#teeth replacement kirkland

[shachaai]

This comes by the way of two dares (Hetalia a/b/o and filing serial numbers off of things) meeting a very loving threat I made to Hoof a while ago. It’s a teaser? Tester? A bit of fun? The first chapter from fic from another fandom.

Won’t be your cup of tea if you’re not into the kind of artistic horror Hannibal provides (or not old enough to watch that show). Read at your own risk.

No insult is meant to any country/nationality by the character assignments/roles; I just picked personalities I thought might be closest to my original portrayals.

You are made of flesh and nerve and thought, of heart and love and wonder and grief, as I am. - Jeanann Verlee, For the Woman Who Loved the Predator More Than His Prey

But it is better to dissect than abstract nature… - Francis Bacon, Novum Organum

*****

Arthur Kirkland’s lecture hall is dark, its only true light the bare bald glare of the projector screen on his back. It reflects back on the eyes of his attentive students in the audience: on the white sclera, on the thin glowing rings of alpha red and omega gold. On the occasional flash of fangs when lips part and teeth chew down on lips, shadowy heads bending over the desks in front of them to type or scribble notes.

Arthur, front of room and frowning against a headache that is determined to rise even in a room hush with learning, leans back against his desk and resists the temptation to reach up and knuckle at his eyes. Monday afternoons drag on for everyone, and, if Arthur yields too visibly to his own tiredness, many of his students will take his cue and switch off to follow suit.

“Opisthokonta,” he declaims instead, pausing momentarily for the clicks of pens and keys to find themselves a new line. (Or the spelling.) A percussive response, mentally filed away as rote by the time Arthur has gotten to this, his third identical lecture of the day. “The large supergroup of eukaryotes - that would be organisms whose cells contain a nucleus - which includes both the animal and fungal kingdoms.”

Arthur taps a button on the projector remote in his hand, patient against the reactive flinch that goes through his audience as the screen behind him switches from plain white to the - primarily - black, intricate branches of a phylogenetic tree. “If we, humans - not-so-proud members of the biological kingdom Animalia, if anyone was in doubt -, trace back far enough on the genetic family tree, we discover our distant cousins in the Holomycota clade down the street: fungi, and those eukaryotes liker to fungi than animals.”

No pointing out of the relevant branches on the diagram is required; Arthur had highlighted Opisthokonta, Animalia and Holomycota in red on the tree before uploading his presentation.

Another tap of the remote, and the phylogenetic tree is replaced with a blare of technicolour: a photograph of a killer, and one familiar to Arthur’s class of FBI trainees at that. Another reactive flinch goes through Arthur’s students  - less pronounced than before as their eyes adapt -, the mingled scents drifting in the currents of the room sharpening with recognition.

One Berwald Oxenstierna, recently apprehended, stares out stoically from the projector screen, the look in his frozen eyes as strained as the smile failing to stretch his lips. The media had given the beta man many names when the details of his crimes had finally come to light - the Gardener, the Mushroom Man - and used just as many different candid shots as they could get of him, but Arthur, unwilling to slap garish and distracting headlines into his presentation, had snagged the photograph on Oxenstierna’s last work ID - now stored in Evidence - to use instead.

(It’s a terrible photo with the light reflecting blankly off of Oxenstierna’s glasses, and something small and cruel and petty in Arthur had picked it almost precisely for that reason.)

Arthur raises one hand, gesturing to the screen behind him and feeling each button on the sleeve beneath his blazer press firmly to his wrist. (The cuffs on omega sleeves are unforgiving bastards.) “Berwald Oxenstierna was interested in a family reunion. He used his position as a pharmacist to tamper with his victims’ medications, inducing diabetic comas in seven men and women of mixed dynamics before planting them in the ground. Still - however temporarily - alive, but highly unlikely to ever regain consciousness. Fertiliser.”

Tap. Pause. Tap. Pause. Tap. Arthur cycles through the crime scene photographs taken of Oxenstierna’s ‘garden’, waiting briefly between one image and the next to give his students time to absorb both the layout of the scene and what it might infer. The seven graves all in a row, and the gradual - and thoroughly documented - excavation of each. The decaying, fungi-ridden bodies of six of the victims in the arms of the on-scene emergency medical technicians: organisms raised from the earth more humanoid than recognisably human. The quickly-snapped shot of the - at that point - still-living victim being wheeled towards an ambulance.

In the blanketing darkness of the lecture hall, someone audibly gags.

Arthur ignores them. The trainees will need strong stomachs if they hope to work in the field one day, and a few crime scene photographs is the very least they should be able to handle. (Crime scene photographs do not, yet, communicate smell.) “Decomposition was enthusiastically encouraged. The victims were all buried in high-nutrient compost and fed intravenously with a regular supply of dextrose, advancing both the growth of the local fungi and the gradual decline of the victims’ endocrine systems.

“Despite what you may immediately assume from these photographs, for Berwald Oxenstierna’s seven victims, death, eventually, came by way of kidney failure. Something almost entirely incidental to their killer’s greater vision.”

A new gust of air disturbs the room: the door to the lecture hall opposite Arthur’s desk has opened, and a familiar bulky silhouette slipped inside. Content for now, it seems, to loiter in the doorway with shoulders broad and grim. Blocking the exit.

Arthur’s headache picks up another irritable notch as glowing alpha eyes meet his own across the room, a slow and steady thud in his skull sounding in pace with his heart.

Arthur raises his chin and turns his gaze deliberately to sweep across his students instead, a challenge to the class. Someone needs to make sure the next generation of FBI agents can actually rub two brain cells together. “To Oxenstierna, the point was not that his victims died. His goal was evolution: for the fungi to grow, for his victims to join the vast, intelligent mycelial networks that can stretch for miles under the surface of the earth. Crossing the boundaries that occur naturally between organisms in life. And death.

“If you walk into a field of mycelium, they know you are there. They respond to your presence. They communicate.” Arthur switches back to the presentation slide using Oxenstierna’s work ID, the sombre visage of the killer behind Arthur matching his own flat glare out at the room around them. “Berwald Oxenstierna viewed his own actions as helping others to communicate - with nature, with each other, and with themselves. Connecting individuals into a greater whole. He was caught only because others finally stumbled onto his garden and because, after the FBI rescued his eighth victim before she could be planted in a new location, he was desperate to communicate with others himself.”

Such a pity certain people (an invasive species whose greatest attribute, if gossip is to be believed, is their ability to extract information in the bedroom) had decided to help Oxenstierna with that mission.

“To that end, the attempted abduction of a comatose patient from John Hopkins Hospital was Oxenstierna’s last bid for understanding from others before being caught. Rather than attempting to escape, he chose to make what amounts to a personal plea for empathy.” To Arthur. “To feel as he feels. To see as he sees.”

In another world, at another time, by a different method, Arthur might have listened to Oxenstierna’s entreaty. In this world, however, Oxenstierna had chosen the still comatose and incredibly vulnerable form of Madeline Williams to try and deliver his message: not a step but a whole leap beyond the pale for those already pricked in tender places by the abuse of innocents. Arthur ever-vigilant now of sleeping defenceless daughters. He had saved Madeline once from her obsessive killer father; he’d be damned if he let the likes of a fungi-focused wallflower take her before she even woke up into her new life free of her father’s chains. 

Arthur’s fingers still itch now, twitch, at the memory of that day in the hospital basement. Of Madeline’s hair spread like a long golden fan on starchy hospital pillows, and Oxenstierna clutching at his own shoulder, bleeding on the floor. The beta man’s pallor curdling like spoilt milk.

(What would have happened in a world where Arthur was a better shot?)

Arthur’s tongue flicks out briefly over his dry lips, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat between his brows. “The desire for understanding is a dangerous thing. Luckily for us, however,” another slow pass of Arthur’s gaze across his class, the darkness that renders one student almost indistinguishable from the next, “it is often the way we catch the supposedly uncatchable.”

The lecture concludes not long after that, Berwald Oxenstierna’s crimes only the tail-end of a much longer lesson, and the yellowed lights of the lecture hall buzz back to life overhead. The students blink back into animation with them, and cobwebbed dreams of blood and shadows flee away.

Arthur talks briefly through his students’ next assignment before everyone starts gathering up their belongings - and pointedly reminds the two hopefully querying hands raised in the audience of his office hours. Class is dismissed a few minutes shy of the Academy bell, and the tide of students streaming out of the lecture hall is a cacophony after the almost reverent hush before.

The silhouette by the door is a silhouette no more. Ludwig Beilschidt, head of the BAU, had stepped to the side to allow Arthur’s students to pass him by but now, as the last of the stragglers make their way out of the room, approaches Arthur’s desk, his hands lax in his pockets with a studied casualness: affability that doesn’t quite ring sincere when Ludwig’s shoulders are so stiff.

Arthur is rapidly becoming versant with what that stance means when it is adopted by Ludwig Beilschidt, of the warmer and bread-and-chocolatey notes of Ludwig’s alpha scent when the man hopes to be cajoling. Cedar and yeast: similar but distant to the woods that surround the Wolf Trap refuge Arthur calls home, life and death and the cycle of decomposition as the leaves are falling. Let’s not vex the moody omega before he performs his party trick.

“Do you think they followed?” Ludwig asks in lieu of a greeting, making no pretence that they both don’t know that Arthur had long since observed him by the door.

Arthur keeps his head low but neck covered as he continues packing away his belongings: prey behaviour, hoping to be left alone. “I’ll let you know once I’ve graded their essays.”

Ludwig waits patiently, solid and immovable with his weight on his heels. Ever hoping for word of a new FBI Wunderkind.

Alas, to only have disappointment to provide.

Arthur sighs through his nose, shoving the last folder into his satchel with a little more force than may be strictly necessary. “A few of them still mistake understanding with condonement.”

“That sounds like an issue with objectivity in the field.”

“That what you’ve come looking for?” Arthur asks dryly, lifting his eyes to Ludwig’s chin. They both know this isn’t a social visit, for all Ludwig had the courtesy to wait until the end of Arthur’s class. Ludwig’s suit is still too sharp, not a strand of his blond hair out of place. “Objectivity?”

Ludwig nods, shameless about it. “And your particular type of understanding. Arthur, we have a new case in Ohio. Three are dead on-scene. The flight leaves shortly and I would like you to ride along, tell us what you see.”

“What, now?” Arthur baulks, seeing the immediate confirmation in Ludwig’s expression. Though his lectures might be over for the day, Arthur has other obligations. “No can do.” He finishes buckling the straps of his satchel closed, already shaking his head to Ludwig’s next protest as he knots a brown scarf around his nigh-bare neck. “My babysitter doesn’t work Mondays.”

Ludwig huffs sharply through his nose, his scent turning to something exasperated, peppery and hot on the tip of Arthur’s tongue like burnt coffee. Arthur prefers tea but is growing unfortunately familiar with the taste of caffeine served this way - though Ludwig at least, still, has the decency to keep the heat of his disapproval on Arthur’s face rather than on the obviously unmarked slope of Arthur’s neck that Arthur’s scarf fails to conceal. If you won’t talk to your family, you should at least have a mate to take care of this.

It’s easy enough for a mated alpha with no children of their own to pass comment. Alphas with absolutely none of the manners their mothers ever taught them pass judgement with their eyes long before the stereotypical bullshit comes tumbling out of their mouths, and there are plenty that have something to say about an omega being unmated at Arthur’s age, no claiming bite or collar on his throat, especially when that selfsame omega is newly a mother.

Ludwig would have an easier time of getting his way with things if Arthur had a mate or family he actually tolerated to drop his baby off with - but, oh, woe, tragedy indeed, Arthur’s private life and personal decisions fail to revolve around Ludwig Beilschidt.

“Is there a problem with the services the Academy’s crèche provides for your daughter?”

“The crèche closes at 9, Ludwig,” Arthur points out as he slings his bag over his shoulder and rounds the desk, keeping his tone extraordinarily reasonable, he believes, for a man with a bad head half dreaming of getting home with his daughter sometime soon, half calculating when he can take his next dose of aspirin. “When all the sensible students and professors have head home. Can’t get to Ohio and back before then.” Even assuming all their flights will be on time.

The 9 o’ clock close of the crèche at Quantico is later than most places of business with crèches on-site choose to close, the increased hours only a result of the FBI Academy’s presence on a military base. Gender, dynamic and family rights have progressed in - comparative - leaps and bounds since the Stone Ages in which the Academy was first founded, and the safety and security of the nation cannot be endangered by single parents unable to find adequate childcare.

“If you’d like to bring her along -”

“No,” Arthur hisses, sudden and vehement enough that Ludwig startles back away from him as Arthur’s eyes begin to prickle - undoubtedly bleeding gold. “I am not bringing my baby to a crime scene, Ludwig.” The thought is unconscionable, a boundary blurred into something monstrous.

Ludwig’s instinctive retreat had only been half a step, and half a step alone, but that half a step had been much further than Ludwig had been expecting to go. He pushes back now, failing to see that the line Arthur has drawn lays in concrete rather than sand. “It would be not trouble to get an agent to look after her while you’re occupied-”

Sure, the nameless agent would love that.

Arthur bares his fangs, letting his irritation spill out into his own scent, the lightning-struck forest more dangerous than any burning tower. Ozone and pine: a flammable mix. “You think I’d trust her in the care of a stranger? She’s six months old!” He turns to stalk away.

“What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

Arthur pauses, caught before he has managed to leave the hall. “What about Dr. Bonnefoy?”

“She’s the child’s godmother, isn’t she?” Oh, Ludwig is finagling now. “Unofficially.”

Unofficially. As most arrangements Arthur has with Marianne Bonnefoy are. Especially when she’s been carefully avoiding him and his questions about the new arrangements for Madeline Williams’ care after the events at John Hopkins, still wary of Arthur’s attachment to the omega girl he had orphaned.

Arthur purses his lips. “I wasn’t aware Marianne had a lecture scheduled this evening.”

“She pushed back her morning lecture today.”

Huh. “Looking to see what consultants you had on-site to grab before you left?” Arthur asks, his voice bordering on scathing - but bites his tongue at Ludwig’s immediate forbidding look in reply. Ludwig is only willing to accept so much of Arthur’s bad temper.

Lines, boundaries and connections. The give and take of favours and affection, work and home, death and delicate daughters who, outside the adult concept of time, are either sleeping or young enough to immediately forgive their mother for all the time he spends away from them.

Arthur considers, gathering up ideas like wet pebbles from the bed of the stream that runs through his mind. Feeling the weight of each before choosing which ones he wishes to discard. “...I’ll go. But only if Marianne is able to babysit.”

Ludwig is triumphant. Ludwig’s triumph dies in its nascency, because, when he and Arthur make their way over to the lecture hall assigned to Dr. Bonnefoy for her lessons, Marianne is unable to babysit. Marianne is not there.

Instead, a small handful of adoring students remains clustered around the podium at the front of the room, and the one fielding their questions is -

“Dr. Fernandes.” Arthur stops short.

“Arthur.”

Breaking off mid-whatever he had been discussing with the trainees, the unexpected figure of Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes looks, first, surprised and then pleased to see Arthur darkening his - borrowed? - door. His smile seems to be a real one; even a few metres away Arthur can see how it creases the corners of Fernandes' eyes - though some of the pleasure fades as Fernandes' gaze slides past Arthur to Ludwig coming up on Arthur’s heels.

“A moment please,” Fernandes says to both of them before he turns back to the trainees, clearly - and efficiently - wrapping up the last of the group’s questions despite how they appear to be desperately trying to prolong the conversation. Hanging on his every accented word, drawn in (or at least not dissuaded) by the - very - tight charcoal and cream plumage the alpha has chosen to peacock around in today. Little birds clustering in the shade of a broad, tall tree, chirp, chirp, cheep.

Ludwig advances even as the trainees - reluctantly - depart, towing Arthur forward with him by the sheer force of his presence. “Dr. Fernandes, good evening.” Apparently Ludwig uses the same forced joviality with Fernandes as he does with Arthur. “Please forgive the intrusion, we were searching for Dr. Bonnefoy.”

“Ah, I’m afraid you’re out of luck,” Fernandes informs them, gathering up his own paperwork on the podium. “Dr. Bonnefoy asked me to replace her in her classes today.” His expression is suitably sympathetic for the occasion, his scent of musk and petrichor by the sea as soft as the dusty shade of his charcoal suit. Beckoning others in with an offering of - not unattractive - alpha security, with a flirt of something rich and bitterly citrus when he moves and fabric brushes against the glands at his throat or wrists, the overworked buttons of his short straining over his chest. “She has flu, and is very cross about it.” Hence the rescheduled class.

“Generous of you,” says Arthur shortly, trying to figure out if he’s disappointed by this development or not. It would have been useful to talk to Marianne and coax the woman into a more agreeable mindset by depositing an adorable baby into her arms - Marianne favours both Arthur’s dogs and child -, but now, with no babysitter available, Arthur gets to go home.

“A small favour is nothing for a friend, yes?” is Fernandes' smooth, sincere-sounding reply - before his mouth curls upwards with a spark of intimate, invitational, mischief. One of his long brown curls dangles boyishly in front of his eyes. “In truth, I find it an interesting change to my usual affairs.”

As though Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes does not dictate the direction of the majority of his usual affairs.

Arthur snorts. “We’ll let you get back to those then. Ludwig -”

“Perhaps Dr. Fernandes could assist us instead,” says Ludwig.

The casual presumption sticks to the back of Arthur’s teeth and he is just. So tired. “Pretty sure Dr. Fernandes has had a busy enough day already,” says Arthur. His head is still throbbing.

