fuck up. He can tolerate A LOT but the scariest thing in the world is an angry Hassen because it’s probably very justifiable

I think this is somewhat in part to him actually being rather cunning. I think he can be quite manipulative as well and that’s where he gets the patience from

Asimov canonically having an attitude is kinda funny to me. Everyone else is stepping on eggshells around the president and commander but Asimov’s unhinged ass is out here like “Uh yeah, so here’s the thing; you’re fucking wrong”

I think the little nerd is feisty and he’s a a little smug about it because he knows that he’s usually right

I genuinely think Hassen and Nikola are friends. You can pry this from my cold dead hands but they’ve known each other forever and they are both the leaders of the Kurono hate club. They trust each other so much I just know it

Nikola has siblings and they’re all high ranking Kurono members

Nikola strikes me as a rich boy that was funnelled into politics and shady business by his parents. Idk he gives that vibe

Asimov has a sweet tooth. Maybe because it helps him stay awake idk.

Hassen keeps alcohol in his office. It’s not even like a nice wine or anything it’s just cheap beer

Asimov has a dark sense of humour. I just feel like he cracks some very out of pocket jokes sometimes

I know Hassen is good with kids it is written all over him

I like to think that surprisingly, Asimov is too. Hey, kids LOVE cool science he would be a neat baby sitter and they’d make one of those little baking sofa volcanoes or smth

Celica is not. She has no idea how to deal with the little suckers but they all like her anyways bc funny lady say funny words

I’m sorry but Nikola is last place here I don’t think he can deal with kids at all 💀 I feel like it could mostly be rooted in his guilt from helping Kurono get actual children to experiment on. Yeah he just cannot with children. He doesn’t hate them though

Anyways that was it for today’s episode of Kou’s Delusions hope you enjoyed it!

[angelofthemornings]

What is it about holding a gun that turns ordinary people evil and insane? I know many normal Russian citizens, and because my old college is known for being VERY buddy-buddy with Israel (I have written some sternly worded emails about that) tons of Israelis come to study and I've met plenty. (The Hillel house was right next to my dorm so I'd come hang out in the open-to-everyone sukkah and that sort of thing, so I met like all of them, in fact.) Can't remember meeting anybody who wasn't a nice, cool person.

Yet all I hear about on the news is Russians and Israelis taking potshots at little kids...I can't possibly imagine practically any of the people I've really known doing that, but I don't think they've hidden all "evil" Russians and Israelis from my eyes. (Especially because I am a Russian speaker and can talk to Russians on their own terms, I'm not solely meeting Western-friendly queers.) (Well, you do have to be at least a *little* friendly to put up with an accent and occasional mistakes though, the worst kind of Russian fucking hates it if you don't speak their language flawlessly.) So what happens?

You know what those two nations have in common? Conscription. You get yoinked away from your normal life and any warmth and kindness to go through training to mold you into a literal military environment where you get punished for one toe out of line and usually hazed SEVERELY. In Russia and Ukraine this is especially bad because there are whole brigades of neo-Nazis. "I identify as a neo-Nazi" level neo-Nazis, they're not even hemming and hawing about it. (Probably the hardest choice Ukraine ever had to make during this war was whether they should incorporate the large, well-equipped, and better-trained Nazi brigades into the general army.) As for Israel, I saw somebody in a news article explain "In Israel, we are the IDF" and that lack of distance from the violent arm of the state seems sinister to me.

Conscription is not a tool to get more soldiers. That's a happy side effect. It's a tool to indoctrinate young people when they're at their most rebellious just as they've gained the power to be politically active as adults. I myself don't know if I'd be able to come out the other side of a couple years in that environment with the same political opinions, although I hope so, or at least I hope I'd return to basic humanity as soon as I'm back in an environment fit for human beings.

Gun control is a tricky topic for me because I used to live in Alaska and will be moving back soon. Many many people in Alaska need to use those to eat because communities - and here I'm talking Indigenous communities - are so isolated, you can't get anything except by the occasional bush plane. Buying groceries is next to impossible. I can even say that during the Festival of Native Arts they hold at Fairbanks, where folks from waaaay out there come to perform, people from the university organizing the celebration will go out and hunt a wild moose or something to feed the performers even though there are two Fred Meyers in the city. Because the folks from way out there and not like Anchorage, they can't digest factory farm meat, it's crammed with antibiotics and God knows what else, they do get sick if they try, it can be an issue with University of Alaska freshmen until their bodies adjust. Native Alaskans also need some pretty dangerous and complex weapons like exploding-head harpoons to hunt whales. (I mean, they're not out there with assault rifles, but legislation would have to allow for big and weird weapons in order to encompass whale hunting tools.) I also, as a kid, once looked into becoming a competing target shooter. I like guns. But... man. Nowadays...

Of course, it's not actually the fault of the guns. A gun can't hold itself up to your head and make you do anything. Down With Conscription. (And I have another, secondary rant here about how the only way to really get rid of American mass murders is to get rid of rampant male entitlement in this society - especially white male entitlement; I know of, for example, exactly one Asian guy who's done a school shooting in this country - but that's beyond the scope of this post. I do also question whether or not strict gun control just drives the trade underground under American conditions - IIRC I've read evidence suggesting that it doesn't actually *accomplish* control, which I was surprised to learn, although I'm going to have to look up those figures and the conclusions drawn by smarter people again - and, look, I'd just be a lot happier if like, non-suicidal trans women open carried. For obvious reasons.)

(Of course, I can't argue with the stats here, troubled people in other countries who just can't get ahold of guns don't use them. But whenever I think about gun control I immediately wonder how to implement it in a way that won't screw over Indigenous Alaskans. Surely some politician or activist has a brilliant idea about that and I'm just not well-read enough to have seen it or understood it, though. I should see if any Indigenous activists are fighting for gun control and have explained somewhere how to implement it properly because they know this subject better than I do.)

[newgh0ul]

Madness - Draco Malfoy x Reader - Part Two

Uncertainty riddled my thoughts as I boarded the Hogwarts Express. Hesitancy accented by body language, and slowed down every step I took. Everyone just seemed to know where to go, well...except for the first years. Here I was, older than the first years, looking just as lost and ridiculous.

Wondering down a hall, trying to find somewhere empty to sit, my body collides with someone. I look up, to see a boy with bright red hair standing over me. "Oh, bloody hell, are you alright?" He asks, and stretches out a hand to pull me up. I take his hand, and dust myself off. "Yeah, yeah, my ass broke my fall."

He chuckles, "Are you American?" My face beats up a bit and I awkwardly laugh, "That obvious?" He gives me a small nod. His pale skin can't hide the redness under his cheeks. "I'm Leah, I'm starting my fourth year." I give him my hand, and he eagerly shakes it, maybe a second too long. "Ron, I'm also a fourth year. I don't think I've seen you around here before-"

"I'm a transfer...from Ilvermony." I watch as the gears turn in his head, and he realizes why he's never seen me before. "I take it you don't have anyone to sit with?" He asks.

"What's that supposed to mean, Ron?" I tease.

"I-I just mean that...yknow you probably don't know anyone yet." He struggles through his embarrassment, I think it's sweet. "I was only joking." I tell him. He lets out a sigh of relief, and his shoulders slouch with the weight I've just taken off of him.

"Come sit with me and my friends, then." I take him up on his invite, following him to a carriage on the train.

There sat a boy with messy brown hair that framed his face, and circular glasses resting on his nose. He looked so familiar, but I just couldn't place my finger on it.

Next to him was a girl, with messy ginger hair, and a striking look on her face as I walked in. I wouldn't describe it as pleased, more like...challenged.

"That's Harry, and that's Hermione. This is Leah" He quickly introduced us all. Harry and Hermione looked equally confused as I took a seat, "Ron invited me to sit with you guys, it's nice to meet you." I smiled. The two gave me fake sweet smiles and a forced response.

An awkward tension hung over the carriage, I mostly spoke to Ron who was much more conversational than the other two. Hermione not-so-subtly glared daggers between Ron and I, her eyes peering over the newspaper she read. My aunt was reading the same one just this morning before she took me to King's Cross, but I forgot to ask about it.

'SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP' Headlined the page, hanging over a animated black-and-white photograph. I tried to make out what the picture was, some sort of skull and snake, I believe.

"So...what happened at the quidditch World Cup?" I decided to ask. Hermione lowered the paper, her lips still pursed and eyes steady on me.

"How do you not know? It's everywhere" She replied.

"I've had a busy summer, a little too preoccupied with moving to London."

"Surely you know about the Death Eaters and their attack?" Ron asks me, lowering his voice.

"No...no, I don't." I feel like I've just prodded at a sensitive topic, and even though Hermione and Harry aren't too warm to me, I hope I haven't just ruined my chance at being their friends.

"The Death Eaters attacked some muggles, and started a riot at the World Cup." Harry breaks his silence on the matter. As soon as he's done talking, he looks away, and focuses on the scenery outside of the window. I nod back, even though he's not even looking at me. There are no words that feel right to say right now. The air is suddenly heavy. Even Ron can't hide his look of disdain.

"Excuse me, I'm gonna go use the restroom." I stand to my feet, and exit the carriage. The heavy atmosphere seems to follow me, weighing me down. My heart aches for Ilvermony and for my friends there. I don't want to know any of these people, I don't want to start again. I want to go home. All I can think of is home.

As I reach the bathroom, the door swings open. Out steps a blonde boy, in a black suit. My spiraling stops as I realize he's the same boy from the book store. He stands there, and I decide to make the first move.

"Excuse me, how are these manners for you?" I spit as I shoulder check him as he did to me. Just as I grab the handle to the bathroom, and try to make my way inside, his hand latches around my arm. His grip is tight, and he inches closer to me. I can hear each breath he takes as he squeezes tighter.

"You should know your place, little American girl." He growls and lets go, shoving me back a little. I hit the doorframe and watch as he walks away.

I glance around to see if anyone saw, and to my luck, no one did. I shut the door behind me, and lock it. As soon as I hear the door lock, I start to cry.

I want to go home.

(word count: 920)

(this is being posted on Wattpad under the same name, along as the madness tag on my profile. I’m putting it on ao3 as soon as I get my invite. Enjoy <3)

[aeolianblues]

Things I’ve come to learn in the last 48 hours:

UK roads are so much bumpier than North American roads. I have rediscovered that I used to be the most motion sick person you knew. I haven’t been road queasy in six years.

The upside is I simply cannot go on my phone out of boredom. Tumblr would’ve made me throw up on the road. Unfortunately, so would’ve reading the maps. The other upside is I am on fucking international roaming, so I really shouldn’t be using my data liberally anyway.

You all are so nice. You are so fucking nice. Holy fuck, the stereotype of the stoic Brit does not really apply in practice. You’re the nicest people, holy shit.

Also, you are one of the countries where neighbourhoods still feel like communities. Street WhatsApp groups, knowing your neighbours’ names, being in their lives, drinking together. I know only two of my neighbours, and one I know because they were being a dick to me and the other I know because I was bitching about the dicking to my other neighbours and then I asked their name.

The drinking culture is real. Holy fuck. I have consumed more alcohol in under 48 hours than I have in 5 years of being able to buy my own drinks with 0 parental supervision on my day-to-day life in Canada. But how can I blame you? Somehow, your drinks just taste nicer. For one, they don’t taste like $11 of piss.

Youse… how do I put this! You’re able to galvanise prettiness into discounts and free stuff. And it works. I don’t fucking know how. I’ve witnessed the magic with a dropped jaw. Maybe it’s something to do with the fact that your servers aren’t under Damocles’ sword of tipping. Flirting in this country does the job of a voucher.

Youse don’t like Americans, do you. I get away here because I’m obviously not American, and to the passing ear I would pass more close to British than authentically Canadian because of my Indian accent (idk how either man, this is just what people tell me), but you are very acutely attuned to the stereotypes. You ever wonder if something is more of online heresay and that people don’t actually feel that way in the real world? It may be so with Canadians, I could mention most stereotypes about Canadians and Brits would be like, ‘huh, I didn’t know that’ (case in point, I said to a few today that Americans think of us first when they talk about weed, and they were like ‘huh. We just think of Amsterdam’). When it comes to the stereotypes about Americans, you know and will tell me every single one. Your friends are exceptions, they don’t disprove the rule.

Adding on to the point about niceness and stereotypes, you are surprisingly willing to travel long distances to meet friends. I’ve already had like four friends offer to travel fairly significant distances to see me while I’m here. I promise to reciprocate, obviously! People say all the time that Europeans don’t do well with the kind of distances North Americans are just used to because the continent is vast, and my bestest friend, a Londoner, is allergic to anything over 20 minutes to the point where I’ve just told her I’m coming to her house. I’ll sort travel, and we can sedate her if it gets longer than 20 (legally that is a joke). Perhaps you’ll grumble every minute of your 2.5-hour long trip, but if there is a train that goes, you will get on it.

Oddly, I’ve similarly had Americans be okay with driving out long distances to catch up. Canadians need to step up their game, holy fuck, I’ve had ‘friends’ in the same city who can’t be bothered to make a 15 minute trip, and this isn’t one or two people, over six years I’ve just noticed this is a Canadian thing. Yeah, we’re ‘nice’ but from a distance. Don’t ever come to our houses. Bye. Step up, Canadians. (My door is always open, I promise.)

You end your nights early. Here I thought we close down early.

The way you call Teslas ‘tezzies’ will actually kill the man dead. Keep up the good work.

[mrsbradshaw-seresin01]

First Year - Third Year

I hope you enjoy this story.  I do not own anything but my plot and ocs. Word count is 8,043 for this chapter. Enjoy.

(Gracelynn-Euphemia)

I sit on the train on the way to my first year at Hogwarts when a girl with brown hair and ice blue eyes comes in followed by a boy with blonde hair and sapphire blue eyes. I feel an instant connection with the two that I just don’t understand. The boy has an American accent when he asks me, “Can we sit here with you?”

“Sure, I suppose that would be alright,” I smile sweetly at the two.

The girl has a similar accent, “I’m Alexandria Kazansky, but you can call me Lex, I’m only Alexandria when I’m in trouble.”

“And I’m Ezekiel Kerner, but I prefer Zeke,” Zeke introduces himself.

I realize I haven’t had the chance yet to introduce myself, “Oh, I’m Gracelynn-Euphemia Potter.”

“Gracelynn-Euphemia? That’s a mouthful. You got a nickname?” Zeke asks.

I shake my head, “No, I’ve never been given one.”

“Well, if we’re gonna be friends, you’re gonna need one,” Lex says.

My eyes go wide, “You’d want to be my friend?”

“Of course we would and not just because you’re our soul sister,” Zeke assures.

Lex shrugs in agreement, “You seem cool enough, but if you don’t want to be friends with a couple of uncultured Americans like us… we’d understand.”

“I’d love to be friends with you guys! I’ve never had friends before,” I say. Something flashes across the duo’s faces but they’re back to smiling before I have too much time to decipher their look. They sit down across from me.

Zeke looks at me thoughtfully, “How about Gracie-Mia? You know Gracie from Gracelynn and Mia from Euphemia?”

“Uh,” I make a face at the name.

Lex rolls her eyes, “That nickname is ridiculous Zeke! I mean seriously!”

“I mean I do like them separately, just both together feels strange and don’t feel right,” I tell him.

Zeke nods, “Okay, then which do you like better Gracie or Mia?”

“I don’t know. What do you guys think?” I sigh in exasperation at myself. That shouldn’t have been such a hard thing to pick. Which nickname do I like better.

Lex studies me quietly for a moment before nodding, “I think Gracie fits you more.”

“Yeah, you do look like a Gracie,” Zeke agrees.

I beam at the two, “I like it.”

“Alright then, Gracie,” Lex says.

A red haired boy bursts into our compartment without knocking, which is quite rude of him. He barely looks at me before settling a glare at Lex and Zeke, “Ew, Alexandria! You are not at all who I was looking for!”

“Ew Ronald, I wouldn’t want to see you even if I was who you were looking for,” Lex glares back at him.

Ronald says, “Well have any of you seen Gracelynn-Euphemia Potter? She’s my best friend!”

“Do I know you?” I question, quirking a single brow.

Ronald looks at me with thinly veiled disgust, “No.”

“Then when did I supposedly agree to being your best friend?” I tilt my head a single brow still raised.

Ronald exhales, “You’re Gracelynn-Euphemia Potter?”

“I am. Who might you be?” I inquire.

Ronald says, “I’m Ron, Ron Weasley. If you’re Gracelynn-Euphemia Potter then what are you doing with my freak of a cousin and her equally freakish friend.”

“They aren’t freaks!” I see red at the mention of the insult that has been hurled at me for my entire life, “If anyone here is a freak it’s you! Claiming me as your best friend before even meeting me! That’s creepy! I wouldn’t be your friend even if we were the last two people on the planet.”

Ron spits venomously, “Then you’re just as much of a freak as they are!”