Dr. Fernandes is still radiating a wearying amount of amusement for the end of the general Academy day, damn him and his tight suit and straining buttons. “I still have some energy left to spare. What is it that I can help you with?”

“I don’t,” says Arthur.

“How are you with children?” asks Ludwig. Alpha to alpha.

Naturally, Fernandes only hears the most intriguing remark. “Children?”

“Child. Singular. Infant, actually.” Arthur finally yields to the temptation that has been plaguing him for some time now, reaching up with one hand to knuckle at his eye. Pushing back against the pressure pounding in his head.

“I dealt with many children - including young children - as a medical doctor,” says Fernandes, “though paediatrics was never my speciality.”

Though he keeps his own eyes fixed on a point between Fernandes' nostrils and the sharp wings of the doctor’s tanned clavicles, Arthur is not unaware of the weight of Fernandes' gaze as it travels back and forth between Ludwig and himself, the doctor deeply curious and waiting for elaboration. None is immediately forthcoming; after neatly backing Arthur into a corner of social politeness, Ludwig is waiting on Arthur to offer up his daughter as sacrifice for their travel plans, Iphigenia reborn, and Arthur is. Struggling. To imagine asking a favour of such magnitude. To work out if he even wants to.

Ludwig might be happy to deposit Arthur’s offspring into any set of arms that will hold her long enough for Ludwig to get Arthur out to Ohio to look at his crime scene, but Arthur has to put a little more thought into the matter. Conscious, especially recently, of the weight of trusting daughters (in mind, in heart, and tucked up against one’s shoulder), and the responsibilities of guardianship.

“Do you have a case involving an infant?” Fernandes inquires at last.

Arthur cannot help the way his mouth twists wryly at that. Inevitability - driven along by the determination of Ludwig Beilschidt - bites in deep. Despite all their conversations about Madeline since they had saved the girl’s life together… Arthur had never told Dr. Fernandes he was a mother. “Ludwig has a case. I have an infant. This is apparently a scheduling conflict.”

“...I see.”

Oh, when the sound of recontextualisation is just two little words. Pebbles dropping, said so delicately. Arthur is accustomed to delicate little words that are said one way and meant another, and has had more than a few of them slung his way ever since his pregnancy first started showing. (Used goods. Whore.)

Arthur lifts his head again. Defiantly. If killing makes God feel powerful then the reverse must also be true: God giveth and God taketh away. Destruction is balanced by the act of creation, and Arthur had laboured nine long months and several longer bloody hours to bring forth his daughter into the universe. He looks at her still, sometimes, doing nothing more than breathing in her cot by his bed, and his heart burns fiercer than any heat he’s known.

There are pinwheels of golden green in Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' hazel eyes, light and darkness both that shine with the doctor’s interest and curiosity. But not a trace of judgement. No hint of scandal or reproof.

The corner of Fernandes' mouth quirks back at Arthur in the most minute of smiles, and the breath Arthur hadn’t even realised he’d been holding shudders, startled, out of his chest.

Delicacy is not an oft-used tool in Ludwig Beilschidt’s arsenal, not when a problem can be presented immediately to the solution. “I realise it is something of an imposition, doctor, but would you be able to watch her for the evening?” The bitter coffee-pepper taste of Ludwig’s impatience is a heavy reminder of his presence. The clock is always ticking, and it gets stuffed up Arthur’s nose. “There is a new case out in Ohio, and the team could really use Arthur’s eyes on the scene while it is still relatively fresh.”

“A girl?” Fernandes asks Arthur quietly, and Arthur looks back at him a little helplessly.

“Ludwig, you can’t just steamroll people into babysitting. Dr. Fernandes -”

“I would be happy to help,” says Fernandes, and Arthur really begins longing for some aspirin.

Ludwig nods, pleased. “Then it is settled. Thank you, doctor.” Arthur chirps, irritated again - perhaps Ludwig would like to double-check this arrangement with the infant’s mother? -, but Ludwig is already back to ignoring him, marching out of the room with one last commandment: “Arthur, I need you to be ready to go in 20.”

20? 20 minutes is barely enough time for Arthur to turn his head - never mind his arse - around, not when he has a thousand and one different important things he now has to impart to Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes.

So he frowns at Fernandes. He could have gone home. “You didn’t have to do that.” Amends - “You don’t have to do this.”

“And leave you - or should I say Ludwig - without a babysitter?” The click of Fernandes' briefcase as it closes sounds like more than one thing being shut. ��Arthur, you never mentioned that you’re a parent.”

“It wasn’t relevant to our conversations,” says Arthur. Adding a stubborn, “I find it best to maintain certain boundaries between work and home,” to Fernandes' raised eyebrows. “Where possible.”

“Boundaries can be healthy, they say,” Fernandes observes, making a great show of reaching for his overcoat and sliding it onto his arms. Look at him, so theatrically busy and paying Arthur no mind. “Or isolating.”

Arthur just snorts again, already expecting the sting in the tail.

It isn’t like Arthur believes Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes is the sort of alpha, from more barbarous days of yore, who would either kill or drive off the offspring of alphas other than himself if children were placed into his care. Dr. Fernandes, paediatric speciality or no, has a careful touch with the vulnerable.

Snapshots of the Williams’ kitchen are seared into Arthur’s mind now, each an ever-fixed mark, the mingled smells of wet iron, sour fear and sharp gunpowder all tangled up with the sense-memory of the tiled edges of the kitchen floor biting into Arthur’s knees, the sticky wet pulsing of heartblood over his hands. When the night’s gloaming stretches out dark and dreadful Arthur remembers his own fingers - cold, white under all that blood and trembling - useless on Madeline’s throat as the girl juddered and quaked beneath him, drowning on dry land in that ever-growing river of red - and then the confident touch from Fernandes, stepping in, taking over, his palms warm and fingers sure and steady as he held the last of his patient’s precious life inside of her.

Fernandes had kept Madeline alive long enough for the EMTs to arrive, and then escorted her to the hospital. In the days that had followed, he had been just as much of a fixture in Madeline’s ward as Arthur himself. Falling asleep at Madeline’s bedside, Madeline's hand clasped safely in his own.

Take away the knife, the blood, the floor, the injury - Fernandes has hands tender enough to curve around a trusting infant’s head, long-fingered and sure, and he is strong and intelligent enough to defend her. But - take away the death, the comatose girl, the psychiatric evaluation, the talks of God and power - Arthur has still only known the alpha in front of him for a metaphorical five minutes. A few weeks.

And Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes doesn’t seem like the sort of man who would deal well with having baby spit-up on him. He looks sweet and smooth and easy-going, suave as any rich alpha going courting - or, perhaps, as slyly smug as a particularly pampered cat.

“Tell me about your little one,” says Fernandes anyway, and Arthur sighs. If the good doctor is so determined…

“Lenore,” says Arthur. She whom the angels call - as she fusses back. “Lenore Kirkland. She’s six months old, and looks like the cross between a princess, a pixie, and a dumpling. I had her in March.”

Fernandes makes no attempt to hide the keen sweep of his gaze from Arthur’s top to bottom and back upwards again, shameless in his curiosity. Making an assessment. “You have recovered quickly from the pregnancy. I couldn’t tell.” Apparently confident enough in his abilities as a medical doctor to believe he should have been able to tell that Arthur had recently carried and borne a child, ugh. “Her other parent is unavailable to take care of her?”

“He was never in the picture,” Arthur says. Flatly. His tone very much implying that if Fernandes digs at this topic any more than necessary, Lenore’s other biological parent won’t be the only one pushed out of frame.

Fernandes dips his head - taking the hint - so Arthur continues.

“You’ll need to pick up Lenore from the Academy crèche. It closes at 9, so there’s no need to hurry if you’re busy, and I’ll phone ahead to let them know you’ll be handling pick-up. You should -” Arthur hesitates, the necessary logistics of handing his daughter over into another’s care floating to mind - and then sitting horribly ill at-ease with the vision of the elegant man in front of him, “uh, you should probably take my car. For her car seat. It’s a bastard to take out and put in again so it’s probably easiest for you just to take the whole vehicle.” 

Fernandes' face does a thing. It’s a minuscule thing, so infinitesimally tiny that if Arthur hadn’t been watching the microscopic shifts of the other man’s expressions he would have missed it, but definitely a thing.

Honestly, it’s quite a beautiful thing, as the only way in which Arthur can think to describe it is Arthur Kirkland, I have seen your Volvo. (Marianne has an expression that might be a close cousin to the look, but, somehow, Marianne has learnt the arcane art of coaxing Lenore’s baby seat into agreeing with her long enough for her to transfer it between Arthur’s vehicle and her own. Arthur has yet to develop the knack of it himself.)

“I can get a taxi home from the airport,” he assures Fernandes, solicitous now he has the schadenfreude of Fernandes' dismay to cheer him for the rest of the night. (Let his shitty dog hair-covered car stand testament to a universal truth: even the most smugly prepared soul should look before they leap.)

Fernandes purses his lips, his dismay now warring with his disapproval of Arthur being put-out because of Ludwig’s demands. “At the Bureau’s expense, I hope?”

“My travel expenses will be the delight of the accounting department,” Arthur says dryly - and is promptly warmed as well by Fernandes' soft huff of laughter. So Arthur can afford to be magnanimous as he fishes out his car key. “If you want to fleece them as well, I promise to see and say nothing. You- uh, you don’t have to stay the whole evening with Lenore, you know. My neighbour is always happy to take her if you explain I’m held up - Nancy, with the bright red mailbox covered in flower stickers, house right before mine and perm you can see for miles. You can drop Lenore off there.”

“It’s really no trouble, Arthur.” Fernandes - even with the dual threats of a six month-old and Arthur’s Volvo hanging over his head - still appears to be sincere, those long fingers of his brushing against Arthur’s fingertips as he takes the key from Arthur’s hand. (Citrus again. Like the type used in that English tea: bergamot.) “Though I will need your home address.”

Right. Yes. That will be another not-so-little boundary Arthur is going to have to permit Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes to cross this evening in the name of emergency childcare. “Ah. Yeah, I’ll- I’ll text you that ASAP.”

“You definitely have my cell phone number?”

Arthur nods; he definitely has Fernandes' cell phone number. Not that he has used it for much so far except to confirm two appointments with the other man at Fernandes' office.

“...Um.” Arthur stalls, drawing his lower lip back between his teeth to chew on it as Fernandes looks at him inquiringly. What constitutes a reasonable first-time favour from someone who is not quite a colleague, not quite a co-parent, and not quite an assigned psychiatrist? “If you - uh - wouldn’t mind stopping at mine either way? My dogs will need letting out for a run in the grass, and, if you could give them a scoop each of the emergency kibble in the bag in my kitchen, I’ll owe you one.”

Fernandes' head tilts minutely, studying him.

“...Assuming you don’t have any issues with dogs.”

“I do not,” says Fernandes simply, and Arthur has never been more grateful to not be asked any further questions about his pack of canines. Least of all how many he has of them.

“House keys,” Arthur proclaims instead, depositing the named items into Fernandes' waiting palm after he has dug them up out of the depths of his blazer pocket. And brushed the lint off of them. “And- uh-”

Arthur tugs the (old, mud-coloured, dog-chewed) scarf from around his neck before he can think too hard about it, stepping forward to sling the item of clothing up and around Fernandes' neck.

They share breath for a moment: vanillic paper and apples, petrichor and musky bergamot, oak and - at the soft swallow of Fernandes' throat - resinous vetiver. The scarf’s wool is scratchy in comparison to the softer (expensive) weave of Fernandes' overcoat against Arthur’s skin, and the colour of the accessory turns Fernandes' outfit into something muddy.

Uh.

Though Fernandes is undeniably the taller of the two of them, there is not so much difference between Fernandes and Arthur in height - and yet Arthur feels every single inch of that difference as Fernandes, eyebrows raised once more, looks down at both the offending scarf and Arthur as Arthur stands in front of him holding both of the scarf’s tail ends, willing himself not to flush. Arthur’s wrap shirt that day - designed with nursing mothers in mind and cut in the omega style - has a deep asymmetrical neckline, and, without his scarf as protection, Arthur’s blush would visibly flood his entire face and throat a vulnerable pink. This close to Fernandes, leaning into Fernandes' gravitational field and with the alpha’s scent full in his lungs… it would be like dripping blood into shark-infested waters.

Arthur stalls embarrassment by keeping his eyes trained on Fernandes' tanned jawline instead of on whatever look the doctor has decided to allow into his eyes, instead of on whatever dangerous twist there might be now to Fernandes' mouth. The two of them are not close enough acquaintances to be exchanging items of clothing - especially not clothing that Arthur has worn so often, that has rubbed against his scent glands and has his natural omega scent embedded so deeply in the cloth. It’s. Very personal.

“Lenore won’t settle if you don’t smell like me, so if you just.” Arthur pats awkwardly at both the scarf and Fernandes' breastbone with the flat of one hand - most likely squashing the alpha’s nipple somewhere beneath. A warm drum beats steadily under his palm and Arthur’s chest feels tight. “Sort of tuck her up against that.”

Fernandes recovers quickly, gracefully pretending that Arthur has not just committed a horrific social faux pas by thrusting a scented item at him with extreme overfamiliarity and no advance warning. (Boundaries, ha.) “It’s a good suggestion.” He reaches out to take the trailing ends of the scarf from Arthur and- and Arthur stutters backwards from the other man. Before he can do more damage.

Though it seems Fernandes had only taken the scarf to tie it into a loose knot around his throat. Ah.

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I promise I am not wholly incompetent with babies, and I have your number to call you if there are any problems.”

That is not what Arthur had been concerned about.

Well, that is not entirely what Arthur had been concerned about.

What does Arthur’s private life look like through Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes' eyes? It’s an ungainly thing to set up against Fernandes' polished veneer, to hold up to that finish Fernandes has smoothed out over his charmed existence. All that polish in Fernandes' life, his obvious casual wealth - both socially and materially -, his apparent effortless competence with everything he does. So evidently, easily, alpha that others instinctively defer to him, that Fernandes brings a cooked breakfast with him on trips afield to provide for the less prepared waiflings thrust upon him. Trace back on Fernandes' phylogenetic tree, and his ancestors must have all been the prime of their genetic subdivision.

Arthur life’s, in contrast, is nothing but lumps and bumps, like porridge that needs a great deal more stirring before it can be served for breakfast. Hic sunt dracones, something not in Fernandes' cartography: the uncharted realms of dopey dogs, daughters that are produced like magic tricks, and clunky cars with fur shed on the seats and rattling, rainbow-coloured baby toys rolling around in the footwells.

The cathedral of Dr. Fernandes' Baltimore office is a far cry from Arthur’s farmhouse out in the fields of Virginia where the afflictions of middle class single motherhood for the canine-hoarding and socially incompetent have stamped their mark. There is nothing sacrosanct in a living room camp-bed left unmade that morning, in a small army of used baby bottles and coffee cups on every flat (and some distinctly dangerous) surfaces, and chewed-up tennis balls nudged under every seat. One in every three floorboards in Arthur’s home creaks and groans underfoot, bags of unused supermarket salad expire in the limited space in Arthur’s fridge that isn’t dedicated to either homemade dog food or sanitised bags of expressed breast milk, and muddy towels damp with the smell of dog sit in the towering laundry pile next to stacks of baby onesies and the plaid shirt Lenore had vomited on two nights before that Arthur still hasn’t had the time to wash.

The only way the much more sophisticated puzzle piece of Dr. Gabriel Cardoso Fernandes fits into a jigsaw like that is by way of Ludwig’s presumption wielded as a mallet, and Arthur feels like he should apologise for the mismatch - before he is immediately resentful of the feeling, his pride pricked. And he is then, too, resentful of his own resentfulness, that, even decades on from the humid, poverty-stricken corners of his childhood, a favour still tastes bitter on his tongue, too much like charity.

And yet - there is no judgement in Dr. Fernandes' face or posture as he takes stock of their very different lifestyles. No pity, sympathy or condescension. There never has been, no matter what secrets Arthur has revealed to the alpha. Revelations of parenthood and tenderness weighed equally on the scales against confessions of righteousness, the satisfaction gained from putting bad people down.

Fernandes simply… accepts. It all. All of it.

“Right,” says Arthur. Remembers Fernandes volunteered for this (babysitting, dealing with all of Arthur’s shit, whatever else may be) and begrudgingly adds, “Thank you again. I’ll-” a gesture at the open door of the classroom behind him. Ludwig will have Arthur's head if he makes the team late for the flight, and Arthur still has some aspirin and water he needs to down before he can consent to being trapped in a metal box with Beilschidt and his team for several hours. “I need to go now, but I’ll phone the crèche and then send you my address.”

Fernandes nods, his plush mouth still a solemn thing above Arthur’s ugly scarf though his eyes crinkle, once more, with what Arthur might almost dare to call fondness. “Safe travels to Ohio.”

…He really doesn’t know what he’s let himself in for, does he?

That’s alright, Arthur thinks as he leaves the lecture hall, raising one hand at Dr. Fernandes behind him in a parting farewell. Arthur isn’t too sure what he’s let himself in for with any of this evening’s developments either.

[olympeline]

A few headcanons for Hetalia Scotland:

Is Alisdair a canon name? If it’s not, idc. It’s a good one 👍 If all the brothers are Kirkland then I like to think it was Scot’s surname first. England (and Wales by extension) took it when the Scottish James I became king of England and so formed the United Kingdom. That all his little(?) brothers took his name is definitely a feather in Scot’s cap.