“Get out now,” I give him a death glare a sneer painting my lips.

Ronald leaves saying, “You’ll regret this Potter.”

After that and getting snacks from the trolley Lex, Zeke and I get to know each other on the rest of the train ride. 

~~~~

I stand beside Lex and Zeke with the rest of our fellow first years in the great hall awaiting our sorting. Now that the hat has sung his song I’m sure it’ll be soon. A man with white hair, twinkling blue eyes and a long beard stands from his spot at the head table, “I have a few start of term notices I wish to announce. The first years please note that the Dark Forest is strictly forbidden to all students. Also our caretaker, Mr. Filch, has asked me to remind you that the third floor corridor on the right hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a most painful death. Thank you.”

“Well, that was cheerful,” Lex whispers to Zeke and I. THe man I believe to be Headmaster Dumbledore sits back down in his frankly, throne like chair.

McGonagall holds a roll of parchment in her hands, “When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the sorting hat on your head, and you will be sorted into your houses… Granger, Hermione.”

The hat is sat on her head and after just a couple of seconds it says, “Gryffindor!”

“Draco Malfoy.”

“Slytherin!”

“Susan Bones.”

“Hufflepuff!”

“Ronald Weasley.”

“Gryffindor!”

“Alexandria Kazansky.”

“Slytherin!”

“Ezekiel Kerner.”

“Slytherin!”

“Gracelynn-Euphemia Potter.”

` I make my way up to the stool and sit down. The hat is placed on my head and speaks to me, “Hmm… difficult, very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. You value knowledge, both for power and the knowledge itself. There’s a talent, oh, yes. And a thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you?”

“Is that not your job? It is what you’re meant to do, no? I mean weren’t you made to do this? Are you not meant to know exactly where we belong?” I think at the hat rolling my eyes.

The hat responds, “Honestly, you’d fit in any house, but I’m sure you have some preference. Everyone seems to.”

“Well, I’d like not to be separated from the friends I made today,” I think.

The hat says, “Ah, young Miss Kazansky and Mr. Kerner. Slytherin would be great for you. They’d help you along the way to greatness! There’s no doubt about that!”

“Slytherin!” The hat finally shouts out loud.

 There’s shocked murmurs about me being a Slytherin and a hat stall. Alongside the shock is cheering coming from the Slytherin table. Through it all I hear Ronald shout, “No! She’s supposed to be in Gryffindor! What kind of rubbish is this?”

“Go sit with the other Slytherins, dear,” McGonagall urges.

I rush over and sit in between Lex and Zeke. Zeke leans over and says, “I’m glad we’re all in the same house, guys.”

“Me too,” Both Lex and I say at the same time. We burst out into giggles over that fact

~~~~

After dinner we are escorted down to our common room by the prefects. We stop in front of a bricked up archway. The female prefect says, “This is the entrance to the Slytherin common rooms. You’ll need the password to get in. the password is living death. Please don’t forget it.”

A doorway opens up to reveal a common room done up in green and silver.

“Now everyone gather right over there,” The male prefect points over to a group of green couches with enough seats for the handful of Slytherin first years. That being me, Lex, Zeke, Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Daphne Greengrass, Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle and Draco Malfoy.

We all take seats. Zeke, Lex and I on a couch together. Crabbe, Goyle and Malfoy on another and Zabini, Greengrass and Parkinson on the last. The female prefect says, “I’m Gemma Farley and this is Arian Rosier, we’re your sixth year prefects your seventh year prefects are Lucien Davies and Madeline Clearwater. Your fifth year prefects are Penelope Padgett and Jordan Padgett. You can ask any of us for help and we will help you. We’re Slytherins we stick together, more so than any of the other houses. It’s us against them. I wish it didn’t have to be that way but it is. They hate us. So we have to provide a united front. We cannot show weakness outside of these walls, the walls of our common room. If you have a problem with a fellow Slytherin it is to be taken care of in these walls. We are one house, a united front. You will each be assigned an older student as a buddy and a mentor. We have a list of Slytherins fifth-seventh years that have signed up as possible buddies. For the first month your buddy will be walking with you between classes, they will pick you up and drop you off at all classes and meals. After that they’ll still keep an eye on you but you’ll be given more room. You can ask your buddy or any prefect for help. Our head of house, Professor Snape will also be available to help any of his snakes. Now we will have your buddy assignments posted on that bulletin board over there in the morning. We may not be Ravenclaws, but you are expected to get the best grades of your abilities, there is no excuse for slacking. We do also have older students, again gift year - seventh year who have signed up to tutor fellow students who may be struggling. You’ll find sign up sheets on the bulletin board over there for each subjects tutoring as well. I’ll warn you now, unless you’ve been given permission here in Slytherin we call each other by our last names. Though titles may be dropped off as we are all in the same house. There are four to a dorm which means you’re looking at your roommates for the next seven years. I’d recommend trying to get along. Though there is an extra boy so Zabini you’ve been put in room B9 with some second year boys. Malfoy, Crabbe, Goyle and Kerner you’re in B10. Parkinson, Greengrass, Kazansky and Potter you’re in G4. Go ahead and get some sleep.”

~~~~

The next morning I wake up before the sun has even come up and I can’t get back to sleep. My ribs are throbbing from where Uncle Vernon beat me before dropping me at the train station. I decide that there’s no way I’ll be getting back to sleep so I just get dressed and ready for the day. I put on the white button up, knee length black skirt, long gray socks, Slytherin vest, black dress shoes and slytherin tie. After trying a few times to tie the evil thing they call a tie I decide to leave it untied for now and get help with it later. Once I get dressed I try to tame my wild curls with the old brush Aunt Petunia gave me just for that reason. I eventually get frustrated and give up. I grab my satchel which already holds my school supplies and sketching supplies in it and I head down to the common room.

When I get to the common room there’s nobody there quite yet. I sit down on one of the couches. I hold back a wince of pain as I do so. Pulling out my sketchbook and supplies I sit and sketch. It’s silent for about fifteen minutes, when I hear a voice with a light Irish accent, “You’re Potter, right?”

“Yes,” I look up. I feel what I now know as a soul sibling bond forming. There’s an older boy in front of me, large and intimidating, clearly all muscle. He has fluffy brown hair and chocolate brown eyes.

He says, “I’m your fifth year buddy and mentor. Marcus Flint, though, as my soul sister, I don’t mind you calling me by my first name.”

“You can call me Gracie, if you want, I know my first name is a bit of a mouthful,” I tell him.

He notices my tie, “Why isn’t your tie tied?”

“I don’t know how to tie a tie,” I admit sheepishly.

He leans forward into my space and I flinch back. As I do so, I wince in pain loudly. His eyes go wide and his voice soft, “Hey, I won’t hurt you, Gracie. I know I’m big and scary looking, but I promise, I will never hurt you.”

“I’m sorry,” I’m quick to apologize.

He says, “You don’t have to apologize, Gracie. You didn’t do anything wrong. You winced when you flinched, though. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, just jostled myself a bit too hard,” I say and sleepily don’t think before I continue, “It made my ribs hurt worse.”

Marcus seems to latch onto my slip up, “Ribs hurt worse? What’s wrong with your ribs?”

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He sets his jaw stubbornly, “What’s wrong with your ribs?”

“It’s fine. I just think they’re bruised, it’s not a big deal,” I insist.

He sighs, “I’ve been taking lessons under madam Pomfrey, the school mediwitch since third year. Will you let me take a look at your ribs?”

“I don’t know,” I whisper anxiously.

He exhales, “I can look at them, we can go to Professor Snape’s office and he can look at them, or we can go to the infirmary and Madam Pomfrey can look at them. I need to be sure you’re okay though.”

I don’t speak as I shrug off my robe and pull my vest and shirt up so he can get a good look at my ribs. I already know what he sees, the horrendous sight of my right side in shades of black, blue and purple completely covered from up under my armpit down to my hip. Marcus slowly reaches his hand out and presses on each of my ribs in succession. I wince every time, some causing more pain than the others.

“Who did this to you?” Marcus asks voice deathly calm, Irish accent thicker.

I lie as I’ve been trained to, my whole life, “I fell.”

“That’s a lie and we both know it. Who did this to you, Gracie?” Marcus presses.

I insist, “I fell down the stairs.”

“Wrong answer, Gracelynn-Euphemia, let’s try that one more time and I expect you to be honest with me. If you’re not honest I can do nothing to help you. Who did this to you?” Marcus’ voice is firm.

Tears well up in my eyes as I whisper into the stillness of the common room, “My uncle. My family hates anything and everything to do with magic… especially me.”

“There is never any excuse to hurt a child, not ever,” Marcus says barely contained rage simmering in his eyes, “We don’t have a choice anymore. We have to either go see Snape or Madam Pomfrey. I would recommend Madam Pomfrey, but she is required to report any signs of abuse directly to the headmaster and the ministry. I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing, but I know sometimes you can’t necessarily safely tell anyone about the abuse. Snape is also supposed to report it, but he knows what it’s like and won’t if you feel that reporting it would put yourself in more danger.”

I say, “If I have to go to an adult I’d rather go to Professor Snape, as it’s not safe if someone reports the abuse.”

Marcus lets out a long sigh before standing up, “Come on.”

I putu my robe back on and Marcus leads me out of the common room and down the hall to a door that he raps on. A man in dark robes with slick black hair and onyx eyes opens the door, “Flint? Potter? What’s going on?”

“Can we take this inside your office, Professor?” Marcus requests.

Professor Snape steps aside with a nod and as we walk through closes the door behind us. He explains, “My office has privacy wards on it. You can speak freely without worrying about anyone overhearing.”

I keep quiet out of instinct.

“She needs her ribs healed Professor. She has five broken ribs on her right side and the rest are bruised. Her entire right side is shades of black, blue and purple, sir,” Marcus informs him for me.

Professor Snape asks, “And how did you get in that state?”

“You need to tell him the truth,” Marcus tells me before I can even open my mouth to let out the lie.

I sigh, “My uncle beat me before we left for the train station.”

“How long has your uncle been abusing you, Potter?” Snape asks.

I might as well continue with this trend of honesty, “I can’t remember a time when he hasn’t.”

“Has it always been physical?” Professor Snape continues.

I nod, tears making their trek down my face, “Yes.”

“I’m assuming by the fact that you came to me instead of going to Madam Pomfrey that it isn’t safe if you report it,” Professor Snape observes.

I nod still crying.

He sighs, “Let’s get your ribs healed up then.”

He goes and grabs some things; a bottle of blood red liquid and a container that looks like it would hold some sort of cream. He sets them on his desk and motions for me to lift my shirt. I do so without much fanfare. He sets to work rubbing the thick, yellow paste on my side. He mentions that it’s bruise paste for the bruising.

He pours a bit of the blood red liquid into a vial and hands it to me, “Drink this, it’s a healing potion. That dosage should completely heal the broken ribs.”

I drink it and sure enough the pain in my ribs disappears entirely. I smile, “Thank you, Professor.”

“We can make a plan of escape for you just in case it is necessary one day,” Professor Snape says.

I nod, “I think that sounds like a good idea.”

“It is about 6:00 so breakfast won’t be served for about an hour,” Professor Snape says, “Would you like Flint to stay with you?”

My voice trembles, “Yes, please.”

“Okay,” Professor Snape says giving in without much of a problem.

We spend the next hour making a plan for if my situation gets bad enough, I have to leave my relatives’ house. I am to run to my bedroom, barricade myself in and write a letter to Marcus as soon as I am able. Then send it off with Hedwig, making sure she’s aware of it being urgent. I will then wait for Marcus and won’t unbarricade the door until I hear him. It shouldn’t be a problem, because of the fact that I am his soul sister, which in pureblood family makes me family, in all parts of the world magical and non-magical soul connections are sacred, especially in the wizarding world. Nobody will go against Marcus because of that, nobody except Dumbledore according to Snape. Marcus will likely bring with him his father or older brother and mother or older sister. Next, we’ll go to Gringotts to get an inheritance test in order to find possible living relatives for me to go to. Once we have that figured out we will figure out how to get me to said blood relatives. Depending on how close we are to start of term and how quickly we can get me to said relative I will stay with Marcus and his family at the family manor. The next step is once I’m safely away from the Dursley’s if said relative is a witch or wizard they will apply for full custody of me both magical and muggle. If they’re a muggle they’ll file for muggle custody of me and either Professor Snape or Lord Flint will apply for magical guardianship. I will then go live with my blood relative. Problem solved… hopefully.