No one knows if he or Wales is the oldest brother, including Scotland and Wales themselves. The first time they happened to cross paths during their wandering around Great Britain, they each saw another boy who looked the same age. Scotland insists he is the elder brother, Wales disagrees but more quietly.

Scotland has a favourite city out of Glasgow and Edinburgh. But he’s not going to start a civil war in his country by telling anyone which it is! (Psst, it’s Glasgow)

The Auld Alliance was a fiery, passionate affair between Scotland and France. The kind that was pure, mutual lust at first sight and got physical very quickly. Like, “we just met for the first time while our bosses hammer out details and now we’re banging against the wall in the antechamber” quickly. Sexy, sophisticated, continental France vs. wilder, rougher Scotland was just what the doctor ordered for both of them. Unfortunately, it didn’t really last. That kind of white hot, burning hunger never does. It didn’t help that a significant chunk of the non-physical part of their bond was built on their mutual hatred of England. You can’t build a long term love on something like that. Once Scotland’s relationship with his little brother started to improve, his affair with France simultaneously cooled. These days they’re better off as friends. Scot recalls their relationship more fondly and feels more wistful than France does.

And yes, that Scotland was eventually replaced by England as France’s soulmate does make his complicated feelings towards England even more strained. Thank ye for asking *Sound of Scottie teeth grinding*

Scotland holds his liquor best out of all his brothers and can drink most of Europe under the table. Only true heavyweights like Russia and the Balkans give him a run for his money

Like all the UK bros, Scotland has magic and can see magical creatures. Vistors to his country are often surprised to learn that Scot’s favourite isn’t the famous Nessie (though he is very fond of her) but rather his herd of unicorns. Hunted nearly to extinction in the rest of the UK, the unicorn’s last stronghold is up in Scotland. During one of their many wars, England slew Scotland’s oldest and most beloved unicorn (“The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown…”) and took its alicorn back to London. Even after the unification and a regretful England returning it, Scotland is still bitter.

Yes, Scotland does play the bagpipes. Yes, he’s very good at it. When he plays and Wales sings, it’s really something to behold…er, listen to

What’s Scotland’s least favourite thing about his home? The rain? The cold? No, you fool! The midges. Dear GOD the midges. Eat you alive in summer they will!

Scotland’s cooking makes the rest of his brothers look almost competent by comparison. He has the dubious honour of making both some of the most unappetising food (haggis!) and also the most unhealthy. Everything battered, deep fried, and washed down with fifty cans of drink so stiff with sugar it would make America blush. What’s not to love? Diabetes. Diabetes is not to love. Scot’s bosses have been on a health kick lately but their nation is as stubborn as any of the UK bros and it’s not easy persuading him to change his ways

Scotland wears his kilt like a true Scot: nothing below and god help ye if there’s a headwind 🍆

Britainya (aka Britain cat) was born in Scotland but doesn’t like spending much time there because of the climate. He still comes to visit Scotland in the summer, though. His favourite place to sleep is on Scotland’s feet. Keeping his toes warm like a living heater

Scotland is very proud that he was able to hold off Grandpa Rome and stop the Romans ever getting a real foothold on his turf. Though that pride is complicated by feelings of guilt that he couldn’t protect his little brothers. Even if they were enemies at the time, it still chafes Scot that part of their isle was occupied for hundreds of years. Seeing England and, to a lesser extent, Wales under Grandpa Rome’s boot and watching them be Romanised was painful

And yes, let’s talk about that elephant lion in the room: England. England, England, England. The golden child of the UK bros that Scotland can’t get away from or ignore no matter how hard he tries. To say Scot’s feelings towards his baby bro are complicated is an understatement. He’s so proud of what they achieved together, but wishes he could claim more of the credit. He feels guilt for not driving the Romans out of Britain, but a small, hateful part still gloats that only he could stop the invaders in their tracks. He’s glad they’re on better terms these days, but resents that the unification has eclipsed him so much in the eyes of the world. He knows in his heart of hearts that his relationship with France was never meant to last, but seeing France with England hurts him even so. Scotland was the older brother, not England. It should have been him. It all should have been him

Scottie has a lot of Nordic in him and gets on well with the Scandis. He could probably make a good case for being one of them, but nothing’s come of it yet. Estonia is very jelly

His favourite food is scotch eggs. His favourite drink is irn bru in the day and good old Scotch whisky at night

[kirklandpremierdentistry1]

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[a-dinosaur-a-day]

Utahraptor ostrommaysi

By Nix, CC BY-NC 4.0

Etymology: Thief from Utah

First Described By: Kirkland et al., 1993

Classification: Dinosauromorpha, Dinosauriformes, Dracohors, Dinosauria, Saurischia, Eusaurischia, Theropoda, Neotheropoda, Averostra, Tetanurae, Orionides, Avetheropoda, Coelurosauria, Tyrannoraptora, Maniraptoromorpha, Maniraptoriformes, Maniraptora, Pennaraptora, Paraves, Eumaniraptora, Dromaeosauridae, Eudromaeosauria, Dromaeosaurinae  

Status: Extinct

Time and Place: Between 129 and 120 million years go, from the Barremian to the Aptian ages of the Early Cretaceous 

Utahraptor is known from the Yellow Cat and Poison Strip members of the Cedar Mountain Formation 

Physical Description: Utahraptor was a very large raptor dinosaur, and had the associated bodily characteristics - a bulky trunk, shorter legs, long arms, large head, and long, stiffened tail. It was really and truly huge, about 7 meters long and 500 kilograms in weight - about the size of a modern Grizzley or Polar Bear, though they might have been heavier than previously thought. Like other raptors, it had huge sickle claws on its feet, and the claws were probably around 24 centimeters long - or even longer, if they had been covered in a keratin sheath as potentially thought. The skull of Utahraptor has not yet been described, so for now we can only say that it had a long, triangular head like other raptors, with sharp serrated teeth. As with other raptors, it would have been feathered - with very large wings for flapping, and a distinctively huge tail fan. The legs of Utahraptor would have been slightly less feathered, but still distinctive. In short, it was a big and fluffy bird-bear, and the largest predator in its environment. 

By Matt Martyniuk, CC BY-SA 3.0

Diet: Utahraptor was a large predator and, accordingly, ate large sources of food such as ornithopods and younger sauropods. 

By PaleoNeolitic, in the Public Domain

Behavior: As a raptor, Utahraptor would have been most analogous to a cat - probably stalking alone rather than in packs, and utilizing ambush behavior to trap its prey. Since it had somewhat stubby legs and wasn’t very fast at all, it couldn’t have relied on pursuit to attack its food, even if its food was just as slow as it was. Instead, these powerful legs helped Utahraptor to jump onto its food and surprise it, even from the ground where it spent its time. It then could use raptor prey restraint (RPR) to stay balanced on the prey, flapping its wings rapidly as the prey moved around and tried to escape. Those impossibly large sickle claws then were used to strategically stab at places where the prey would bleed out - important veins and arteries - rather than slash. In addition to this, Utahraptor would have been able to flap its wings rapidly and run up steep surfaces - a technique called Wing-Assisted Inclined Running (WAIR) -  even vertical ones, like cliff faces and trees. This allowed Utahraptor to reach strategic vantage points and search for prey - and even jump down onto it from high heights. These techniques allowed Utahraptor to not only hunt the similarly-sized Ornithopods of the time, but also potentially attack the even larger Sauropods with which it shared its home. When it needed a smaller snack, that large claw could be used to pin down struggling furry mammals and lizards, in order for Utahraptor to then take a bite. 

By Fred Wierum, CC By-SA 4.0

Though Utahraptor did not hunt in packs, that doesn’t mean it wasn’t social - and, indeed, there is considerable evidence not yet described that it lived in dense family groups. This would probably mean that adult Utahraptor would go out hunting on their own, while the little ones would gather their own food, before coming together in the same space for safety from other Utahraptor and just to spend the night. It is very likely that Utahraptor took care of its own young based on its relatives - and there’s hopefully more evidence on the way to corroborate this. This was a very complex social animal, using those fancy wings and tail fan to display to other Utahraptor - by holding up the wings and lifting the tail fan to display, it could communicate with others that it was a threat, that it wanted to mate, or to stay away from its nest. In general, it would have behaved very bird-like - walking around, bobbing its head, and moving its head to look for food and for each other rather than moving the eyes. And, like birds, it would have been very active, and warm-blooded. 

By Ashley Patch

Ecosystem: When the Cedar Mountain Formation supported Utahraptor, it was a very large floodplain environment, that periodically flash flooded and filled the valley with mud. This was a seasonally wet environment with a variety of rivers, forests, prairies, and open woodlands. The ecosystem had a short wet system and a very long, tedious dry season. Utahraptor shared this environment with countless creatures - the tuataran Toxolophosaurus, the turtle Glyptops, a variety of fish, the mammaliaform Cifelliodon, and - of course - other dinosaurs. There was the ankylosaur Gastonia, the large Iguanodon-like Ornithopods Cedrorestes, Hippodraco, and Iguanacolossus; the Sauropods Cedarosaurus and Mierasaurus; the Therizinosaurs Martharaptor and Falcarius; the Troodontid Geminiraptor; the Ornithomimosaur Nedcolbertia; and another raptor - Yurgovuchia! This gave Utahraptor a wide variety of things to hunt in its environment. 

By Emily Willoughby, CC By-SA 3.0

By the time of the later Poison Strip environment, things were changing rapidly in Cedar Mountain. Dry seasons were longer now, and a significant amount of sand was washing through the ecosystem. This made life higher in the floodplain, and probably eliminated many of the forests and river-woods that had been present prior to, leaving only a somewhat scrubland-esque plain. Accordingly, creature diversity actually went down - it was something of an ecosystem collapse. There was still food for Utahraptor to eat - the Ornithopod Planicoxa, and the sauropods Moabosaurus and Venenosaurus; but that was it. Utahraptor, thus, was living in a miniature extinction event - and disappears from the environment by the time the mud and rainy seasons returned in the Ruby Ranch Environment, and the large predator niche was replaced by the carnosaur Acrocanthosaurus. 

By Calum O’Halloran

Other: Utahraptor was the largest raptor known, and we actually have many fossils of it - but they’re trapped in a block! Well, there isn’t funding to remove them from the block, anyway. So much more could be (and will be, dammit!) written about this excellent dinosaur if it was adequately funded to be researched properly. Check out the Utahraptor Project if you want to learn more about Utahraptor - and consider donating! Literally every penny helps. Utahraptor is also one of the inspirations for the raptors of Jurassic Park, along with Deinonychus - though, obviously, those creatures do not resemble their real counterparts in the slightest.

~ By Meig Dickson

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[deafseries]

Diamonds pt.3

part one, part two, part three, part four

tw: character death

This wasn’t the first time it had happened.

Al and Alfred caught up in the throes of passion, and Al whimpering out a name that distinctly wasn’t his. Most of the time, Alfred elected to ignore it. Move on, not think about it too hard. Of course Al loved him. Why wouldn’t she? It was just the sex.

But this time, it stuck with him, echoing around his head in the pale darkness of their room. Gently, he rubbed his eyes and looked over to his wife sleeping soundly beside him. The slope of her bare shoulders, the way that her hand clung on the sheets, the gentle rise and fall of her breath.

Alfred loved her more than anything in the world. Which is why he let her romp around with Arthur. He wanted her to be happy- he understood what it was like to get tired in a relationship. He just hoped she’d grow bored of Arthur eventually and come back to him- all the way.

Thinking about the Englishman made his stomach turn. His stupid smirk, the way he looked at Alfred like he was a chump.

And maybe he was.

Easily, Arthur could take Al from him. He was everything Alfred wasn’t- rich, smooth, uncaring. Alfred had seen his wife swoon from the first time that she met him. It hurt his heart to think about it too much.

Alfred sat up and shifted out of bed, stretching his hands over his head.

“Where are you going?” Al stirred from her sleep, voice made groggy. Alfred smiled and leaned down, kissing her on the forehead gently. “For a drive. I’ll be back soon.”

“M’kay…” She muttered and laid her head back on the pillow, her hair a halo around her head.

Alfred moved quietly through the room, pulling on clothes and a jacket, careful not to wake Al. He hesitated before leaving the bedroom, eyes drawn to the nightstand. He stared at it for a moment, the drawer welcoming him, almost beckoning him. Slowly, he moved over and pulled out the pistol from the top drawer and slid it into his jacket pocket.

Just in case.

The drive to the Kirkland estate was quiet. In the car at least- no radio played to distract Alfred, no talking to himself and rehearsing what he was going to say so that it landed on Arthur’s ears more comfortably.

Outside, people bustled, on their commute home to their loving husbands and wives who weren’t sleeping with millionaires. Or out on the town, grabbing family dinner or taking strolls down the boardwalk like Alfred and Alexa used to. It was only eight pm.

In order to get into the Kirkland estate, you had to be buzzed in so that the gate would unlock for you. Alfred buzzed in with an

“Hey, Arthur. It’s Alfred. We need to talk.”

Nothing was said from the other line, but the gates opened for him. Not the first time, Alfred made the lone drive up to the manor. When he finally got close to the house, he sat in the car for a minute or so, evening out his breath. Arthur was going to listen to him, if he liked it or not.

The door inside was purposefully left unlocked for him, and Alfred stepped into the air conditioned front room, which lead into a living room off to the side.

There was a glass door, and Alfred could see Arthur waiting there, two glasses of wine set out on the table.

They made eye contact.

Feeling almost like a machine to be piloted, Alfred walked into the living room and sat down on the couch across from Arthur.

“...To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?” Arthur asked, folding his hands in his lap. Alfred did not miss the smug expression on his face. He swallowed thickly.

“I need you to stop sleeping with my wife.”

Alfred was no english major, and in Arthur’s presence, the words sounded clunky and downright crude. But Arthur didn’t seem to take much notice to the articulation of the sentence- just the content.

“Mr. Jones, I appreciate the idea that I made the decision in Alexa and I’s relationship, but if you’ll recall, she was the one that first approached me.”

Alfred lips pressed into a thin, nervous line.

“But you encouraged it. I just..you need to tell her that you can’t do it anymore.”

“Why should I?” Arthur snorted. “Why can’t you tell her to be faithful?”

That hurt like a shot of ice through Alfred’s veins. He tried not to lash out.

“She is faithful. If I tell her to stop she’ll...I don’t want her to think I’m trying to control her.”

Arthur leaned back in his chair, making an effort to check his watch like he had more important things to do.

“Sounds like you two have an unhealthy marriage. Really, Mr. Jones, one of these days Alexa is going to leave you. What can you give her that I can’t?”

Alfred was getting more and more upset by every word Arthur spoke. The pistol burned like a hot iron in his pocket.

“You only want her for sex.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Even if that was true, it’s much better sex then you can give her. What is it? Dinner at six, and missionary position for fifteen minutes before blow your load? Her having to get herself off in the bathroom? Give me a break.”

The pistol was out of his pocket before he realized it.

He was standing. The table still between them, yes, but the muzzle pressed square in the middle of Arthur’s forehead. Neither of them spoke, but Alfred breathed hard.

“Shut up.” He hissed, teeth clenched together.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me?” Arthur seemed unfazed by this, but his hands still clenched in his lap.

“Yes.”

It was like Arthur didn’t hear him, “All because you can’t accept Alexa might like someone more than you? Face it, Alfred. She’s going to get bored of the dummy hubby routine one day, and-”

The shot rang through the house.

Just for a moment, everything was silent. The birds outside and the wind blowing through the trees, the soft buzz of the air conditioning. Silence.

It all rushed back to him when Arthur’s head slumped to the side. His eyes open and unseeing, his mouth open with a sentence he’d never finish. Blood ran down his face from his forehead, between his eyes and over his nose. The same red had now dyed the back of the chair he’d been sitting in, once a light brown was now a dark, muddy color.

The pistol weighed heavy in his hand. Moving slowly, like in a dream, he placed the pistol on the table. The weight of the murder weapon was replaced with his phone. It rang monotonously in his ear.

“What’s up, baby?” Alexa’s voice still hung onto that tiredness, but was clearer than before. She had been awake.

“I did something bad.”

Al’s silence was louder than anything in the world, louder than the shot that killed Arthur, louder than the slow mechanical turn of the Earth on its axis.

“I know. I heard you take the gun.”

[amarmeme]

Between a Rock and a Hard Place

Written for Leather & Lace 2018. Today’s prompt was “trapped together.” Before Day 5 ends, please accept my Habitat 7 AU where Harry Carlyle and Lyssa Ryder get stuck in a cave. 

The jarring sound of male grunting snaps Lyssa awake. The stranger’s determined efforts assault her eardrums despite her helmet, sore head pounding in time with her heartbeat. Lyssa wheezes as she rises to her elbows in caution, unsure if she’s injured. Her body hurts, a deep ache that echoes through bones, as if she's still falling, still hitting the ground over and over. The landing lights of the shuttle strobe on and off in time with her misery. Blue then green. Blue then green. What's visible in front of her is less than helpful. Her eyes follow the moss-covered rock face up, up, up to the crack in the cave ceiling where their shuttle wedged its way through. The small, white ship rests crumpled in its place, one side missing a wing and a door and the nose smashed inwards.  

The pilot...

Lyssa swallows her concern and eases her stiff body around to see who makes the racket behind her. This is not the time to get emotional, but practical. A giant palm-like tree obstructs her view and all she can identify is the person’s back. The entire Pathfinder team wears the same white and blue suits -- it could be any of her father’s crew. Except him; Alec Ryder always suits up in red. She thinks dimly that she should be concerned about not remembering who was in her shuttle.

“Hello,” she shouts. “Are you okay over there?”

The grunting stops. “Lyssa, is that you?”