~~~~

My first year goes pretty well. I make the Slytherin quidditch team because of Weasley’s stupidity when he decided to swipe the luck charm that Lex’s little brother made for her with help from their father to charm it while Coach Hooch went to take Neville to the infirmary. I was quicker to fly after him than she was when he took off with the string of beads with the sphere at the end and a clip on the other end. I caught the charm in front of Professor McGonagall’s office window where she and Snape were having a meeting. All of my soul siblings  were so proud of me for being the youngest seeker in a century,. I have five soul siblings. You know about Marcus, Lex and Zeke. There’s also Andrew Macmillan or Andy as I’ve been permitted to call him and Aurora - Rori - Avery

I stayed at Hogwarts over Christmas holiday. I got gifts for the first time ever, my soul family getting them for me. Marcus got me a set of silver hair sticks that turn into daggers if you say the word periculum and back into hair sticks if you say salus. Andy got me a beautiful white gold and ruby necklace with protection charms on  it. Rori got me a book on magical plants and their uses in potions. Lex got me a broom care kit. Finally Zeke got me a wand care kit, saying that with a wand like mine, any wand really but especially a custom one, I need to properly care for it. I also got a gift from an anonymous sender, an invisibility cloak, though none of my protective soul siblings would allow me to touch it. I had to get Professor Snape to check it over first, which was a good thing considering there were multiple compulsion charms and potions on it, which meant that Snape had to cleanse it before I was allowed to have it. He did - as he was handing it over - warn me that should anybody find me sneaking around, he would double whatever punishment I was given.

I ended up finding the Mirror of Erised one night by complete accident when I couldn’t sleep. I saw myself safe and happy with a big family.

I made friends with Marcus’ soulmate, Cadence Yaxley, though she didn’t like me much at first due to the fact that I am a muggle raised halfblood. That is until I asked her for classes on pureblood etiquette. I took said classes seriously and had them throughout the entire school year. We agreed that I would continue them until she finished Hogwarts in three years, her being a fourth year right now. Her roommate, Lydia Travers has similar curls to mine and taught me how to tame them and take care of them. Taming them into smooth curls makes my curls a lot easier to handle.

I somehow manage to get straight O’s in all of my classes, being the top of my class. I even beat out the Ravenclaws and the know-it-alls Granger and Malfoy.

I did end up having to spend the last  few days in the infirmary though, only managing to make it out in time for the end of term feast where Slytherin’s victory for the house cup was announced, with Gryffindor in dead last by a whole lot. I was in the infirmary because, Professor Quirell, who was hosting Voldemort on the back of his head made the poor decision to kidnap me. He took me so he could use me to get the Philosopher’s stone. I did, in fact, get the stone, killing Quirrell in the process, but he was trying to kill me, so I don’t feel bad about it in the slightest. I did learn that Marcus and Rori are the major mother hens of my soul siblings though.

I was absolutely miserable going back to my relatives. That summer was hell after the relief that was being away from them for the nine month school year. Let’s recap. I was largely ignored for most of the summer, due to my relatives fear that I would use magic on them and I was perfectly content with that. That is until a house elf by the name of Dobby decided that it was much too dangerous for me to return to Hogwarts. He had been keeping my mail from me, which I never did get back. He also used his magic to cover one of my uncle’s dinner guests with the pudding that aunt Petunia made. As soon as they left a letter appeared - a warning that the use of underage magic outside of school is strictly forbidden. Thanks to that lovely letter, bars got put on my bedroom window, locks on my door and a cat flap at the bottom. I was locked in there for about a week before Lex came and rescued me on her grandfather’s flying carpet. Lex got my things for me by picking the lock on the cupboard under the stairs, where Uncle Vernon had locked them away and we made our narrow escape back to Lord and Lady Prewett’s house. Both of them were so nice and insisted that I call them Gran and Gramps. I got lucky in the fact that Lex talked to her parents and got permission to spend the summers with Gran and Gramps until such a time that we didn’t need to be on high alert.

The only of my friends that are in the area are Lex, who is staying with her grandparents in a magical village just outside of london, Marcus who is at Flint Manor in Britain though they also have one in Ireland and Candace who is at Yaxley Manor in Britain. Zeke is in America with his family as he had no family to stay with here because of the fact that his mother’s family, the Malfoys,  stopped speaking to her because they aren’t approving of the fact her soulmate is a muggle and her son a halfblood. Rori is at the Avery manor in Scotland. Finally Andy is at the Macmillan Manor in Ireland.