Lyssa smiles to herself despite the situation. She knows that gravelly voice. “Yea, Doc, it’s me.” She tests getting up, taking it one movement at a time. Nothing feels broken, but if something is amiss, at least she’s stuck with a doctor. “Need some help over there?”

Harry grunts then sighs, sitting on a large rock as she stands erect at last, wavering like a new calf. “You could say that,” he deadpans. “I’m pretty sure I’m too old for this.”

Lyssa pshaws, creeping beneath the alien palm tree. “You’re not even as old as my dad. Stop complaining, Doc.” That comment gets her another undignified grunt, and Lyssa can’t help but laugh. She knew Harry would hate that.

“That man’s superhuman. Probably could get a door off his own damn leg.” A shuttle door indeed rests on Harry’s left leg, trapping him between that and a rock. She walks over, crouches down to inspect the scene, and sits back on her heels as Harry stares down at her. “It's not broken,” he gruffs.

“Let me try,” she says. “SAM?” The AI doesn’t respond. It seems her implant is useless in the bottom of this deep cave. It's up to her to figure out the best place to lift.

Lyssa walks around the battered door and Harry, sizing up the best place to leverage her strength. Had her scanner been working, SAM would have said where to exert the right amount of force. Head still garbled, Lyssa fumbles around until she finds it on her own. The suit takes a portion of the weight, but her insides still hurt like hell when she lifts. Harry scrambles back though and she drops the door quick, folding over after with hands on her knees.

“Don’t... think... I... have... that... in me... again,” she pants.

Sit down, kid,” he says. Harry pulls her gently by her elbow and Lyssa plops next to his side.

She turns to face him. “Don't call me that.”

“What? Kid? You're half my age--”

“I don't call you old man.”

Harry lets out a deep breath and pulls her in a single-armed embrace. “I feel it though.” He squeezes tighter. “Kirkland didn't make the crash. Neither did Greer.”

Some of her memory returns now; getting on the shuttle with Harry last minute instead of with Cora, the electric charges in the atmosphere, striking the cliff face sure they were going to die. Apparently two did. Three including the pilot.

Harry interrupts her thoughts. “How are you doing physically? Any specific pain?”

Her body still aches, but falling will do that to a person. The suit only absorbs so much. “I think I have a concussion?”

“And here I was complaining about a trapped ankle.” Harry drops his arm and swivels to look at her through her helmet. “What's your full name?”

“Lyssa Jane Ryder,” she says.

“Occupation?”

“Armed Combatant Specialist.”

“Address?”

Lyssa narrows her eyes at Harry, shaking her head slowly. “Really?”

“Sorry, he says. “Old habits die hard. I'd do a few tests, but I've already seen your reflexes, your coordination. It's probably a mild concussion at most. You got lucky, Lyssa.”

“Huh, then why don't I feel it?”

They sit silently after that, looking around the cave and its abundance of flora. Green shoots out of every square inch, swaths of moss covering the rocks, the floor. The twisted, reflective metal of the shuttle is out of place, jarring. So are the bodies of Greer and Kirkland, broken over a jagged shelf maybe ten feet up. Lyssa shudders. How had she missed that fate?

“Your comms work?” She asks.

“Not a bit,” he shrugs. “Yours?”

Lyssa shakes her head. “Maybe we should get out of here. Doubt anyone's going to find us hidden away like this.”

Harry nods, gesturing towards his ankle. “You're going to have to help me. Damn thing’s twisted. Can't really do much for it either.”

She helps him up. Harry leans into her and their helmets clack. “Sorry,” they both say at the same time. Lyssa takes his weight as best she can and they hobble over uneven ground. Once the strobe of the shuttle fades away, they turn their helmet lights on. The cave straightens out helpfully, yet the tunnel to the surface seems to be monstrously long.  

“What did your dad talk us into?”

Lyssa can't justify an excuse. She’d been asking the same question for months before the trip and now that they're here... It's too depressing. Levi’s not awake, members of her team have died, Habitat 7 is a complete bust. Instead of feeling sad, anger courses through her.

“Fuck!” she snaps. Her veins even feel hot. “Let's talk about something else. You got a wife, Harry?”

It was the first thing that came to mind. Once it's out, she feels a bit guilty.

He laughs though, teetering next to her as they climb over a log. “Never have.”

She smiles. For some reason that answer makes her feel a little better. “Consummate bachelor? Scam too many ladies in one galaxy gotta break hearts in another?”

“Hardly,” he says. “I’m in the business of fixing hearts, not breaking them.”

“Come on,” Lyssa teases. “With a voice like yours and that salt and pepper look? I guarantee someone's cried over you before. Plus, doctor.”

“Is that... hot? I thought that was reserved for people in uniform?”

She snickers. The way he says it, “hot,” as if it's some trendy term and not what people have been calling men like him for centuries. Harry is hot. Smoking hot in a way that's always distracted her. He'd been the one to put her under in cryo, and after his face was the last thing she'd seen, Lyssa would swear she'd been having sex dreams about him for the last 600 years. She’d followed him into the shuttle on the Hyperion after all. Not onto Cora's like she was supposed to. Harry had that pull on her and he really had no idea.

“Harry, your patients aren't coming to see you just for your medicine.”

“Whatever you say.” His words are dismissive, but he sounds slightly pleased.

They fall into comfortable silence for a long time, taking it as steady as possible. She's never been this close to him before, and although the situation sucks, Lyssa likes the feel of him there, arm over her shoulder, hers across his back. If only there weren't suits between them. She imagines he smells good. Something smoky with a little spice. He stumbles on a root and squeezes her hand tight. A flutter of stupid, stupid nerves run up her arm at it. Lyssa needs to get out of this cave before she acts any more like a lovesick kid.

Light floods their footfalls. Cracks of thunder echo through the widening cave. Together they shuffle forward faster; green is replaced by grey but they fail to notice. At the mouth at last, Harry stumbles, almost crashing to the ground. Lyssa strains to hold him up. Outside the electric storm rages, a burst of lightning strikes down nearby. It's a horror scene. Harry's wheezing, coughing. Confused, Lyssa wheels around in front of him, taking his head between her palms. A crack in the visor is finally visible in the light of day.

“We gotta go back,” she says, pulling him up again. Harry can't breathe enough to argue, but his body doesn't fight her. Scrambling, she half carries him to the point where the plants flourish again. His grip on her is vice-like and she grinds her teeth together, insistent on getting him back to breathable air.

At a certain point he refuses to move further, stiff arming the rock wall. “Lyssa, I'm fine,” he says. “I’m fine.”

She drops to the ground then, collapsing in a pile of relief.

“You have to leave me.”

She glances up too quick, horrified at the suggestion. Her head swims a little. “I'm not--”

“Look, you said it yourself. No one is going to find us hiding in this cave. I trust you'll not leave me here to die.” Harry slumps down next to her on the floor. “You'll be okay. Find Cora -- your dad. They'll know what to do about this.” He flops his useless helmet on the ground. They both stare at it.

She's sure they're both thinking the same thing, but Lyssa can't make the words come. But what if everyone else is dead?

Harry takes up one of her hands and squeezes it reassuringly. If she can't find anyone -- if no one's left... At least at the end she’ll be with someone she cares about. She’ll crawl back to Harry, tell him how she feels, has felt about him since they met more than 600 years ago, and then hopefully they'll screw themselves into oblivion while the whole planet destroys itself.

Before she can think better of it, Lyssa removes her helmet. Harry starts to speak and she covers his mouth with a hand. Replacing her gloved fingers with her lips, Harry whips his head back, shocked. They're laying basically intertwined, his right leg and both of hers in a tangle.

“Lyssa--”

“Just let me,” she insists. He blinks slowly and she surges forward again, kissing him deeply. He doesn't pull back this time, but angles into it, placing his hands on either side of her head. Heat coils up inside her, races up to flush her face. They find themselves getting more and more tangled with one another, Lyssa practically sitting in his lap.

He pulls away first, stroking her cheek gently. “What was that,” he murmurs in amazement.

Lyssa grips his shoulders then realizes she should climb off his lap. “Ahh...” She laughs nervously. What had she been thinking? They aren’t dying yet. “Maybe we shouldn't tell anyone about that.” Harry lets her go regretfully, hands following her path away from his body, grasping air.

“Especially not your dad,” he says. Lyssa flinches, cringing at her dad finding out what she’d just done.

“Don't worry,” another voice calls out. “I’m certainly not going to be the one to tell him either.”

So hot a moment before, a cold flush floods Lyssa’s entire body. Hair prickles the back of her neck. “Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” Cora says, hand resting on her hips in judgement. “But at least I came to get you alone.”

Weeeeeell, thanks Cora. :D

[chaiteakusuri]

A Simple Misunderstanding FrUk

This was supposed to be just a writing warm up... but it turned into it’s own, complete story; I have no control of myself... Also, because I can’t control myself, I tossed some RusAme in there, too.

Read this on my A03

           One moment, Arthur was standing in the doorway of their patio door of the suburban home he and his husband owned. The next moment, Arthur Bonnefoy-Kirkland stood menacingly, in the middle of the kitchen, with the elaborate and decadent cake held fiercely in an angry grip, promising that his threat was not a hollow one.

           Arthur couldn’t remember, in that moment, the last time he ever felt so furious.

           “Arthur...” A horrified looking Frenchman began, his gaze darting worriedly between his husband’s enraged expression and the cake he’d dedicated a whole day to preparing, “Honey...” Francis started, attempting to hold his hands out in the most non-threatening manner he could manage while trying to save his hours of work and, possibly also, his marriage. Francis took a slow, cautious step forwards, only to be shouted at by his lover. 

           “Take a step closer and I swear to god I’ll drop this cake!” Arthur roared. Arthur’s grip stiffened and his shoulders shook as his husband almost took another step closer, “I’ll do it!” Arthur shouted, taking an unsure step backwards, causing him to bump against the counter of their normally cozy and inviting kitchen, “Don’t test me!” Arthur growled, his breath coming in angry heaves through clenched teeth.

           “Arthur! What’s come over you?” Francis cried, looking at his husband in dismay, “Every--”

           “Don’t. Pretend!” Arthur interjected before his lover could get a word in, much less a full sentence.            “Arthur!” Francis proclaimed loudly, “What’s wrong? Please, tell me what’s wrong!” Francis was almost begging, eyeing the delicate form of the cake while trying to properly tip toe around his husband’s delicate mental state at present.

           “You’re a low life, a creep, and a pervert!” the cake captor bellowed, eliciting a sigh from his love, “A-And you should be ashamed of yourself: that’s what’s wrong!” the blonde finished, his shoulders lurching with emotion.

           “Ooh, Arthur. Please.” Francis said, his expression softening and a prominent frown forming on his face as his lover began to cry. “Tell me what happened?”

           “D-Don’t pretend to be th-the problem solver wh-when you’re the problem, Francis!” Arthur cried, hiccups interrupting his explanation, “I, I saw you flirting- flirting with one of our adopted sons; what is wrong with you Francis?” Arthur howled, tears clouding his vision, “A-Alfred is your son Francis; you aren't’ supposed to wart to get into the pants of your children!” before Arthur could completely finish explaining his anger, sobs wracked through him and his arms buckled.

           Using Arthur’s lapse in attention, Francis swiftly went to his husband’s side, grabbed the cake securely before prying it out of Arthur’s grasp, and set it safely on the counter top.

           Only seconds had passed, but the Briton was quick to dig into the Frenchman once more. “S-Stupid frog!” Arthur spat venomously, bringing out his infamous, age old, insult for the occasion, “Y-you care more about that s-sodding cake than you do about your family!” He hollered, cries escaping him with only increasing intensity. “Y-You’d rather screw one of your children th-than your husband; a-am I just not good enough for you?” Arthur sobbed pounding a clenched, angry fist against Francis’s back, then his chest as his husband turned to face him; Francis, at present, was functioning as a barrier between his furious lover and the cake.

           “Arthur. Arthur.” Francis tried to soothe, capturing his lover’s fists one after the other, “My love: none of what you say is true!” He said in his defense, pulling the crying Briton into a tight embrace. “I love you so, so much; you’re the only one for me.” Francis murmured, “And my god- screw Alfred?” Francis echoed before shaking his head, holding Arthur tight, “I would never.” Francis said firmly. “Never, never, never.” he repeated for emphasis. “I love this family and I love you, Arthur.” Francis consoled, pressing a kiss to his love’s forehead. “Why would you think I would want something like that from our children?” Francis asked, looking at his lover questioningly.

           “I saw you flirting with Alfred, a-and the way you were l-looking at him, and how r-red in the face he was just now-- p-probably because of some lecherous, lewd thing you told him.” Arthur spat, sobbing against his husband’s chest when he couldn’t escape the other’s grasp. “J-Just now in the yard.”

           Francis thought for long moment before letting out a chuckle and, before Arthur could berate him with insults again, Francis began explaining himself as well as the situation they were currently in. “Arthur. I was only teasing Alfred; he has a boyfriend now.  I couldn’t help but poke fun at him. I was hugging him and I did kiss his cheek, but, you know you do that too, right? Parents are allowed to, you know.” Francis said, pleased to see that Arthur was listening with his full attention, “And he was only red in the face because I was telling the story of when he was little and thought your garden was going to kill him in front of his new boyfriend.”

           Arthur listened and, despite the fires of suspicion burning in his belly, everything seemed to be adding up as Francis explained away all of his questions and suspicions which were replaced quickly with hot, burning, shame.

           Arthur had accused Francis of flirting with their child with no solid evidence to back it up; Arthur had almost destroyed their family and his marriage with nothing to back it up. This realization fell upon him like an anvil and he cried once more.

           Francis saw the way his lover’s face contorted, regret washing over him and he couldn't help but feel for his husband.

           “I’m sorry, Francis.” He heard Arthur cry into his chest as he buried it there. Francis held him close, bringing a hand up to gently run his fingers through his upset husband’s messy locks.

           “Oooh, my love. It’s okay; all is forgiven.” Francis replied reassuringly, a loving softness to his voice, “You simply did not have all of the pieces for the puzzle and saw the wrong picture, mm?” he hummed, pulling Arthur back to kiss his forehead and wipe at his teary eyes, “I only wish you had said something first before threatening my cake and our lives together.” Francis chided gently, jest present in his tone.

           Silence reigned over the two lovers for a few minutes. During this time Arthur was brought back to composure by his husband’s soft whispers of reassurance and gentle caresses. Arthur sniffled softly, allowing Francis to leave their embrace to retrieve him a tissue, which Arthur accepted gratefully.

           After blowing his nose, Arthur wiped at his now reddened, puffy eyes before looking down at the linoleum of their kitchen floor and muttered quietly, a slight tremble in his voice when he spoke, “I... I’m a bad husband.”

           Upon properly registering the comment, Francis came back into action and pulled his saddened lover into a fresh embrace, “You’re not a bad husband, Arthur.” Francis corrected, rubbing soothing circles along the other’s back. “Do you think I’m a bad husband?” Francis wondered, resting the side of his head against the side of Arthur’s.

           “N-No.” Arthur huffed firmly.

           “Ooooh, but don’t you remember the time that I was certain you were trying to give the children and I food poisoning?” Francis asked, receiving an almost instant response.

           “I-I wasn’t.” Arthur responded, resting his head wearily against the other’s shoulder.

           “And I accused you because I didn’t know the whole story, isn’t that right?” Francis said more than asked, receiving a nod from his partner. Francis nodded as well and continued, “Everyone makes mistakes, Arthur, and we’re not bad people or bad husbands for making them. I forgive you and now everything’s okay.” He said, nudging Arthur’s head out of the crook of his shoulder to give him a proper kiss, “We stay together through all the mistakes and the bad times because we love one another.” Francis said, kissing Arthur once more and caressing his cheek lovingly. “I love you, Arthur.”

           “I-I love you too, Francis.” Arthur responded, his voice weak from shouting.

           The two husbands stood there, embracing one another and giving each other occasional kisses, looking away from each other only when they heard a familiar voice and the door opening.

           “Hey so is he ready to meet the boy...friend.” Alfred began with assurance that quickly tapered off as he caught sight of what could only be his father calming his dad down. Blue eyes locked with his dad’s puffy, green eyes and tear stained cheeks and Alfred panicked.

           “Alfred-” Arthur began, but Alfred was already halfway out the door before he could get a word in.

           Wasting no time in closing the door, Francis and Arthur both heard clearly as their son made a quick retreat across the yard, shouting, “Dad didn’t take it well, Dad didn’t take it well; Ivan we gotta hide you er somethin’!”

           Francis and Arthur watched through the open doorway as their son made a beeline for a very tall man on the other side of the yard giving to him, what appeared to be, a very frazzled and truncated explanation. Despite yet another misunderstanding, Francis let out a laugh.

           “See? Alfred does it too.” Francis said, referencing their recent discussion about acting before having the full story.

           Arthur let out a lighthearted huff and nudged Francis lightly, “You know all that means is that he learned it from us.” Arthur jeered.

           “Well I suppose so.” Francis admitted with a chuckle, “But, I also suppose that that’s fine.” Francis said before pressing a kiss to Arthur’s lips. Arthur smiled, enjoying the kiss while it lasted and letting out a contented breath as it ended.

           Arthur hummed softly as they parted from the kiss, “Mm, boyfriend...?” Arthur wondered, looking to his husband for clarification, at which Francis smiled.            “Aah, that’s right. How would you like to meet Ivan?” Francis wondered, adding after a moment, with a chuckle, “That is, if Alfred hasn’t hidden the boy away by now.”

           “Oh, Alfred wouldn’t be able to hide him from us.” Arthur replied, taking Francis’s hand into his as they approached the door to the front yard. “We’ll meet his boyfriend and then we can all enjoy this birthday cake of his together.” He added.

           “Oh, that’s true. Alfred is a horrible liar.” Francis remarked and pushed Arthur gently, playfully, “He got that from you.”

           Arthur was smiling when he let out a scoff, “I’ll have you know I am an extraordinary liar.”

           “Oh, I suppose you think I don’t remember that ‘surprise birthday party’ of yours that I discovered a week in advance.” Francis retorted, giving the Briton a sideways grin.

           “All, uh, well that was part of the plan.” Arthur tried to say as smoothly as possible as they entered the yard, giving the area a look around, “More importantly...” Arthur murmured while looking for their son, “Alfred where is that boyfriend of yours?” Arthur called out to his son who, at the moment, he could not see, but knew was listening.

           Francis wore a knowing smile as he released Arthur’s hand to, instead, wrap it around his husband’s waist, “I love you.” Francis murmured against his lover’s cheek after pressing a quick kiss against it, adoring the way the man’s cheeks still flushed, even after all the years they’d spent together.

           Arthur looked down, yet he was still unable to hide the joy the simple gesture gave him. “...I’m still sorry.” Arthur said softly after a moment.

           “I still forgive you.” Francis replied easily, smiling warmly at his husband when he dragged his gaze up from the ground to lock eyes with him.

           Arthur returned the smile slowly to the other, saying quietly after a moment, “Could I have a kiss?”

           At this, Francis was grinning, “Oh, you think you need to ask for one?” the Frenchman wondered and, within mere moments, the search for Alfred had ceased, “I think, as a matter of fact, that I might give you two kisses.” Francis hummed after kissing the Briton and before pressing another kiss to the same lips, “Perhaps even three.” Francis added, enjoying the chuckle that bubbled out of Arthur’s throat as he delivered the third kiss.

           “You know, the fifth kiss is an... exceptionally long one.” Francis hummed, giving Arthur a purposeful stare coupled with a mischievous smile; Arthur was quick to match his tempo.

           “Is it?” Arthur questioned with mock innocence, returning the smile after giving the Frenchman a quick peck on the lips, “How long is it?” he whispered, withdrawing his tongue to glide it across his waiting lips.

           “Well, let’s find out.” Francis replied lowly, pulling Arthur close against him and drawing Arthur’s lips into a kiss. This kiss would likely have evolved into something more, had their son not interrupted.

           “Oh god: they’re kissing!” The two fathers heard their boisterous son holler. The two lovers pulled away from each other, smiling despite the interruption.

           “Well, there’s Alfred.” Arthur said, allowing himself to be guided by Francis who took his hand and began the short trek to where their son was.

           “I love you, Arthur.” Francis said, giving him a smile as they both ignored Alfred’s japes.

           “...I love you too, Francis.” Arthur said, caressing his husband’s hand with his thumb.  He enjoyed the feeling of his lover’s hand in his and he said quietly, under his breath, “More than you may ever know...”

           “Hey so this is Ivan.” Arthur registered Alfred say before the introductions began and the worst problem Arthur had faced in months boiled its way down to a simple misunderstanding.

[buyakasha]

ineedbook: What was it like being a ranger? I've been thinking about it as a possible career bc I love the outdoors but I just don't know enough from actual rangers. Stuff online is like not helpful at all lol

hey friend! i know online info can be kinda vague, so i’ll try to give you a summary of my personal experience

what i went through was a Stewardship; i applied to the Ministry of Natural Resources to work for three months as a ranger at any park within Ontario, Canada. i’m not sure how it works in other provinces (if you’re canadian) or in the states, but i’m pretty sure stewrdship is a big deal in the parks. it’s how they educate youth and get them interested in the line of work. i was sent up north to Kirkland Lake, near the Quebec border (all of our radio stations, count em, THREE, were in french). it’s kettle lake country, and the town is built around a lot of mines (we got to go on a tour of one, it was terrifying). our camp itself was in Esker Lakes park, and i boarded with seventeen other young women and our supervisors, and our beloved cook.

those months were some of the best i’ve ever lived. i made incredible friends through teamwork and soul sharing. we worked together, ate together, slept together. the work itself was hard, but i loved every minute of it. granted, a lot of it was labor. the first two weeks were training; we had to have our first aid/cpr BEFORE even applying, but at camp we took classes on native american rights, bear awareness, emergency evacuation procedures, gps/map usage, learned how to use all of our tools, passed swimming tests, earned our ORCKA certificates (ontario recreational canoeing and kayaking association), and many other things. after that, it was straight to work. we repaired the steps going down to the lake at our camp, built a SAUNA, replaced allllllll of the boardwalks throughout the whole park (it’s very swampy in areas, but it makes great blueberries), cleared trails, and went on on-water patrol to locate illegal boat caches. we even had something called a fisher/marten boil, where a local trapper came by and gave us all of the skulls from his year of trapping fishers and martens. we had to, er, boil the skulls to loosen the teeth, so we could pull said teeth out. doing this helped us determine the animals age, which would be recorded and sent in as a study, to see how many is okay to legally trap the next year. a lot of the work was also working with the park visitors; organizing events and festivals, escorting campers to where they needed to go, things like that.  there was def some luxury though, we got to go on a week-long camping trip through our own park, so hiking every day and then bedding down, and then a week-long canoe trip where we canoed outside the park and came back around. i love canoe trips, i went on three while attending highschool, i highly recommend it if you ever get the chance. portaging and living off peanut butter does wonders for character development.

it passed by fast, and ever since, i’ve wanted to continue doing ranger work, but doubts and life got in the way. i’m hoping to go to school so i can start working with the ministry again. the money was good(for my age at the time), but the experience was the real pay off. i’m sure if i become a full-fledged ranger, the work will be that much more difficult and fulfilling. i need to mention, it helped that i had previously worked at two outdoor education centers and gone on canoe trips at school. it looked good on a resume. if you love the outdoors and can see yourself turning that passion into a career, then absoLUTELY try to go for a stewardship if you can. you won’t regret it!

some small tidbits of advice: keep your space clean, bring ducktape for blisters, avoid cooking after sundown while camping, learn how to pack your stuff efficiently and quickly, WEAR WOOL/AVOID COTTON(wool stays warm even while wet), fruity shampoo is your enemy, pack a bear bell/whistle, and KEEP A JOURNAL. i didn’t and i regret it every day. good luck!

[rantingfangirl]

Cross Life Chapter Three

Summary: Moving across the pond was supposed to signify new beginnings for the Kirkland family. Arthur’s parents seemed to take that a bit too literally for his liking.

Chapter Index

This was moved from my old blog

Vlad giggled, popping a piece of caramel popcorn in his mouth. Arthur took one from the bag, rolling it between his fingers, examining, before eating it. The three were sitting together in the school’s courtyard, enjoying the small lunch break that they had before having to return back to class.

Well, Vlad and Lukas were enjoying themselves, with their shorts and short-sleeved t-shirts. Sweat trailed down Arthur’s back and he mentally patted himself on the shoulder for remembering to put deodorant on that morning. Though they sat under one of the numerous trees in the courtyard, the shade and soft breeze did little to shake off the sweltering heat.

Stuffing a handful of popcorn in his mouth, Vlad’s voice was muffled, half-chewed bits falling out onto his shirt and lap as he spoke. “An-and then I said to ‘im, 'stay in your bed and go to sleep, or the boogeyman will come out, pull ya down under the bed, and we’ll never see you again!’ Didn’t hear even a single peep that night.”

Lukas chuckled, making a comment on how Vlad shouldn’t talk with his mouth full. He received several chucked pieces of popcorn as a response.

Arthur snorted. “Yeah, because scarring your little brother’s mind is totally going to make him stop 'misbehaving’.”

Vlad threw his arms up in the air dramatically, eyes wide and mouth open with shock. “C'mon, Arthur! I’m just teasing him!”

“I agree with Arthur-” Lukas leaned back, propping his arms against the concrete for support “- you keep scaring your brother like that, he’s gonna have some serious problems when he gets older. He could even turn out to be like you.”

“Oh, and your brother Emil is definitely-” the two bickered back and forth, Arthur tuning them out. He pushed his sleeve up, wiping the sticky sweat off his forehead.

Arthur scanned the courtyard, eyes squinting in an attempt to not be blinded. Tables sat in a pit in the middle, trees, including the one Arthur and his companions had claimed, surrounded it and providing much needed shade. He could see the doors to the nice, air-conditioned cafeteria from where he was sitting, and wished that they had chosen to sit there instead.

Turning his head, he spotted something familiar, freezing. At a certain, crowded table, a particular caramel head sat, his head down and using his arms for a pillow, a black haired boy whispering to him and rubbing his back while the others leaned in towards him.

Arthur gripped against the concrete, an unfamiliar feeling making his hands shake. His shoulders tensed and he narrowed his eyes, staring. After about a minute though, he sighed, slumping over, reaching his arm to rub the back of his neck. He was still angry with what Alfred did the day prior. That must have been it.

He looked back towards Lukas and Vladimir- who he guessed were his friends now. The two were staring at him, eyes expectant. Arthur raised an eyebrow in return, but deflated, hanging his head down and slumping hi shoulders. “I’m… sorry. Just wondering who they were.” He jerked his head towards the crowded table, mainly towards Alfred and the one whispering to him.

Vladimir nodded, Lukas turning to stare towards the group. Arthur could have sworn there was a tinge of longing in his gaze, but chose to ignore it, thinking it was probably nothing. Vlad gave Arthur a knowing expression, nodding his head towards Lukas. “It would be useful for you to know them, I guess.” Vlad sat up, crossing his legs. “Those guys are part of the baseball and soccer team.” Arthur smirked. “You mean football team.”

“Yes. Football team.” Vladimir turned to Lukas, elbowing him in the side to get his attention. “Speaking of the football team-” he turned to Arthur, raising his brow “-American football team, I mean. Rumor has it that they’re not going to have it this year.

Arthur perked up, propping his chin on his hand. "Why? Did some stupid jocks do something?” He watched the movies, the ones with American football players with sensitivity levels in the negatives, their IQs even lower. Ones that tormented the lives of those who didn’t comply with their standards. Perhaps something had happened, something horrible enough to suspend the team for the year. Vlad shrugged, grabbing another piece of popcorn. “Not enough people to play, I guess? It’s not that popular.”

“What do you mean, 'not popular’? Isn’t it the best thing since sliced bread in America?”

Lukas turned towards him- “No, that would be Betty White.” and looked back to the table.

Vlad rolled his eyes, telling Arthur to look it up. “The thing is, football is just not that popular. In fact, people here couldn’t care less about football.” He grabbed some popcorn, shoving it in his mouth, chewing and swallowing. “Now baseball, that’s popular. Soccer, too, when it’s not baseball season. I’ve never been to a football game before in my entire life. Been ta hundreds of baseball ones, though. I think Lukas used to play. Lukas?”

“Played in elementary school. Quit when I got hit in the face with the ball.”

“And there ya have it. Those guys at that table over there, they’re the best on the team. Not counting Kiku, though, he doesn’t play. Alfred F. Jones, Gilbert Beilschmidt- that’s Mr. Beilschmidt’s eldest son, by the way- Antonio Fernández Carriedo- that sure is a mouthful- and, the one and the only, Mathias Kohler.” Vlad wiggled his eyebrows when he said the last boy’s name, which prompted Lukas to roll his eyes.

“Oh, shut up.”

Arthur scooted up. “Wh- Mathias? Who’s that?”

Vlad smiled, a small dent appearing in the middle of his chin. “Mathias is the boy that Lukas is smitten with. Watches him whenever he passes by, can’t talk to him without turning into a stuttering pile of goo. Ya know, that kinda crush.”

Lukas’ cheeks spread with a color not unlike that of a pink rose. Turning his head into his shoulder, Arthur could barely make out his voice. “Knock it off, Vlad.” “Ok, fine. Fine. But you’re going to have to face it and you know it.”

Arthur tucked that small piece of information in the folds of his mind, saving it in case he would have to use it for future blackmail.

The three made small talk for the rest of the lunch break, topics like the weather and future homework coming up, Vladimir making the occasional joke at Lukas’ expense. The entire time, though, Arthur’s attention kept wandering towards that table.

Perhaps he had been harsh to Alfred yesterday. A bit too harsh. He knew the boy started crying when he left, could tell by his shaking and voice crack. Maybe he should go over there and apologize and-

No. Alfred deserved what he got. If he hadn’t reminded Arthur of… that, then maybe he wouldn’t have yelled at him. What he said was completely justified. Arthur nodded, sealing the fact.

When the courtyard started to empty out, the three exchanged their goodbyes, promising to see each other whenever they could. Arthur grabbed the now-empty bag of popcorn, throwing it away on the way to his next period, which happened to be choir.

He didn’t know why anyone thought it a good idea to schedule a choir class after lunch, but he dealt with it. Mr. Vargas was a nice enough director, ignoring him after their introduction in favor of spending the period to paint vivid images of what this year contained. Arthur knew today would probably be much more eventful and that maybe he would get his part. He had no preferences, only that it wasn’t next to the sopranos. Their voices often gave him pounding headaches, especially when they hit the highest of notes.

Arthur walked down the hallway, busy admiring the glittering trophies and banners yelling about past championship wins. He turned the corner, running into someone with an 'oomph’! Taking a few steps back, he adjusted the strap of his backpack. Looking up, a “my apologies” on the very tip of his tongue, he froze upon seeing him.

It was Kiku. Alfred’s boyfriend. Arthur looked him up and down, at his pink t-shirt, his jeans, the few strings of black hair brushing against his chin, only to be nodded away, and he could tell that Kiku was doing the same to him.

The words on his tongue had shriveled up and died, the strong, sour feeling from lunch spiking up again. He smiled anyways, his words sweet like honey. “I’m terribly sorry-”

“Are you Arthur Kirkland?” His voice had a sharp, tense edge to it, making Arthur’s smile falter. It was back up again in a moment.

“Yes, I am. And you are…?”

“Why don’t we skip the pleasantries, if you don’t mind.”

His smile fell, replaced by the nastiest sneer he could manage. Arthur rolled back his shoulders, tensing his back. He lowered his voice so eavesdroppers would have a difficult time hearing. “What do you want, Kiku.”

Kiku raised an eyebrow, cocking his head to the side, only to sigh, returning to his calm expression. “So you know me.”

“What- do- you- want?” It wouldn’t be long until the bell rang and he wanted to get to class on time. Kiku was keeping him from the choir room and if he didn’t get out of the way soon… Arthur clenched his fists, gritting his teeth. Kiku tugged down the hem of his t-shirt, the faces of animated characters stretching along with it. Arthur looked down. Kiku’s fingers were clenching the fabric as if he were mustering the courage to talk to him. How cute.

“Alfred is my best friend. He has been since middle school. Alfred is the sweetest, kindest, most thoughtful person I know. And it will always be that way. And you made him cry. Alfred, you made him cry. I don’t know how, but you did. For three hours last night, he cried into my shoulder. For three hours. I don’t even know you, just a name and a face and what you did. But, I can’t help but dislike you- no- hate you. For making Alfred… not Alfred.”

Arthur sighed, lifting up his watch to check the time. Only a minute to get to class. As much as he was enjoying their heartfelt confession and ooey-gooey snuggle and cuddle time, he really needed to go. “I don’t know about you, but I would like to get to my class sometime this century. Can we-” he rolled his hand in a circular motion “-wrap this up quickly?”

Kiku looked like a fish out of water with his gaping mouth. He was probably expecting Arthur to apologize in a frenzy, to have tears making tracks down his cheeks, pleading for forgiveness and saying that he didn’t mean to hurt his little golden boy’s feelings. Arthur snorted. He was being underestimated more and more these days.

He snapped on his sweet little smile from before, raising his voice to his normal volume, moving his arms to stand akimbo. “Is there anything else you need, Kiku? I wasn’t lying, I really do need to get to class.”

When he heard no answer, he shrugged, making a short humming noise to go along with it. Arthur pushed pass Kiku, strolling down the hallway. He could see the choir room from where he was.

“Please believe me when I say I don’t take what I’m about to say lightly-” With a groan, Arthur stopped, contemplating whether or not he should have continued walking “- and I am rarely as livid as I am now. I hate you, Arthur Kirkland. I hate you with all my heart. I despise you because you hurt Alfred. My Alfred. And I will never forget it.”

Arthur tried to make it seem like he was actually paying attention to this declaration, bopping his head side to side, left-right-left-right. Back turned to Kiku, he shrugged again, starting to walk. “How dramatic.”

He didn’t pay any mind to Kiku, who was stuttering after his response. He didn’t pay any mind to his claims about Alfred crying into his shoulder for three hours the night before. Nor did he even care.

He pushed open the door to the choir room, cursing when he saw most of the seats were full. Mr. Vargas was standing at the front, writing something in loopy scrawl on the chalkboard. Arthur dashed to an empty back seat in the boys’ section the farthest from the girls. Anything to get away from the sopranos. When the bell rang, Mr. Vargas clapped his hands together, smiling with straight, pearl-white teeth. “Good afternoon, everyone.” His smile grew wider when the class greeted back in uneven voices, Arthur for once choosing to respond with them. “We are a choir, and a choir is a family. Now, let’s try this again, and this time, as a family. Good afternoon, everyone.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Vargas.” Though it was monotone, the greeting was in unison, which seemed to please him.