My Hogwarts supply list for second year was sent along with Lex’s to Gran and Gramps’ house. We all went shopping together and had to deal with the absolute fraud that calls himself Lockheart.

~~~~

The barrier to the Hogwarts Express ended up not letting Lex, Gran, Gramps and I through. So, Lex and I missed the train. Gran and Gramps took us back to their house and flooed Professor Snape. He had us come through as the call was active. We ended up getting there before everyone else, giving us the perfect opportunity to go to our dorm and unpack. At the welcome feast we were swarmed by our soul siblings and Candace, who is quite close to the rest of our little group now. They were all worried sick when we didn’t show up on the platform or the train. We had to explain what happened. Lex broke her wand a week in to the school year and refused to write home to her dad and tell him.  I was hearing a voice through all of the school year, turns out I’m a parselmouth, which is kind of awesome. I’ve always been able to talk to snakes, I just didn’t know I was speaking another language or that it was so rare. I was marked the Heir of Slytherin, which caused everyone from all the other houses to avoid me like the plague. Well, except for Weasley, Weasley decided to continue to taunt me. Muggleborn students had been getting petrified throughout the whole school year. I ended up having to save baby Weasley, Lockheart obliviating himself in the process after Lex’s broken wand backfired on him. We got separated by rubble and while Lex tried to make a path I ended up destroying Tom Riddle’s Diary and killing the Basilisk. Luckily even with everything going on, I managed to get Os in all of my classes. Even though defense against the dark arts was taught by an idiot. We ended up having to do Lockhearts end of year exam, even though he was proven a fraud. I also kicked butt on the quidditch field all year. Once again I had to go back to my relatives. Aunt Marge ended up coming for a visit, I ended up shattering a glass when she insulted my father and then blowing her up like a balloon when she insulted my mother. Uncle Vernon looked about ready to murder me and instinctively, I knew, if he got his hands on me it would mean my death. I ended up rushing up to my room, making a barricade with the furniture and broken junk Dudley still throws in here. I use a book to break the lock on Hedwig’s cage and sent off a letter to Marcus, urging Hedwig to hurry. I curled myself up into the corner listening to Uncle Vernon rage outside the door, watching as it rattles with the force of Uncle Vernon trying to bust in.

~~~~

I am still curled up in the far corner when I hear Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice shriek, “We don’t want you freaks here!”

“Well, that’s just too bad, you see you made yourselves enough of a threat to my soul sister that she felt the need to get ahold of me,” I hear Marcus’ familiar Irish accent.

Uncle Vernon rages, “Get out of our house! What we decide to do with the freak is our business! Especially after what she did to Marge!”

“Brother, go get Heiress Potter,” I hear a man with a similar Irish accent to Marcus say, “Take mother with you.”

I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Marcus calls out, “Gracie! Where are you?”

I try to call out, but I’m frozen, heart pounding in my ears. I’m stuck, curled up in the corner of my room, no Dudley’s second bedroom. I get lucky though when I hear him at the door attempting to get in.

“This is definitely it, part of the plan was for her to barricade herself in,” Marcus explains to his mother, “Gracie, can you remove the barricade for me?”

A sob tears its way out of my throat. I hear a thick, but feminine Irish accent from the other side of the door, “Step back Marcus. Heiress Potter, I need you to get as far away from the door as possible. I’m going to have to blast it down and I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Mother?” Marcus sounds worried.

Lady Flint is firm, “It is the only way, Marcus. We have to get her out and she’s clearly not in a state to open the door.”

Now that they’ve started the sobs just won’t stop. They wrack my entire body.

“Bombarda,” Lady Flint’s voice is steady and calm as she casts. I hear the door explode sending the furniture on an inwards blast, thankfully missing me.

Marcus runs to me and scoops me up in his arms. I cling to him sobs still wracking my body. He just holds me to his chest.

Lady Flint’s voice is soft, “Where are your things?”

I shakily point to the wall behind Marcus and I, where a hidden door sits. Lady Flint finds it with little problem and pulls out my trunk.

“We have to go,” Marcus tells me.

I whimper, holding on tighter. He sighs and stands, swinging me into his arms bridal style. Lady Flint levitates my belongings behind us as we make our way down the stairs. Uncle Vernon bellows, “You bring her back you little freak. They won’t have you back at that freakish school of yours. You used magic.”

“Accidental magic, clearly,” The man I don’t know says, “She may be thirteen, but it is still possible in times of severe emotional distress. Which all it takes is one look at her to realize that’s what this is.”

I glare at Uncle Vernon, rage replacing the fear from the safety of Marcus’ arms, “She’s a horrid woman and she deserved what she got.”

“Come along Marcus, we must continue on,” the man says, “Even if we dampened the trace on the house. It will return again soon.”

Marcus carries me out of the house that has been my personal hell for the last thirteen years. Once we get to Flint Manor I am introduced to the family there. Lord Flavius Flint, Lady Josephina Flint, Heir Marcellus Flint and his pregnant wife, Leanna Flint. They’re a bit awkward around me, but it’s fine.

~~~~

One day into my stay I get my first ever period, which sucks majorly. What sucks more is that, that very night I wake up at midnight in agonizing pain, passing out almost immediately due to it. I finally wake up at 6:00 in the morning. I roll out of the bed and notice that the borrowed pajamas are tight in the butt and thighs and that the top part is hanging off of my chest. I feel something attached to my back, which is sore. My mouth and ears also hurt quite a bit. I ended up falling onto the floor. I groan and get up, walking to stand in front of the body length mirror. My eyes go wide as I gaze at what can’t be but has to be me. I am still quite short at 4’9, I have more of a hourglass figure with a flat, toned stomach, tiny waist, proportionate chest and a nice butt, all still within the bounds of a teen just one older than me. What shocks me even more so are the large gossamer wings, iridescent in color, shape reminding me of butterfly wings. I move my hair revealing my now pointed ears. Opening my mouth shows off new fangs developed on the top and bottom canines. After the initial shock wears off I let out an ear piercing scream. The curtains choose that moment to catch on fire, causing me to scream louder.

“Gracie are you okay?” Marcus questions from outside the door.

I hold the destroyed shirt to my chest, “Help!”

Marcus bursts in and seeing the fire, pulls his wand out casting a quick, “Aguamenti!”

Once the fire is put out Marcus turns toward where I stand my chest heaving, “What’s happening to me?”

“It would seem you’ve come into a creature inheritance, Gracie, that of a pixie, if I’m not mistaken,” Marcus informs.

I blink up at him, confused, “Like Rori?”

“Yes, Gracie, like Rori,” Marcus agrees.

I say, “Does this mean a whole new wardrobe?”

“I would say it does, sióg,” Marcus chuckles.

I tilt my head, “What does that mean?”

“What? Sióg? It directly translates from Irish as fairy, but it is used interchangeably for pixie,” Marcus explains, “It fits, don’t you think?”

I sigh fondly, “Today’s the day we go to Diagon Alley, right?”

“Yes, we have to get our school supplies,” Marcus says, “and it would seem, you a custom wardrobe. Can you retract your wings?”

I shrug, “I’m not sure how.”

“Alright, we’ll just cut holes in the back of one of my shirts for your wings,” Marcus says, “I’m going to go get mother and an outfit for you.”

I comment, “My hair’s a mess.”

“You can worry about your hair after we have you in clothes,” Marcus scolds.

I sigh in defeat, “I am going to need a pair of trousers as well, as it seems I’m curvier than your mother, if the way these pajamas fit is any sign.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to wear my clothes, sióg.” Marcus says the affectionate nickname, making me smile, “Well, look at those little fangs. Pixies absolutely adorable, but deadly. Fits you perfectly, Gracie.”

I huff, “I’d like some clothes that at least kind of fit, please.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Marcus chuckles on his way out of the room. A few moments later Lady Flint walks in followed by Marcus holding an outfit and sewing supplies.

Lady Flint says, “Well, Heiress Potter, you’ve had quite the eventful couple of days. You’re becoming a woman, plus going through an unexpected creature inheritance.”

“You can call me Gracie, if you’d like,” I tell her, “I’m still not quite used to the formality even with taking etiquette lessons with Candace. At least not when it’s aimed at me ma’am.”

Lady Flint smiles softly at me, “In that case I insist you call me Josephina, Gracie. You are my little Marcus’ soul sister, so you might as well be family.”

“Thank you Josephina,” I say, “The only clothes I have in my trunk are my school robes, so it’s not like I could use Dudley’s hand me downs.”

Josephina nods, “Of course, Gracie. Now, Marcus is going to have to measure your wings. I would do it, but that involves touching your wings, which is a very intimate thing. The only people who are permitted to touch any creatures wings are family by blood or by soul, licensed seamstresses or tailors, medical professionals and your soulmate. Those who aren’t your family or soulmate are required to wear gloves at any time they are to be touching your wings.”

Marcus sets the clothes and sewing kit down on a chair. He pulls out a measuring tape, walks over to me and stands behind me, “I need to touch your wings. Are you okay with that?”

“I trust you, Marcus,” I tell him. His knuckles lightly brush over my wings as he takes measurements, listing them off to Josephina. She gets the shirt ready. Once it’s ready she helps me to dress, Marcus leaving the room so I can have privacy. She puts a notice-me-not charm on me.