Arthur watched as Mr. Vargas turned to the piano accompanist, a boy who looked to be the same age as Arthur with wrinkle-free clothing and styled hair. He whispered something to him, turning back towards the class.

“Yesterday, we went over last year’s failures and triumphs. What we would fix and what we could keep on doing this year. Today-” Mr. Vargas stretched his arms above his head, rolling back his shoulders “-we will be 'choosing’ sections.” The class groaned, Arthur not understanding why. Mr. Vargas slung his head back, groaning louder and more obnoxious than any of the students. “C'mon, guys! This is necessary. It is. We have new people come into this choir, who we’ll consider family the moment they step in the door, and we have beloved ones who go and will be considered family even after they’re long gone.”

Arthur slumped back, rolling his eyes. He had no idea what Mr. Vargas’ deal was with family, but he’ll never consider these people that close to him. Ever. But he still didn’t know why his supposed family was so opposed to seats being arranged. Arthur looked around, several faces scowling, others indifferent. No evidence as to why the groans took place at all.

Mr. Vargas, still standing in front of the classroom, stood akimbo. “Who are our newbies this year?”

Arthur once again looked around. No one had their hand up. Which made him frown. Slowly, shyly, he raised his hand. Mr. Vargas’ eyes snapped to him, smile getting wider and wider as his hand got higher and higher. Arthur wiggled his fingers in the air, brow raising as he did it. He had a feeling that he would be the first person subjected to the apparent torture that was picking seats in the Vargas regime of the high school choir.

Mr. Vargas cleared his throat, crossing his arms. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Arthur Kirkland.” With how many times he had been introducing himself lately, one would think that he had some elaborate and well thought-out way of doing it, but he didn’t. No flourish, no nothing. While he had thought of doing an eloquent, “Arthur Kirkland, my dear lady or lord,” he had decided against it, out of risk of being called a smart ass, which, while he would certainly take delight in being called one, he didn’t really need at that moment.

Mr. Vargas nodded his head towards the piano. “Step up to the piano, son.” Arthur wanted to comment about how he wasn’t his son and to never call him that again, but instead pushed himself out of his chair, walking up to the accompanist. Mr. Vargas stepped back, towards the two, looking at the keys. “Let’s do… key of B.”

He could hear the snickering of those behind them but chose to ignore it when the accompanist pressed the key. It was a bit too high, to the point where he would have troubles hitting the highest note. He gave a look to Mr. Vargas, who seemed to sympathize with him. “Go to the key of F, Roderich.” Roderich played the key. “One octave lower. Perfect.”

It really was better. Arthur allowed himself to relax a bit. Mr. Vargas turned to him, looking him up and down. “You have experience in a choir?”

Arthur wanted to cringe at the though. “Yes, sir. Seven years of church choir back in the UK.” He hated every minute of it. The songs were boring, the director had a stick up her ass. Maybe four. No one in the congregation was ever happy with what they did and made sure to give their input after performances. Arthur had a sinking feeling that this would be the same thing.

“Better experience than some people here. How’s sight-reading?”

“Mediocre.”

“It’ll be great by the end of the year. Roderich, play the starting note.” Roderich pressed the key, the noise vibrating through the now silent room. “Now, I don’t know what you’re used to, but we do things a bit differently here. Watch.” Mr. Vargas took a deep breath, Roderich playing the starting key again. “Va~ Za~ Zinga Zinga Zinga Zinga Zing.” His voice was deep and rich, moving to the various pitches with ease born from decades of practice. “That one started with the starting note. The next one, you start with "re”. Va~ Za~ Zinga Zinga Zinga Zinga Zing. And then you go on to “mi”. Got it? Heh, I learned this at a director’s camp a couple years back. Pretty good, right?“

Arthur nodded, not sure if he was doing it as a compliment to Mr. Vargas’ learning or if to show he got it.  He breathed in, his stomach expanding. Just as Mr. Vargas had done it, Arthur did the stupid assessment, going up the scale by one after each segment was over.

When it ended, he relaxed his shoulders, his cheeks hot. Turning to Mr. Vargas, Arthur raised his eyebrow. Mr. Vargas averted his eyes, bopping his a bit. Arthur couldn’t tell if he was trying to build suspense or if Mr. Vargas actually didn’t know what part to put him in, even after that minute of doing eight of those ridiculous segments. Mr. Vargas rolled his eyes back, running his fingers through his hair. "Uh… let’s put you in~-” Mr. Vargas paused, lifting his hand to stroke his chin. He stood there for at least three minutes, Arthur beginning to understand why everyone hated this day. The man took forever to “choose” if he was even doing that. “-bass. Let’s put you in the bass part.”

Arthur sighed, shoulders slumping. Finally, they were done. He turned, walking back to his seat. Mr. Vargas called up the next victim, who Arthur felt a tinge of pity for, but that feeling disintegrated when he remembered the laughter behind his hack as he did his. And the fact that he was made to go first.

While funny at first, watching Mr. Vargas embarrass his students one by one in front of the entire class quickly grew to be dull and irritating. After the fifth guinea pig, a soprano whose voice was high enough to give Arthur a headache that felt like his brain was being viciously stabbed, he had finally had enough, discreetly sliding his current book from his backpack. Arthur had gotten multiple pages in when a very, very familiar name popped up.

“Alfred, my boy, come on up.” Arthur jerked his head up, softly closing his book. He had forgotten Alfred was in the choir. Sure, he had seen him yesterday, joking and playing with some assumed friends of his, but he just dismissed it as yet another class with the fool who thought him to be Australian.

And there he was. Arthur watched Alfred as he walked from the back row to the piano. Alfred and Mr. Vargas shared toothy grins, giving each other a high-five. “Think I’m gonna go down ta bass, Mr. V?”

Mr. Vargas let out a deep, loud laugh. “We’ll just have ta see.” He turned to Roderich, nodding to the keyboard. “Give me a B.”

Like it had what seemed like hundreds of times before, the room fell silent when Roderich pressed the key. Arthur watched as Alfred took a deep breath, fingers fidgeting. As Alfred sang the segments, his voice, while high, was pleasant and smooth. Arthur grinned.

Despite what Kiku said, Alfred looked perfectly fine. His smile was as bright, cheery, and, though he would never admit it to anyone, as contagious as it had been the day before. So either Kiku was a lying piece of rubbish, trying to get Arthur to get down on his knees and beg for forgiveness, or Alfred F. Jones could reign in his emotions quicker and more efficient than anyone he had every met. Even better than himself.

Alfred finished the last segment, high “do”, looking at Mr. Vargas with hopeful eyes. Mr. Vargas rubbed the back of his neck. “Eh…” He was doing his suspense thing. Arthur groaned, leaning back.

Alfred’s voice was whiny, and though Arthur had spent years of something like it dealing with Peter, he thought it cute. “C'mon, Mr. V!”

“Eh-” Alfred lifted off his heels, up-down-up-down. Mr. Vargas yelled, “Tenor!”

Alfred huffed, stopping his foot down with a “Darn it!”. He then frowned, hanging his head down. Mr. Vargas gave him a couple of pats on the shoulder, which were hard enough for Arthur to hear the thumps even from where he was sitting, before nudging Alfred back to his seat.

When Alfred slumped back into the chair, kicking his feet at the carpet flooring, he turned his head in Arthur’s direction. Arthur gave him a reassuring smile- which from him, was rare- but Alfred just scowled, looking away.

He tsked. Okay, maybe he had deserved a little bit of that, considering his little vent the day before, but the sooner Alfred realized that it was all his fault, he being the one who provoked Arthur, then they could put this all behind them and move along.

If Alfred was going to be like that, then fine. He would ignore him as well. Arthur turned his attention back to his book, opening it as the piano sounded.  He rubbed his forehead, wincing at the high note. The rest of the period was going to be long, if he didn’t kill himself first.

The bell rang, the class seemingly sighing with relief in unison. Arthur pulled his backpack from under his chair, shoving his book inside and zipping it up.

After an entire period, Mr. Vargas had only assigned less than half the class their sections, claiming that they would do the rest tomorrow. And the thing was, he probably knew what part a good number of people were, but, as Arthur had heard, Mr. Vargas enjoyed doing more than he had to, usually making the class suffer. Though, Arthur doubted the man really cared.

He stood, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. The classroom was quickly emptied, the only ones left being himself, Roderich, Mr. Vargas, and a few stragglers. Arthur was just about to clear out into the hallway, already having one foot out the door, when Mr. Vargas spoke.

“Arthur Kirkland?”

“He stopped, ducking his head back into the classroom. "Yes, sir?” “Come here. I wanna talk to ya.”

Arthur huffed, walking back towards Mr. Vargas’ desk. Mr. Vargas and Alfred were at least on friendly terms, that much was evident, and he could’ve blabbed and blown out of proportion what had happened yesterday. Or maybe it was Kiku, the fool.

Mr. Vargas was leaning against his desk with both his hands propping him up on the veneer. “We have a Madrigal Choir here. Y'know what that is, right?”

“Madrigals are secular songs sung several centuries ago.”

“Pretty much. I want you to join ours.” He handed Arthur a paper, a smile widening on his face.

Arthur took the paper, looking it over with a scrutinizing eye. he raised his head up back to Mr. Vargas. “Why me?”

Mr. Vargas’ cheeks darkened and he averted his eyes, raising his arm to rub the back of his neck. It seemed to be a nervous habit of his. “Uh…” he sighed, dropping his hand. “Look, my grandson- he has… troubles when dealing with other people. Rude. Pushes them away. Tries his best to humiliate them when he can.” Mr. Vargas looked off, smiling about his brat of a grandson “-one time he held a fake mustache to one of Mr. Beilschmidt’s sons, Ludwig, I think it was. You shoulda seen it. Hilarious.

But he’s actually kind, gentle, caring to the people he cares about. And when he’s in cooking club, talking about cooking, or just anything about it in general, he has something that he’s interested in. He has something that he belongs to-” “I’m not your grandson, Mr. Vargas.” And he certainly didn’t want to be compared to him, whoever he was.

“ And I know that. But why did I ask you? Let’s just say that your conduct isn’t exactly a secret among the teachers. The ones that have you, at least. You need something to belong to. Now, I know you might say that you already have this choir, but you need something else. This, this could be it. Please consider it. We’d love to have ya.” Mr. Vargas winked at the last part, Arthur smirking to go along.

Arthur didn’t need to know about Mr. Vargas’ grandson, nor did he care. He knew that the teachers were aware of his reports and he was flattered that they were talking about him. But that didn’t mean that he needed or wanted to be asked to join a Madrigal Choir, of all things.

He nodded, moving his eyes corner to corner to make it seem as if he were actually considering it.  "I- uh… will think about it.“

Mr. Vargas’ smile was blinding and he seemed elated as he put his arm on Arthur’s shoulders, leading him towards the door. "I really hope you decide to do this.”

Arthur nodded, walking out of the classroom. He turned back towards Mr. Vargas, giving a small smile. “I do as well, sir. have a good day, sir.” He started walking down the hallway, making his way to his next class. “Don’t be who they want you to be, Arthur!”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.” He saw people staring at him, at Mr. Vargas. He glared at those people, snorting at their shocked faces, and walked faster. Arthur would only join that stupid choir when Hell froze over.

[smokingbomber]

rakish

okay so this one’s for someone who didn’t have a tumblr but who requested it anyway. Prompt is CT Zoisite, Mamoru, ‘rakish’, smut OK. I tried. I tried to smut. Mamoru did not cooperate. Zoisite is patient.

"Goodnight, Usako," mumbled Mamoru sleepily into his phone with an endless ocean of affection. He waited, then laughed a little. "I know you're not going to bed. I love you too. I have to sleep..."

Waiting again -- she'd be hurt if he hung up first -- he finally heard the call disconnect on her end, then let his phone drop to the mattress beside his pillow. The tiny single he'd scored in Kirkland House didn't feel so empty when she called, even if he had to make himself stay up until one in the morning so she could catch him when she got out of school.

He'd managed to transfer rather than having to do his entire freshman year all over again; there was an absurd -- almost suspicious -- level of accommodation they'd given him, for all that he'd disappeared off the face of the earth for six months and then jammed a year's worth of classes into a semester and three short summer sessions back in Tokyo. He wasn't entirely sure how the entire mess had even worked, but suspected Setsuna of having friends in high places.

And somehow he even got a single.

And somehow, even if he'd been sleepy less than a minute ago, Mamoru was wide awake again-- wide awake and uneasy. He could sense magic somewhere nearby, sharp and clear to his starved senses; it wasn't dark, it wasn't a youma, but it could still be some kind of enemy. His fingers curled into his sheets and he stared, unseeing, at the dark ceiling.

Abruptly, Mamoru sat up in bed and swung his feet over the side, standing up and reaching out with his heightened magical sense; the feeling was growing, and if he could pinpoint it--

The door opened, and he threw up his hand to shade his eyes from the hallway's light. An open door, he couldn't help thinking, was terribly anticlimactic, even if it /had/ been locked. Even more mundanely, the person who opened it -- the silhouette was short and slim with wavy long hair -- actually closed it again after coming inside.

Mamoru's night vision was shot, and there were still stars dancing in his eyes as the person approached; he backed up and fell backwards over the end of his bed, then leapt to his feet with the window behind him, hair sticking up amazingly rakishly for what should honestly just have been unappealing bedhead. "What do you want? Who are you?" he demanded, hastily adopting a defensive stance.

"Endy--?" came a heartbreakingly familiar voice, sounding baffled. "It's me, what are you even-- why are you sleeping in a closet?"

A voice that belonged to a rock sitting on his nightstand.

Mamoru reached out with his soul, this time, looking for the connections he had -- like the strings of fate -- to the souls locked in the gems he'd taken with him, the souls which slept more and more often, only speaking with him when he called.

The connection to Zoisite was there, still. But the thread was split, and it gave him the promise of an immense headache if he tried to do anything more than glance at it.

"What-- how--?" the prince stammered uncomprehendingly. His head turned from the figure to the rocks, and then back to the figure, and he willed his sight to recover. After a half second, he could see a little better, and the figure was still approaching him. Was approaching and was definitely Zoisite, no question. Mamoru's eyes widened, and he froze in his tracks.

"--oh," said Zoisite, also stopping, and then again and more emphatically, "/oh/." And then there was an unmistakable grin in his voice, full of mischief. "Ara~!"

All of a sudden, the nineteen-year-old found himself being pressed back against the strip of wall next to the window and kissed insistently by a man half a head shorter than himself, the sharp rich scent of some kind of flower that somehow shared characteristics with caramel filling his nose. He flailed for a second, then took Zoisite's shoulders and pushed him back, blushing furiously. "Are you /kidding/ me? You feel like you're really you, but if you're really you then you /know/ I have a girlfriend, and you /know/ she's so jealous she was even jealous of Chibiusa--" he gasped, looking down and finally seeing bright green eyes in the light from the street outside.

"--and you /know/ she gets to have all /kinds/ of fun with her girls while you pine away in your little dorm on the other side of the world," said Zoisite, reaching up a delicate hand to lightly trace down the side of Mamoru's face, then land with fingertips on his prince's lips. He was smirking, but there was something behind his eyes that looked incredibly indignant -- and aching -- on Mamoru's behalf.

"I'm not interested in anyone but her!" Mamoru protested defensively, taking Zoisite's wrist and pulling the hand away from his mouth-- but he was blushing, and Zoisite was still pressed against him, back arched so he could lean back to look up, and Zoisite could tell the blood wasn't rushing /just/ to Mamoru's face.

"No," Zoisite practically purred, his other hand trailing up Mamoru's bare chest to curl around the back of his neck and slip fingers into the taller boy's short black hair. "You're not interested in anyone you've met here on campus. And you're not generally interested, in fact, in anyone you're not already connected to, here--"

Like quicksilver, Zoisite's wrist practically melted from Mamoru's grasp and his hand came up to touch at Mamoru's temple. "Or here." And the hand came down again to lay flat against Mamoru's heart-- no, not heart. The place where they both knew a brilliantly shining crystal lived, warm and golden, and full of the sense of home that everyone on Earth would instinctively know if they felt its power healing them.

Mamoru's back was getting cold against the window, and Zoisite was like fire in front of him, hypnotic and burning hot, always moving even when stationary. Blue eyes locked on green, and the next protest died unspoken as Zoisite let his hand fall from Mamoru's chest, then gently took Mamoru's own hand and delicately placed the tip of one of his fingers between his lips. It was mostly a kiss, but there was the barest flicker of Zoisite's tongue against the very tip, and then the strawberry blond guardian smiled around it and let go of Mamoru's hand.

It took a second before Mamoru remembered to move his hand away, and in that second, Zoisite pressed himself harder against Mamoru's hips, a slow and teasing motion upwards that was /almost/ a grind, /almost/.

Mamoru sucked in a breath, sharp and quick, and then released a puff of it between his teeth. Not quite a hiss. "I-- I think-- that's called demisexuality--" he managed, the words sort of falling out of his mouth. "And-- how the hell-- how the /hell/ would you know, you've been a /rock/ for three years--!"

Zoisite leaned in, and his breath against Mamoru's collarbone was the start of a brushfire, lightning against dried foliage and naked twigs. Mamoru could feel his closeness everywhere, not just where erection insistently pressed against erection, with trousers and pajama bottoms in between. When Zoisite's mouth landed against his skin, Mamoru could feel it in every nerve, and he couldn't--

No, he could make him stop. He could make himself make Zoisite stop. The fact that he hadn't already was evidence that he didn't /want/ to.

As he came to that realization, his empathy could taste something else in Zoisite's emotion surface: the strange assuaging of a very, very, very old guilt, and the rapid birth of a new one to replace it.

That was what finally made Mamoru shake himself out of it enough to put the brakes on. He roughly took Zoisite's shoulders and pushed him back, then further back, arms' length. He kept going, pushing the shorter boy toward the bed, then down to sit on it. His face was red and he was flustered and the evidence of his arousal was still quite apparent in his pajamas, but he stood far enough away from Zoisite that Zoi wouldn't take that as an invitation. Yet.

"No. Usa and I didn't discuss this. Not okay." He crossed his arms and scowled at the prettiest of his Shitennou. "Yes, you caught me, you're beautiful and I want you, in addition to loving you with everything I've got-- just like I love the other guys-- just like I love Usa. But that doesn't mean I get to cheat on her with you."

He took a deep breath. "So-- first you're going to tell me how you're sitting on my bed and on my nightstand at the same time, and then you're going to tell me why getting me hot and bothered made you stop feeling guilty and then made you feel guilty about something else, and then you're going to tell me the BIG THING you're not telling me, and then -- if what you tell me washes -- I am going to call Usa back and tell her you're here and trying to get in my pants and ask her if that's okay."

Zoisite pouted, crossing his own arms in mirror image to Mamoru's, and scowled right back. "You are literally no fun."

"I'm a /lot/ of fun," said Mamoru pointedly, "on /my terms/."

The pretty, pretty boy on Mamoru's bed sighed deeply, slouching in defeat. "I'm from Crystal Tokyo," he said in a low voice, turning his face away. "We all feel guilty you stuck it out alone this whole time at Harvard, so you even starting to-- the idea that I could maybe lessen that, just a little?" Suddenly he was looking up at Mamoru again, his eyes shining bright and sorrowful and hopeful, all at once. "That's the relief. The guilt is that the other guys aren't in on it. And I honestly have no idea how I'm here, I legitimately thought I was going into your-- I mean King Endymion's-- closet to pick out an outfit for him to wear into town, we were going to go out undercover..."

Mamoru stared. He couldn't stop staring, and he wasn't sure what was up with his heart, but it was definitely beating too fast and too hard, and he felt faint, and he felt so much hope all at once that he could taste it in his mouth and feel it singing through his blood, and his eyes stung and Zoisite looked blurry, there in the semi-dark. He opened his mouth to say something, dimly aware that he /should/, but he couldn't make the words come.

They'd be alive again. They were going to be alive again. He would have them back for real, he would have them /back/, he would be able to touch them, to hold them, to know they were there-- he would be able to let them hold him, he would be able to fall apart on someone it wouldn't /break/.

He took in a shuddering breath instead, and came over to put his hand on the side of Zoisite's face, and then bent to kiss the top of that bright-haired head.

It took him a couple of tries to pick up his phone after he went around to the other side of the bed, and deciding that precautionary measures were the things that saved phone replacement costs, sat down to call Usagi.

"...yeah," he said into the phone, hands and voice both shaky. "Yeah I'm fine. I just-- Usa. Zoisite's here--"

A pause, and he vehemently shook his head. "No, really here. I mean his gem too, but he's really really here. From Crystal Tokyo. ... yeah, I don't know if they hid or what. ... no, he doesn't know how he got here. ... no, it's-- Usa-- he knows about you and the girls, he wants to-- ... yeah. ... yes. Is that-- is that okay?"

An instant later, Zoisite could /feel/ as much as see the tension rush out of Mamoru.

"... really? I'm sorry, I-- ... okay, okay, I'm not sorry, fine! I just-- thank you... no, I /do/, I /do/ need to-- you know nothing could-- ... oh my god, Usako, she is? I'm going to die. ... /Minako you're noisy!/ Yes fine go away! Tell her I-- OKAY ALREADY!"

Mamoru did not throw the phone. He /did/ very vehemently press 'end call' and then turn the ringer off and jam it in the drawer of his nightstand.

Then he sat there with his face burning in his hands, hunched over, really not okay with the tsunami of mutually exclusive and equally emphatic emotions warring over his physiology.

He could feel the bed moving, could feel Zoisite creeping across it toward him; a second later, he felt Zoisite's arms around him, gathering him close and somewhat awkwardly letting him attempt to vanish inside the embrace. He was too tall for Zoi to envelop efficiently, but it didn't matter.

He could also feel Zoisite's forgiveness when he started just crying unsexily, years of pent-up feelings finally releasing themselves into the care of his knight--

After all, what he needed at that moment was healing and purification.

The needs of his trousers could wait a little longer.

[qkantyjk-blog]

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[fire-bear]

Dr. Nosferatu

I actually managed to finish this on time! Yay!

Warnings: probably inaccurate medical practices but necessary for plot, dammit! Mild violence? I’m not sure what else to warn you about... Swearing.

Oh, and blood, but I think that’s covered in the title?

Francis had lost count of how many years he'd been alive.

Well, not that he was technically alive, being a vampire. He'd been turned when he had survived the Middle Ages into his twenties. The thing that had turned him had been one of the original vampires and Francis had been worried that he'd be impaired with all the 'disabilities' that vampires had to bear. Thankfully, the vampire had been weaker than expected and Francis had managed to live in the sunlight and the growing Christian community. He couldn't eat too much garlic but, in small amounts and mixed into dishes, he wasn't really affected. Holy water had never been an issue as he had been careful enough not to draw the attention of hunters.

Of course, over time, he realised that he would have to move if he didn't want people asking questions. To begin with, he did so every ten years, looking for work elsewhere and trying not to draw too much attention to himself. As long as he wasn't too hungry, he would never kill anyone. But their eyes whenever they saw him...

After a while, he'd had to learn how to make his own documentation, forging it and changing his surname (and sometimes his first name) every so often. With that new knowledge, he was able to amass enough money to go to university. At first, he had tried to find a way to reverse his vampirism. When he failed to find a solution, he made sure to give himself enough careers to fall back on. All he had to do was lift the name and dates from the document and replace them with others. It grew more difficult when computers came into play but he had soon taken a course and was soon able to hack into the systems he needed in order to give himself a believable CV.

Sometimes, he would actually attend the universities he lied about going to. There was a constant development of human knowledge and he had to keep up. In particular, biology and medicine came on in leaps and bounds and he was very interested in knowing more about what he was doing to the humans he had to feed on.

Every time he drank from a person – which he tried to limit – he hated the way they screamed or struggled. It saddened him and he wished he could stop. But when he had originally tried to stop himself, his hunger forced him to kill, even if he had been forcing himself to drink animal blood. Then he had heard about the donations of blood, of the bags of blood just lying in hospitals to save humans' lives.

So he began to steal bags of blood, just the odd one or two every so often. It didn't taste as good but it kept him alive and quenched his hunger. As security became more important to humans, Francis became a doctor, moving between hospitals and doctor's practices when he needed to. He still only took just enough but, suddenly, his current workplace realised bags were going missing and the security around the blood grew.

With no way to get his food without questions, Francis tried to continue as usual, refusing to feed on humans again. He was thousands of years old; he could wait until he could get to the blood again. After all this time, he was used to the hunger. He could control it.

Couldn't he?

"I'll see you in a few weeks, Mrs. Honda," Francis said with a forced smile. He walked the woman to the door. "Don't forget to make the appointment at the desk before you leave."

"Thank you, Doctor Bonnefoy," the woman replied with a big grin.

With another forced smile, Francis waved and closed the door, gasping as soon as he was alone. There was a familiar pain in his stomach, so severe it was getting more and more difficult to work. But he only had to wait a few more hours before he could leave for home – though he suspected he would have to find someone to drink a little from before the hunger would get any stronger.

In the meantime, he just had to focus.

Biting his lip, careful not to pierce the skin, Francis pushed himself from the door and moved to his desk where he began to fill in the files for Mrs. Honda. She was a lovely woman, sweet and cheerful and utterly in love with her husband who, apparently, was working even more in order to have money set aside for when the baby came. And she had a spicy-smelling B- blood type.

Francis shuddered at his own thoughts and firmly pushed it aside. It was difficult, however, and he kept remembering the smell, her pretty little neck. Taking deep breaths, he stared at the keyboard and continued typing until he realised that he was typing the same thing over and over. When he looked up, he recoiled in horror.

All that was written in the new page of Mrs. Honda's records was:

BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD

BLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLOODBLO

Gasping, Francis deleted the new information, breathing heavily and clutching at his chest. The phantom sensation of his heart thumping made him shudder again. His hunger was definitely on the verge of making him lose his self-control. But he couldn't just walk out of the practice. There was a reputation to maintain and if he didn't keep going, he was sure to put a blemish on it. And, if he went to the reception area to explain to Miss Laurent that he had to leave as he was feeling ill, there would be too many people for him to control himself.

Taking a deep breath, Francis went back to filling in the records, slower than normal. He was only halfway through what he would normally have done (and had had to delete the word BLOOD far too many times) when the intercom crackled to life. "Doctor Bonnefoy, are you ready for your next patient?"

Jumping in surprise, Francis cursed his hunger and hurried to answer. "Oh, yes. Go ahead, Bella."

The intercom cut off and Francis went back to the computer to bring up his schedule. He was about to see a Mr. Arthur Kirkland, though his patient files were either non-existent or sealed. Curious, he went back to filling in more of Mrs. Honda's file before there was a knock at the door.

"Ah, come in," he called, minimising the window and bringing up another one so he could find out what Mr. Kirkland needed.

He turned as the door opened and watched as the man walked in, head turned as he caught hold of the door in order to shut it. The man was wearing black skinny jeans and a green corduroy jacket which had been left open. His hair was a sandy blond and looked as though he hadn't brushed it that morning. Once he'd closed the door, he turned around and Francis took in the plain, black t-shirt he wore beneath the jacket. Then he looked up at the man's eyes. They were such a bright green that Francis thought that he was some sort of ethereal creature he had never seen before. His thick, dark eyebrows shadowed them but, otherwise, he was quite handsome.

"Arthur Kirkland?" he said, just to confirm.

"Yes," the man answered, shortly.

"Please." Francis gestured at the seat on the other side of his desk, closest to the examination table. "Have a seat."

"Thank you," said Kirkland with nod. He crossed the room and lowered himself onto the very edge of the seat.

"Well, what seems to be the problem?"

"No real problem," Kirkland answered and now Francis could discern his English accent, though he couldn't place where exactly in the country it had come from. "I'm staying here for a couple of years but I was told that it would be a good idea to get registered at the local GP's- doctor's practice, just in case. The receptionist said to come in today for a check-up?"

"Yes, we like to do a check-up on all incoming patients, just in case there was something your last doctor missed," Francis explained, hiding a wince as his stomach cramped. "It's just taking a few blood samples, checking on your heart and lungs, things like that. You can also take this time to tell me about anything that's bothering you?"

"Nothing, really," said Kirkland, though he looked like he was holding something back.

"Really?" Francis asked, not something he would usually do with a patient but he had half his attention on his hunger so it slipped out before he could stop it.

Kirkland looked bemused, a small smile forming. "Unless you want me to complain to you about how weird everything in America is?"

"Oh, yes, I completely understand that," said Francis with his own amused smile. He'd said it without thinking – he wasn't sure if it was because of his distractedness or that pretty little smile – and regretted it immediately. Kirkland's brow furrowed and his expression morphed to one of confusion. Francis was talking with an American accent; he had forcibly dropped his own accent so that he could blend in and, now, he always spoke in the accent of whichever country he was living in.

"You're not from here? I'd never have guessed; your accent's completely gone!" Kirkland commented. Francis almost sighed in relief.

"If you'd like to complain," Francis suggested hurriedly, "you can. But we should maybe get started on this examination, yes?"

With another bemused smile, Kirkland stood and made his way to the table. Francis's eyes flickered over his body, taking in his lean frame and rather delectable ass. What would it be like to sink his teeth into it... He had to shake himself from that train of thought and quickly made a mental doctor's note that he looked as healthy as horse. Hopefully there wouldn't be anything seriously wrong with him in this check-up. He'd had a British patient before who had had diabetes for a while but hadn't turned up at their local doctor's in their home country. It seemed to be a trait that the British were stubborn about inconveniencing their National Health Service.

As he sat on the table, Kirkland said, "I suppose the first thing to complain about is that they drive on the other side of the road. I know a lot of places drive on the right but I keep looking the wrong way to cross the road and I've nearly had a heart attack when cars have passed right in front of me!"

"I'm from France," Francis told him as he unwound his stethoscope from around his neck. "That's never really been a problem for me."

"Figures," said Kirkland with a sigh.

"Could you take off your jacket and raise your shirt up for me, please?" Francis asked as he placed the ear-tips into his ears.

"Sure." Kirkland slid the jacket off effortlessly, throwing it towards his chair. He must have had good aim as it landed over the back of it, folded over neatly. Sending Francis a grin, he then pulled up the shirt – and kept going, pulling it off completely. Francis nearly had a phantom heart attack himself; most of his patients were more than willing to keep their clothes on as much as possible and Francis didn't mind at all. But now he was treated to the delicious sight of Kirkland's lean body and he struggled to keep his hands (and teeth) to himself. "This is easier, right?" asked Kirkland, tossing the shirt over his jacket.

"Ah... yes," Francis said, a little breathlessly. To distract himself from his thoughts, he breathed on the bell to 'warm it up'.

"Another thing I don't like about being here is that there aren't any electric kettles. I've asked my mum to send me one. You know, my roommate says that he just heats up water in the microwave." Kirkland wrinkled his nose at that. "That's just wrong."

Francis hummed in response, trying to both ignore the crawling feeling in his stomach and concentrate on what he was doing. He pressed the bell against Kirkland's chest (trying to ignore the slight trembling of his hands) and blocked out what the young man was saying. That turned out to be a mistake as he could hear the steady pumping of Kirkland's heart and his hunger latched onto it, reminding him that there was blood (bloodbloodbloodblood) running through it. If he hadn't been battling with it all day, Francis might have jerked away from his new patient. Instead, he stiffened before pulling away with a nod.

"Sounds fine," he murmured, mostly for show. Then he remembered what Kirkland had been talking about and he latched onto it for something else to focus on. "And I drink coffee, I'm afraid, so I don't really have that problem. I've got a French press at home."

"Of course you do," said Kirkland with a roll of his eyes. He seemed amused, his smile growing as he watched Francis turned the bell over. It made Francis feel things he hadn't felt in a long, long while. Surprised, Francis quickly turned his attention to what he was doing.

"When I tell you to, breathe in and then out, okay?" Once he had gotten a nod, Francis took an unnecessary breath himself and said, "In." Kirkland did as he was asked. "Out. In. Out." Nodding to himself, he shifted his position so he could press the bell to Kirkland's back. He repeated the process and Kirkland obediently did as he was asked. Once he was finished, he stepped back and looped his stethoscope around his neck again. "Right, everything sounds good. Just your bloods now."

Kirkland winced. "I hate needles," he muttered, a little petulantly. Francis thought it was adorable. He hid a smile as he opened a drawer to find the packet he needed.

"Don't we all," he said to Kirkland over his shoulder.

"Surely you should like them since it helps you in your work?" said Kirkland, eyebrow raised when Francis turned back to him.

"Touché," Francis replied with a perfect French accent.

Snorting, Kirkland held out his arm. Francis ripped open the packet and paused for just an instant as he remembered what he was about to do. His stomach would have growled if it could have since it realised that what it wanted was so close. Suppressing a shudder, Francis took another breath and placed the point of the needle against the inside of Kirkland's elbow. Kirkland tensed and Francis smiled, meeting Arthur's gaze.

"You'll be fine, Mister Kirkland. I-"

"Arthur," he said, nose scrunching up once more. "'Mister Kirkland' is just weird."

"All right, then, Arthur. It won't take too long-"

That was as far as he got in his distraction speech before he finally pushed the needle into Arthur's vein. The intense smell of blood hit him immediately, something that was normally dulled by the plastic or glass encasing it. It was the sweet, sweet, mouth-watering smell of AB-, eternally enticing, drawing his attention.

For a second nothing happened. Then Francis lost all control of himself. He knew he had when he saw Arthur's eyes widen and his expression changed from reluctant acceptance to confusion to horror in quick succession. But he couldn't stop what happened next.

With a snarl, he dropped the needle and grabbed Arthur in his strong grip. Arthur gasped and then opened his mouth, presumably to yell. Francis's speed stopped whatever he had been about to do. He manoeuvred his prey around until he was the one sitting on the table with Arthur in his lap. The movement made him yelp, not loud enough to attract attention. Arthur struggled in his grip, trying to stand or pull away. Francis merely grabbed hold of his head and pushed it out of his way.

Then Francis leaned over him and bit down into his neck.

Blood gushed out, filling his mouth with the sweet nectar. Greedily, Francis gulped it down, suckling at Arthur's neck. His prey continued to struggle for exactly two seconds before the strange vampire's venom worked its way through him and he slumped against Francis, obediently rolling his head to the side so that Francis had more access. Francis growled low in his throat and tugged Arthur against him more. Arthur moaned at the movement which had caused a burst of the venom to spread through him again.

After a while, Francis lapped up the stray blood from his neck, sealing the wound there. Arthur wasn't dead yet, of course, he would survive that much blood taken from him: it seemed that he was working with muscle memory. But Francis was still hungry and it clawed at him, demanding to be fed completely and Francis enjoyed using every part of his prey when he was in this state. So he threw Arthur onto the table where the human rolled his head to the other side with a whimper, a hand reaching out for him. It was an invitation and Francis took it, leaping on top of him and biting into the other side of his neck, sucking down the blood there.