~~~~

The three of us, go into Diagon Alley. Our first stop being to Gringotts for an inheritance test. We walk into the bank and up to a teller. Josephina says, “Heiress Potter needs an inheritance test.”

“It would seem she does,” the goblin says looking at me, “Come right this way. It will be fifteen Galleons.”

We follow the goblin down a hallway into a back office. He pulls out a sheet of parchment and a ritualistic dagger. He motions for us to have a seat. Josephina does so and Marcus moves to stand behind the two chairs. I try to sit, but my wings are in the way no matter what I do. I stand pouting. Marcus lifts his arm in invitation and I take it immediately. Since I’ve found my soul siblings we’ve discovered that I am very much so starved for affection.

Marcus whispers to me, “No matter what that parchment says. You will always be Gracie.”

“In order to do the inheritance test we’ll need exactly six drops of blood on this parchment,” the goblin says.

I remember the many nasty ways blood can be used, “Where does my blood go after the test.”

“Clever girl. The blood on the parchment will turn to red ink,” the goblin explains, “The cut will heal as soon as the proper amount of blood hits the parchment. The rest of the blood outside of your body will incinerate so that it cannot be used against you.”

I take the offered dagger and slice into my palm. My blood drips down onto the parchment. Just as the goblin said the blood soaks into the parchment and begins to turn into the red ink and the remaining blood incinerates, my hand healing. I remain safely under Marcus’ arm as the parchment fills.

The goblin reads the parchment, “Gracelynn-Euphemia Aries Violet Potter. Mother: Aquila Walburga Potter(nee Black) AKA Lily June Potter(nee Evans). Father: Pete Duke Mitchell-Bradshaw(nee Mitchell), Nicolas Evan Mitchell-Bradshaw(nee Bradshaw), James Fleamont Potter(step). Sisters: Aurora Lyra Avery(soul), Alexandria Sophia Kazansky(soul), another name blurred out(soul). Brothers: Bradley Corey Bradshaw, Andrew Steven Macmillan(soul), Marcus Joseph Flint(soul), Ezekiel Jason Kerner(soul). Grandparents: Walburga Ophelia Black(maternal), Orion Jameson Black(maternal), Naomi Liza Mitchell(nee Grace)(paternal), Duke David Mitchell(paternal), Eloise Jane Bradshaw(nee Zavier)(paternal), Nathan Ivan Bradshaw(paternal). Aunts: N/A. Uncles: Sirius Orion Black(maternal), Regulus Arcturus Black(maternal). Titles: Heiress Potter, Scion Black. Soulmate: the name is blurred out meaning you’ve yet to meet them. Vaults: Potter Trust Vault, Potter Family Vault, Black Trust Vault. Properties: Potter Manor(Britain), Potter Manor(Ireland), Potter Manor(America), Godric’s Hallow Cottage. Creature Inheritances: Pixie(maternal; dormant until Gracelynn-Euphemia Aries Violet Potter).”

“James Potter is not my father? I have two fathers? How in the bloody hell is that possible?” I question.

The goblin answers calmly, “No, Heiress Potter. He was not. You do have two fathers and as for how that’s possible, if two men’s sperm hit the same witch’s egg within’ thirty minutes of one another both men’s DNA will be used to build the child’s DNA.”

“How am I still Heiress Potter then?” I ask trying to ignore the possible details of my conception.

The goblin says, “He named you his heiress the moment you were born.”

“And Petunia, Vernon and Dudley Dursley aren’t related to me? How did Petunia and Vernon get custody?” I continue on, blood boiling in my veins.

The goblin remains calm, “They are not and they should have never been given custody of you, but the Potter will was sealed before it could be read. Albus Dumbledore did so and managed to name himself magical guardian somehow giving you over to the Dursley family. The only way we could unseal it now is if your father requested us to do so.”

“Thank you,” I nod, “Please take the payment out of my vaults.”

The goblin nods. Josephina stands and leads Marcus and I out of the room. I withdraw funds from the Potter trust vault so I can get a new wardrobe and school supplies. We start at Madam Malkins to get my wardrobe both for school and in general. Then we go get our books and restock on potion ingredients. We finish our shopping and I pen a letter to my family and send it off with Hedwig, while Lord Flint pens a letter to my father and sends it off with a Flint family owl. This moment is the start to the rest of my life.

~~~~

(Pete)

Nick, Bradley and I are relaxing at home when I hear a sound I haven’t heard in years, the sound of owls tapping at the window.

Bradley asks, “What’s that? Are those owls?”

“Your Pops told us about the owls in the wizarding world, Gosling. They carry mail, remember?” Nick tells our son.

I nod, “Yeah, I haven’t gotten mail in years, though, not since technology has been replaced in the no-maj world with tech that allows magic to surround it without glitching out.”

“Well, maybe you should go open the window, honey,” Nick suggests pecking my lips, “See what it’s all about.”

I walk over to the window and open it. Two owls fly in, each with a letter. One a gorgeous snowy owl and the other an intimidating looking Eurasian eagle owl. The snowy owl holds a letter that looks more personal so I grab the other one first. I’d rather get the stuffier one over with first. Reading it gives me some shocking news.

“What is it honey? All the color has drained from your face. Are you alright Mav?” Nick asks me concerned.

I nod absently, “I’m just a bit shocked. This letter is from a Lord Flint. I have a daughter! A daughter, Goose! A little girl!”

“What? How? When?” Nick asks.

I look up at him my apple green eyes meeting his cognac eyes, “Yea. I’m sure you don’t need me to explain how babies are made and she’s thirteen.”

“I know when and who got pregnant then, because that was after we were married, she’d have to be older than Brad if it wasn’t. Remember, the deployment in Britain? We went to that bar? There was this gorgeous redhead by the name of Aquila Black. We went back to our housing and had a threesome…” Nick trails off.

Bradley protests, “Gross! Dad! I do not need to know what you and Pops get up to!”

“Well, apparently it gave you a little sister, so don’t complain too much,” I taunt.

Bradley rolls his eyes, “Well, I have wanted a younger sibling for forever now. Are we going to meet her?”

“And this has officially turned into a family meeting about just that,” I say my face dropping as I realize that this is not the entirely happy occasion I wish it could be.

Nick picks up on this, “What’s wrong honey?”

“She is with Lord Flint because the people she was living with have been severely abusing her for years. It has gotten bad enough that she though they were going to kill her. The discussion is whether you’re okay with her coming to live with us, becoming a part of our family,” I reveal.

Nick grabs my shaking hand, “There’s no question about it, Mav. She’s your daughter. That makes her family. She needs us and we’re going to give her all of the love, care and affection she needs. Whether she’s my soul daughter like Brad’s your soul son or not I will love her unconditionally, because she’s a piece of you.”

“Pops, I’ve always wanted a younger sibling and I want her safe, she’s already a part of this family, even if we haven’t met her yet,” Bradley agrees, “Bring her home.”

I say, “She goes to Hogwarts and term starts soon, so we’ll have t wait until next summer Brad, but she should be here when you’re on break from the academy. I’m gonna read the letter from her now.”

I rip open the other envelope and read it. She’s clearly nervous and excited through the entire letter. It’s sweet.

“Oh my god,” I gasp.

Nick questions, “What?”

“Well, Lord Flint forgot to mention that she’s biologically both of our daughter as well as Aquila’s,” I tell him.

Nick questions, “That’s possible?”

“Yes it is and based on her description of herself she got the Bradshaw’s wild untamable curls,” I tell him, “plus my apple green eyes. She did ask us a few questions. I was thinking maybe this time we should write back with just one letter, so we don’t overwhelm her. I do need to write back to Lord Flint as well.”

I write Lord Flint first and send it off with the Eurasian eagle owl. I hae Nick and Bradley reading the letter from Gracie while I take care of that. Then I sit down and write my portion of the letter before we send it off with Hedwig.

~~~~

(Gracelynn-Euphemia)

A couple days before start of term Lord Flint informs me that my fathers have decided that they would like for me to come and live with them. Hedwig also brought me a letter I rip it open and eagerly read it. The letter is broken down into three letters one from my Pops, Pete, my Dad, Nick and my big brother Bradley. I love them already and I’ve only gotten a single letter from them.

Third year was weird. Sirius Black escaped Azkaban. According to the Flints who while being neutral were in contact with death eaters who were very open about how the Ministry was stupid enough to put an innocent man in Azkaban. During my third year I was not allowed to go to Hogsmeade as I didn’t get my slip signed before I fled the Dursleys. I did, however, end up swiping the Marauders map from the Weasley twins. We shouldn’t get into how I know about the Marauders map, it’s a complicated thing that doesn’t really matter. I ended up helping Sirius escape, giving him a place to hide where the manipulative old crook couldn’t get to him. I sent Remus with him as well. I did end up losing the rat that calls himself Pettigrew. Once again I managed straight Os. That’s even with my taking Astronomy, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Herbology, History of Magic, Potions, Transfigurations, Arithmancy, Care of Magical Creatures, Divination, Muggle Studies, and Study of Ancient Runes. I took twelve classes and got Os in every single one of them.

That’s the end of the prologue. I hope you enjoyed this part. I also really hope you’ll come for the first chapter. I realize the prologue is incredibly long, I even took out the written letters to make it shorter. I hope you love this story as much as I loved writing it. I wanted to get everything for years one - three done so we were all on the same page. Formatting will be better as I go on. This is just a lot of words to edit. Grammar and such will also get better. Again the prologue was a lot to edit. ~thegirlnerd67~

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[ambiguouspuzuma]

Type 3

As requested by @sleepyowlwrites, here's a little prequel to this story:

There are three permanent types of diabetes, he remembered from his training. The first you're born with, and have to manage using insulin. The second you pick up during your life, and can sometimes manage with changes to diet and exercise, or other medication. The third you contract upon your death. There's nothing you can do about that.

Dr Theodore 'Ted' Spong was a good-humoured man. As parish physician, he had to be. People only came to him with complaints, and he couldn't very well meet them with his own; if he had any grumbles or gripes, he'd long since learnt to tuck them away, like the good brandy he kept in a cabinet back home. He largely worked in the public eye, but some things were best mulled over in his own time.

He hadn't grown up in the sticks, but he liked it here. Outside of surgery hours, he enjoyed long walks across the moors, taking in the beauty of the mist-soaked landscape; within them, he met a range of fascinating characters, the sort of people you never got to meet in the city, each with their own idiosyncrasies and health complaints. He'd come across conditions he'd only read about, and patients who'd never learnt to read.

The people here led simple lives, divorced from the innovation and progress that drowned the city in smoke, but that meant his job had been anything but. They could be credulous at times, and a large part of his time was spent championing science over superstition, miracle cures and folk remedies. Unfortunately, they now had a champion as well.

There was a new doctor in town, by the name of Madame Silja, and she was undoing all of his hard work. To call her a doctor was a courtesy, for she had clearly never studied for a licence as he had, or read any book of medicine less than a century old. She was driving his parish backwards, towards the dark ages of draining bad humours away, although he never saw her wading for leeches on his walks. In fact, he'd barely seen her at all, until the night she showed up at his surgery door.

"I feel unwell," Silja said. She looked it, too. Her face was gaunt and drained, her body likewise emaciated underneath her clothes, visible even in the gloom. This was a woman at death's door as much as his.

Ted fought the temptation to gloat. Oh, and the leeches didn't hit the spot? Come crawling for some proper medicine, have we? That wouldn't be right. Nemesis or not, this woman lived in the parish, and that made her his patient. He was a good natured man, and a physician first of all. If he was to bring her out into the light, the best way would be to lead by example.

"What are your symptoms?" he asked, ushering her inside. She stood uncertain in the doorway, perhaps also having second thoughts about coming to him for help, but there was no time to lose. "Please, come in."

"I feel... tired," she told him, collapsing on a proffered armchair. The cushion barely sank under her weight.

"You're losing weight?"

Silja nodded. "I'm losing my appetite. But in its place there's this incessant thirst, a void no amount of water seems to sate."

"Any changes to your mood? Feeling suddenly irritable?

"What do you think?" she snapped. "I've just told you I'm thirsty all the time. Yes, it's irritating. Have you ever had an itch that you can't scratch?"

Ted usually told his patients not to scratch any itch, but he kept quiet and let her settle down. Madame Silja seemed so frail, but there was still something threatening about her - something unsettling and strange. It was a tingle at the back of his neck, like something primal, but he forced it down again. He wouldn't scratch that itch either.

He had no room for prejudice in his work, nor outside of it, and that was probably all this was. He didn't often see people with her kind of ancestry, not since he'd left the city. Whatever ancestry that was. Her skin was dark, although it seemed that it had since grown paler. She reminded him of a colleague from his studies, an Ottoman doctor by the name of Şefik. Was her name similar? Perhaps he could try to build a bridge between them.

"Tell me - you wouldn't happen to have any Turkish blood in you, by any chance?"

"Oh, I dare say I might," Silja replied. The question had served its purpose, for she flashed a smile for the first time, but Ted found himself more unsettled than ever. "Why do you ask? Is it something to do with my illness?"

"No, no, I was just curious," he said, increasingly nervous. "I know it isn't my place to guess, but I thought I'd take a stab in the dark."

"I'm not a fan of those, as a rule," she said. "But thank you for taking an interest. My patients are... rarely conversational. I don't often get to talk about myself. Do you find the same? Do you live nearby?"

"The good news is that I think I recognise your symptoms." Ted moved back onto steadier ground. "Although I'll need to take a blood sample."

"Oh, of course."

"For testing," he clarified. Anxiety or not, he wouldn't tolerate any of that nonsense here, in his temple of modern medicine. "Then we'll move on to treatment."

It was diabetes, he was sure, but he didn't know which strand. Was this a late diagnosis of type one? She didn't look much like a typical case for type two. There were others, he knew: gestational diabetes, picked up in pregnancy to meet the additional demands on the body. Perhaps it was something like that. A change, as if the whole body was gestating, metamorphosing into something... no, there was no medical basis for that. What was he saying?

"You might need to start taking medicine," he told her. "But mostly I suspect you'll need to make some changes to your diet."

"That's fine by me," she said, flashing another awful smile. "I'd figured that part out myself."

[doctorstethoscope]

Tis the Damn Season

hiii besties! I haven't been posting as much will/mac content on here because there's less of an appetite for it, but I am really proud of this one and wanted to share <3. Merry Christmas, here's a thanksgiving fic. everyone say ty @hotchs-bitch for betaing

18+ content, minors DNI

contains: angst, sad sex, taylor swift references

wordcount: 2.2k

Mackenzie’s abdomen smarts as she stands outside the door of Will’s apartment. Or, at least, she hopes it’s still Will’s apartment. 

She rubs at the tender spot, and even though she knows exactly why she’s hurting, she’s still surprised to find the skin there puckered, jagged against her fingertips, sewn back together. She wonders if she’ll ever get used to that. She wonders if any of this will ever be okay. 

The door swings open and the discomfort in her stomach suddenly doubles– pain and anxiety mingling together in a terrible sort of aching waltz. She’s holding her breath. He’s really there. 

“Will,” she breathes out, mostly to convince herself that this isn’t another iteration of the dream she’s been having since the last time she crossed the threshold of this apartment.

“Mackenzie,” Will says, and he sounds more sure than she does. Surprised, yes, and with no notes of warmth; she hadn’t expected any. But there was a lack of the coldness she had been expecting, too.

“Can I come in?” She asks, and Will can see in her face that she has no expectation that he’ll say yes. Even after all this time. Even after she almost died. He steps to the side and lets her in.

“What are you doing here?” He asks, not unkindly, as he follows her to his kitchen, where she sits uneasily in a barstool. 

“I wanted to come home for the holidays,” she tells him, looking down at her folded hands in her lap to avoid his gaze. She says it like he should know, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like she wasn’t in critical condition in a military hospital a month ago. 

“I thought you were home. With your parents, in London,” he says, leaning back against the countertop on the other side of the kitchen, letting the island separate them. He can feel the tension rolling throughout the gulf of space.

She thanks her training from reporting in Afghanistan and Pakistan for the fact that her eyebrows don’t jump to her hairline; he’d been keeping tabs on her. He knew what had happened. Maybe he cared– he cared enough to Google her every once in a while, at least. Or maybe she– what had happened to her, she corrects herself. She is not her stabbing, her hospitalization, and her subsequent firing– maybe what had happened to her had shown up in a news alert, ended up in a pitch meeting or a rundown. She didn’t make it to his broadcast, she knew that much. He allowed her that piece of dignity. Or he didn’t care enough to think it reportable. 

“I’m American,” she reminds him. 

“I didn’t mean to imply—”

She knows. He was always the first person to defend her stateship when people would poke fun at her accent. “Brits don’t celebrate Thanksgiving,” she tells him plainly.

“No, they don’t,” he sighs. 

“Will—”

“Why are you here?” He asks, more urgently this time.

“Well, I kind of just booked a flight. And I was going to go to Molly’s, but she’s gone to her family’s in Maryland for the holiday, and—”

“You’re rambling.” Will cuts her off. She doesn’t say anything else. “Tell me you didn’t come here because you think the magic of Christmas is going to fix anything between us,” he snarls.  

“I don’t think that. I’m not stupid,” she defends. 

“I still don’t know why you came here.” 

“I don’t know if I can explain it, either,” she admits.

“Listen, Mac, I’m really not—”

“I know that nothing’s fixed. I know that,” she interrupts, desperate to say something, anything of value before he kicks her out.  “But I just… I came close to dying and I hated the thought that I’d die and the last time I saw you… would have been the last time I saw you. And that’s selfish. But you get to be a little selfish after you get stabbed,” she makes a feeble attempt at a joke.

“You got to be a little selfish before you went and got stabbed, too,” Will huffs.

“I deserved that,” Mac shrugs. 

Will’s head picks up at that. “No,” he disagrees. “Seeing as how we’ve passed the stone ages, I don’t think the penance for infidelity is a rusted knife to the kidney.”

“Just missed my kidney, actually,” Mac lets out a humorless noise, somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh. “I meant– I meant the comment,” Mac stammers. “But sometimes I’m pretty sure I deserved all of it.”

“Mac,” he sighs. 

“You don’t have to forgive me,” Mackenzie insists, jumping in the middle of his thought again. “You don’t have to forgive me, and I know that you probably never will. But can you pretend for one night? Can we just… turn back the clock? To before I fucked everything up?” She begs. “I’ll never bother you again. I’ll go back. There’ll be an ocean between us. You won’t hear from me.”  

“Back to London?” He asks, making sure she doesn’t mean Pakistan.

‘Yeah,” she sighs. “Some literary agent that my dad knows out there thinks I can write a book about what happ– about what I saw,” she spits out.

Will straightens out, pushes off the counter and takes quick, purposeful steps towards Mackenzie, reaching him with his hands first– one in her hair and the other cradling her cheek as he angles her jaw upwards to kiss her. She reacts in kind, bringing one hand to his back as she steps out of the chair without separating from him. 

If they were truly turning back the clock, they would be louder. Mackenzie was always particularly vocal, but she says nothing as Will wraps his arms around her waist and draws her in closer, pressing hot, wet kisses to her mouth and her jaw and her neck, peppering in forceful little jabs of his teeth against the tender flesh beneath him. She’s tense, worrying that one wrong sound or movement will make Will realize what he’s doing and kick her out. 

Mack’s still wearing her coat, Will realizes as he feels her fingernails scrape down his back in the way that’s always driven him crazy. It’s not fair, he was practically in his pajamas, and she’s fully dressed. He can’t get enough of her, not like this. He paws clumsily at the buttons of her peacoat until she helps him along, pushing the coat to the ground, and her scarf with it. The sweater she’s wearing underneath exposes a new bit of skin around her collarbone and her chest and he leans back in to press kisses there as well. She drags her fingernails over his scalp and he can’t help but groan. 

“Bedroom,” he mutters, with no intention of stopping; he’s just trying to get her to comply as he starts to move them in that direction. 

She can feel him growing harder against her hip and she snakes her hand in between them to palm at him.

“Don’t tease,” he grunts as he opens the door to the bedroom, guiding her to the mattress and letting her collide into it, falling backwards towards the pillows. 

Mackenzie props herself on her elbows as Will climbs over her, reaching for the button of his pants as she does so. She has half a mind to slink off the mattress and take him in her mouth, but he always liked to watch, and she worries he might realize he still hates her if he looks at her for too long. She tosses his jeans across the room and tries to throw the thought with them.

Will pulls at the hem of Mackenzie’s sweater, leaving her in her bra, prone on the mattress– he looks over the expanse of her, the dip of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. He’s struck by the scar. He should have known, he did know, logically, but, then again, it wasn’t exactly his logical brain that was working right about now. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Will implores Mac, looking her in the eye for the first time all evening. 

She shifts her eyes away from him nervously– it hurts too much, to be seen by him now, like this. “It’s healed. You won’t– you won’t hurt me, it won’t reopen.”

“It doesn’t look healed,” he remarks dubiously, tracing a featherlight finger over it; she can’t feel it anyways, the trauma had done too much damage to the nerves in that area.

“Yeah, well, Pakistani extremists don’t care much for clean margins,” she snaps back. “It will get better over time. Supposedly. That’s what the doctors say, anyway,” she adds more gently.

Will doesn’t say anything, doesn’t take the bait of her bid for an argument, just bites his lip as he reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, tossing it aside and continuing to mouth at her chest, bringing a hand up to brush over her sensitive nipples, causing them to stiffen. Mac arches her back at the contact, rubbing against Will deliciously. The contact reminds him that she’s still wearing her pants and he works hastily to remove them. As if on instinct, he slots his knee in between her thighs once he’s gotten rid of them, and grabs a hold of her hips to roll her roughly over the muscle there. She gasps out, and he smiles. “There she is,” he whispers, more to himself than to her. “I still make you feel good. So good you can’t deny it,” he insists as she rocks herself against him, feeling the burn of pleasure spread throughout her chest. “So good you can’t keep quiet.”

“Shit, Billy,” she whimpers as she grinds down against him, leaning against his chest to nip at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. 

The nickname does him in. He takes the waistband of her panties in his hands at each hip and drags them down her legs, tantalizingly slowly, kissing and licking and sucking harshly at each inch of leg as he passes over them. Once they’re around her ankles, he tosses them aside for later, stretching back to place himself at the apex of her thighs and diving in. 

Mack’s body writhes from the sensation, and Will brings a hand up to her hip, holding her in place as he mouths her, his tongue teasing her most sensitive parts in the way she always loved. She thinks she may actually die here, in his bed, that he’ll bring her to orgasm like this and her heart will give out and she actually won’t mind, because she died deluding herself into thinking that the man she loved might just love her back, in spite of everything. Her fingers curl in the sheets as she prepares herself to go. 

The world stops for a moment when he brings her to orgasm. She cries out, and it almost sounds like it’s coming from someone else; It’s not unlike being stabbed, the knowledge that something has happened, that something has changed you irrevocably, without the ability to realize logically what it is yet. After a moment she notices that she’s still breathing, that she hasn’t died, that she’s still in his bed. She reaches for his hand and he lets her take it, squeezing it as he comes to tower over her. 

“D’you need a minute?” He whispers in her ear, and she shakes her head, reaching to pull his t-shirt off of him. 

“No. Please, Billy,” she begs, reaching between their bodies to guide him inside her, but finding his boxers in the way. She shoves them past his hips and he helps her remove them the rest of the way. 

He sinks inside her and she throws her head back, arching her back and trying to take impossibly more of him. She touches him everywhere– stroking his back, kissing his chest, combing through his hair, hooking a leg around his hip. Her teeth sink down into his chest as she muffles a groan of pleasure, and he lets out a sharp exhale that nearly brings her to the edge all over again. She does everything she can to be closer to him, to meet him thrust for thrust, to hold as much of his body as she can while she still has the privilege. She presses a kiss to the space below his ear before taking the lobe in her mouth and biting down gently. 

“You first, Billy. I want you to go first,” she whispers, and he sputters, clearly affected by her words.

“Keep talking,” he implores her. 

She panics– what could she possibly say to him? “You made me feel so good, Billy,” she starts, somewhat tentative. “It’s your turn. It’s your turn to feel good,” she tells him, and she can feel him getting closer and closer to the edge as she does so. She wants so badly to make this happen for him. “Go ahead, Billy. I love you,” she confesses without thinking, and he tumbles over the edge, taking her along with him as he ruts into her desperately. He rolls off of her and the two of them are silent for a few moments, save for the heaving breaths they each are taking.

“Mac,” Will starts.

“I won’t be here when you wake up,” Mac tells him. 

He grimaces, although she’s not looking at him to see. She can’t risk looking at him now. ‘Thank you.”