Minutes passed as Francis drank, changing positions every so often. He bit at a point above Arthur's heart, bit his side, forced him to turn and ripped his jeans off so he could fulfill his fantasy of biting his ass. It was as delicious as it looked. Finally, Francis came back to his senses as he drank from his original point of access, Arthur's jeans and underwear around his knees.

Francis jerked away with a gasp. What had he done?! He stared down at the boy – he couldn't have been older than 20 – who was covered in smears of blood. His eyes were lidded and he looked blissful, a side-effect of the venom. With the amount of blood he'd drunk, his hunger completely sated, Francis knew that Arthur would die. He was barely alive at the moment, his fingers twitching as he tried to reach for the vampire, draw him back to him, entice him back to drinking from him.

What was he going to do? When Arthur didn't walk back out of the room, Miss Laurent would notice and ask questions. And how would he explain how Arthur had bled to death in his room? He was still alive... Maybe Francis could take him through to the main part of the hospital and save him. But how would he explain to everyone there what had happened? People were going to think that he'd attacked Arthur and then he'd be sent to prison, maybe given the death sentence. And then everyone would know what he was when he didn't age or didn't die by electricity. Or would he die by electricity? He didn't know. There was a Romanian vampire who probably knew-

With a sharp gasp of realisation, he remembered his meetings with that particular vampire. He found humans' takes on vampires to be amusing and often called himself Vlad or Dracula for the fun of it. That wasn't his real name but Francis had only found out when his companion, a man named Andon, had told him so.

Andon, however, was not human as Francis had first assumed. Francis knew that Andon was a servant of Vlad and had often seen him create meals for himself with actual food and not blood. It had taken seeing him again after fifty years to dispel that notion. Apparently, Vlad had turned him into a vampire, though the strange mechanics of turning humans and the unique biology of each person and vampire meant that Andon could still function almost completely like human. The man would get cravings for food despite not actually needing it which was something Francis didn't have the luxury of doing: solid food made him ill.

If they could do it, why couldn't Francis? It was quite a simple process. Vlad had told him what you had to do. And, if he did it quick enough, Arthur wouldn't die.

He didn't waste time debating with himself. Pushing his sleeve out of the way, Francis raised his wrist to his mouth and bit into it, rather harshly. His punishment. He winced at the unforeseen pain but he rushed to Arthur's side, his lip curling a little at the ugly, black blood which oozed from his veins. Quickly, he hefted Arthur up until he was in a seated position, Francis sitting behind him so that he could keep him upright. Pressing his wrist against Arthur's mouth, he squeezed his hand into a fist and watched his blood drip against Arthur's lips.

The young man didn't react. "Come on, Arthur. You need to drink this. It'll make you feel good." Nothing happened. Francis tilted Arthur's head towards him so he could see his face. "Arthur. Can you hear me?" There was a flicker of green behind Arthur's half-closed eyes. "Please drink this." Francis pressed his wrist more insistently against Arthur's mouth, smearing it against his lips, willing it to go in. When nothing else happened, he reached up with his free hand and rubbed at Arthur's throat. Thankfully, his reflex reaction took place and he was gulping down the dribbles of blood.

Something happened then. Francis could feel Arthur heating up far too quickly to be natural. Then, suddenly, Arthur's tongue flicked out and lapped up stray drops of blood. Unsure whether it was actually working, Francis pressed his wrist still closer. The slight movement resulted in Arthur's mouth moving around the bite wounds, his tongue flicking out once more as if to test what was there. Before Francis could pull away to see if it had worked, Arthur latched onto his wrist with a slight scraping of teeth, sucking at him as if he was trying to draw more blood out.

And it worked. Francis could feel it being drawn out of him. He gasped at the pressure of it, at the feeling of something being removed from him. Strangely, though, he liked it, enjoyed the sensation of being taken from, of providing for someone else. Warmth, something he'd not felt for some time, flooded through him and an odd happiness settled upon him as he gently stroked Arthur's hair.

Arthur's hands came up to grip at Francis's arm, keeping it still as he sucked and slurped and gulped more of it down, reminding Francis of his own loss of control. Francis smiled fondly and continued to stroke Arthur's hair. For a while it was peaceful. Francis was content. He didn't care that he was probably running over time for his next appointment and he doubted he would care if Bella came in to see what was wrong and found him feeding Arthur.

All of a sudden, though, Arthur jerked away from him, twisting in Francis's grip and shoving the doctor from his perch on the table. He slid from the table, surprised, and only just managed to grab hold of the table and stop himself from landing on his ass. Blinking, he turned his gaze up and found a furious Arthur, glaring at him with glowing green eyes.

"What the fuck did you just do to me?" he snarled.

"I... I just..."

Not waiting for an explanation, Arthur looked down at himself and, seeing his state of undress, turned such a look of disgust upon Francis that Francis's poor, dead heart broke. "You sick- Did you actually-?" He stopped as realisation washed over him and Francis knew he remembered what had happened. "You just... You're a vampire?!"

"Please," Francis said, straightening up. "I... I didn't mean to. I just lost con-"

"Why the hell are you masquerading as a doctor?! Is that poor receptionist under your thrall?"

"No, no," Francis frantically shook his head. "I actually have my doctorate. Several of them, in fact," he added as an afterthought.

"Do you do this to all your patients?" Arthur demanded, hopping off the table and grabbing his underwear to pull it up. It distracted Francis for a moment and, when he didn't respond, Arthur glared at him as he twisted the tight boxers into place. "You do, don't you?"

"No! I told you, I lost control."

"You're a monster."

That struck a nerve. "So are you," Francis snapped, glowering at him as Arthur stomped across to the rest of his clothes.

Arthur's eyes narrowed as he grabbed his t-shirt. "And how, pray tell, am I a monster?"

"There was no other way to save your life after I-" Francis broke off from his angry tirade, pain and guilt flashing through him. "After I almost killed you..." he whispered, turning his haunted gaze aside and catching sight of the abandoned needle in front of a cupboard.

A heavy silence fell. Everything stilled. Then: "What... did you just... say?" Arthur croaked.

Francis forced himself to look at his latest victim and was dismayed to see the fear in Arthur's eyes, his t-shirt only halfway down. "I... made you drink my blood. I turned you. You're a-"

"No!" Arthur shouted. "This isn't happening!" He pulled his t-shirt down with more force than necessary and grabbed his jacket. Using it to point angrily at Francis, he added, "I'm never coming to this place again!"

Unsure whether he stop him or not, Francis could only watch him go as the terrified Englishman disappeared from his life, taking with him whatever had made Francis feel alive again.

One week later, Francis was sitting in his house, reading a book. Reading the book. He almost couldn't help it. At least once a year, he'd find his third edition Dracula and read it through in one sitting, burning the contents into his mind.

Halfway into it, he was startled from the scene to a thumping noise. At first, Francis couldn't think of what it was. It didn't sound like anything he had in his house. After all, what would made five slow thuds, one after another? When it started up again, he realised it was some form of knocking at his door. He froze, worried about what could be making those slow thuds. Shuddering, he stood and cautiously made his way to the door. Maybe whoever it was would go away?

Unfortunately, he had reached the door of his contemporary living room when he heard the thuds again, this time only three of them. Now he was worried for the person on the other side. Surely that was someone, exhausted and desperate, looking for aid. So he quickened his step, unlocked the door and opened it.

"Hel-?" he began but stopped when he saw who it was.

Arthur was leaning against the door frame, using it to keep himself upright. His fangs were elongated and his eyes glowed brightly against the darkness beyond Francis's door. There was sweat running down his temples and had stuck his hair to his forehead. He was without jacket, probably feeling too hot if Francis was any judge. His t-shirt had glowing tally marks on it and his jeans weren't as tight, as if he had chosen clothes for comfort rather than appearance.

As soon as Francis spoke, Arthur's head whipped up and his unfocussed eyes locked onto Francis. But he didn't look Francis in the eye: Francis was sure he was staring in the general direction of his neck. Licking his lips, Arthur gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then he glanced up to meet Francis's eyes. "Master," he breathed, his tone a mixture of begging and pleasure. It made shivers run up Francis's spine.

Then Arthur was upon him, fangs sinking into Francis's neck. He could feel that same pressure and the satisfaction of feeding someone. Even though he was startled, eyes wide, Francis had the presence of mind to step backwards despite the savage growl that ripped from Arthur's throat as his meal tried to move away from him. But Francis stilled once he'd managed to get them both inside and closed the door. Arthur purred – literally purred; Francis had never heard a vampire do that before – at that and pressed Francis against the wall, greedily drinking from him.

Finding himself smiling, Francis sighed happily. He wasn't sure what these emotions were any more but he liked them, felt better than he had in centuries. As Arthur pressed into him, eager for more, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and bent his neck more, willingly letting him feed.

It only took a few more minutes before Arthur was suddenly jerking away, almost ripping out Francis's throat in his haste to get away. Francis reluctantly let him move away from him. Arthur stared, wide-eyed, at nothing, backing up until he was flat against the opposite wall.

"What the-? Where am I-?" Then his eyes took in Francis and he flinched. "Wha-? Why am I-? What did you do to me?!" There wasn't any accusation in his tone, only desperation and fear, as if he was on the edge of tears.

"I need you to tell me how you got here," Francis said gently, gesturing for Arthur to follow him back into the living room. The dim light from the lamps dotted around the room gave it a cosy feel and he was sure Arthur would be able to calm down in there rather in the narrow hallway.

Thankfully, Arthur followed, sitting beside Francis on his couch. "I... I don't know. I've been... hungry. Nothing helps. I've been eating almost as much as Alfred. But I'm always hungry. And it was getting worse. Then... Then..." Arthur frowned as he thought. "There was this... pull. I couldn't stop myself. I was so hungry. I didn't really know where I was going but I just knew I had to." His gaze lifted to Francis's. "Is this to do with the vampire thing?" he asked, dryly.

"It looks like it," Francis admitted. "I've never turned someone before."

"What?" asked Arthur, flatly.

"I only knew what to do because someone I know has done it before."

"Why couldn't I get that guy?" Arthur muttered, folding his arms.

"Here..." Francis said, digging out his phone. "I'll call him. I've been meaning to, anyway, but..."

"But what?"

"I was embarrassed," Francis admitted with a shrug of his shoulder.

He rang Vlad's number and waited for it to connect before it trilled. Seeing Arthur's intense stare, he put the phone on speaker and set it down on the coffee table. Finally, there was an answer. "Francis, what in all that is unholy-?" Vlad grumbled. "Do you know what time it is?"

"I'm sorry," Francis said, grimacing a little, aware that it was probably early morning in Europe. "I have an emergency."

"Oh? A hunter finally after you?" Vlad sounded a little excited at that prospect.

"They're all but extinct," Francis said, rolling his eyes at Arthur who looked at least a little amused, if just for a moment. "This is more serious. Vlad. I... I turned someone..."

"Vlad?" he heard Arthur murmur but he ignored him for the moment.

"You did? Hey, welcome to the club!"

"Vlad!" Francis cried. "He just came to my house. He was drawn here and he... drank from me."

"Well, duh!" Vlad replied and Francis could imagine him rolling those unnatural red eyes. "With each 'next generation' of vampires, the intensity of the... let's call it a disease. It's diminished as it goes down the line. He still needs blood but he doesn't crave or stalk human blood. He needs yours. And only yours. Why d'ya think I turned Andon? I really loved his blood – still do, actually. Love me some A-plus blood. Heh heh, see what I did there? Because-"

"We get it," said Francis quickly. "What did you mean by 'only mine'?"

"Oh, that's all that'll quench his hunger. See, he'll get cravings, sure. And he'll be able to eat his favourite foods and drink his favourite drinks. His blood's pretty much the same so he'll be affected by alcohol and you can still get some delicious...?"

"AB-negative," said Francis reluctantly, when it was clear Vlad wasn't going to continue.

"Oooh, aren't you a lucky dog!" said Vlad, cheerfully. Arthur scowled at the phone. "Anyways, the only thing that'll really quench that hunger is your blood. Nothing else. Not even another vampire's blood. He's completely dependent on you so don't let him get too far away – if he doesn't get your blood consistently, he'll go mad and kill everyone in the vicinity. Oh! Sorry. Francis turned someone, just helping 'em. Go back to sleep, darling. Sorry, Francis, I'm gonna have to go. Wanna snuggle with Andon more-" A loud groan cut him off and then he hung up, leaving the two vampires in a tense silence.

"You mean to say," Arthur finally whispered, his voice hissing dangerously, "that I'm stuck with you?"

Stunned, Francis raised his eyes to Arthur's and flinched from his glare. "I am so sorry," Francis whispered in return.

"This is... This is-! No! I don't- I've got- This is all your fault!" Arthur shouted as his voice steadily rose and he leapt to his feet. "How could you?!"

"I'm so sorry," Francis repeated, standing to try to placate Arthur, hands raised.

"No!" Arthur snapped, slapping Francis's hands away. He glared once more at Francis before barging past him. Francis barely kept to his feet and quickly turned to try to stop him. But Arthur turned before he had gotten far, finger pointing at Francis accusingly. "I hate you!" he declared, venom in his voice.

Somehow, that hurt Francis more than being turned had. "Wait. Arthur, please. We need to talk about-"

But Arthur had already stomped from the room and he was cut off by the slam of his front door. Francis stared at his living room door, willing Arthur to return. Then he barked out a laugh and collapsed into his couch, hand pressed against his brow.

What was he worried about? Arthur was doomed to return in a few days' time.

Or blessed. ;)

I see their subsequent relationship as going something like this: Arthur resists for as much time as possible before going back - time between feedings gets shorter - eventually he goes every day but refuses to let Francis drink from him despite Francis getting quite desperate - they become sort of friends - Arthur lets him drink from him - with their blissful feedings, their relationship becomes sexual - fall in love - live happily ever after!

[seattlepestcontrol1]

SEATTLE HOME AND COMMERCIAL BUILDING OWNERS SEEK PROFESSIONAL RATS MICE INSPECTIONS DURING THE RAINY SEASON TO SAVE MONEY

Mice ordinarily enter homes, Commercial buildings especially during fall and winter, in search of food and shelter. Their small size allows them to squeeze through tiny cracks and holes. House mice can also climb vertical surfaces and run along narrow wires or ropes in order to enter buildings.

There’s nothing fun about finding rats around the home or property. Rats have been plaguing humans for centuries, famous for their continuously growing sharp teeth, their desire for human food, their tendency to get into homes and buildings and create nests and their health problems rats are the essence of a pest.Seattle Ampm Exterminator is the expert in rat removal and rat control services Using latest methods for finding where rats are getting in and preventing them from returning. Inside near where opening was I have found evidence of tunneling in insulation and some chewed cardboard storage boxes, but then I lose the trail, and the night scratching at opposite end of house is only recent evidence there. Found an opening outside behind gutter where trim board comes down to meet eve at end of house…all stone so it was easy for me to cement and seal opening. Can’t see any other openings but will continue to comb the exterior thoroughly. http://ampmexterminators.com/pest-control-to-removal-dead-rats-animals/Rat Removal Cost – Price, and How to Remove Rats and Mice After full inspection, home repairs to seal shut all entry points, and trapping and removal of rats, over 3 or so service visits, expect to pay at least $400-$500. If you need attic cleanup afterward, the price is even higher. Costs do vary by company. Remember, if anyone says they can do it for less than $300, they aren’t going to do it correctly! Read what I have to say below, and make sure they follow the correct methods! Seattle’s rat population is on the rise. Part of the reason could be attributed to the frigid cold weather right now. Rats are on an urgent mission to find homes with excellent food and water supply. The big fat rats found the perfect spot in a Seattle home in the attic and crawlspace. It was easy due to some holes the rats accessed easily. The nasty creatures can squeeze through openings the size of a quarter. Yuck. https://plus.google.com/+AMPMExterminatorsseattleExterminator for rats Eeeeeek, it’s a big fat rat: It was time to store the Christmas tree and decorations. As the homeowner climbed the stairs up to the attic, something whizzed by. The owner immediately started to investigate the attic. Searching for evidence of any type of pest that was spotted on the stairs. Until now there had been no indication of any pest issue. But soon found rat feces and urine. There was, also a rank odor from airborne bacteria. Yes, indeed the rats had moved in and didn’t take long to make a mess. An important thing to keep in mind is that there may be other rat infestations close to the home. Like in sheds, unattached garages or other places used for storage. Any openings giving the rodents access is a huge problem and needs to be addressed. Therefore this could be far greater than the owner could imagine. As intimidating and stressful this was the homeowner could not fathom taking care of such a huge problem of rat infestation. http://ampmexterminators.com/attic-crawlspace-restoration/Mice exterminators check areas of concern: The air ducts and air ventilation areas must be checked. It’s crucial to be prepared before and after the Crawlspace and Attic clean up of a rodent infestation. Do-it-yourself methods are not thorough. A professional pest control exterminator would be sure to check all entryways that could be giving accessibility to the home. All holes found would be closed and sealed so that no more rats could get in. The wife was very stressed about the ramifications of infectious viruses in the rodent’s urine, feces and nesting material. Airborne hazards to the family’s health. After doing an online search of how to get rid of the rats, the couple opted to contact AMPM Exterminators. A pest control company that would eliminate the rodent infestation. Also would provide experienced technicians in Crawlspace/Attic Cleanup. http://ampmexterminators.com/commercial/Rats cause damage and unsanitary conditions if rodent removal is not done: The nasty pests will damage and soil the insulation which could mean replacement. Rats leave stains and foul odors which would require deodorizing all areas affected. The Attic and Crawlspace will have to get a thorough cleaning. Rats create damage by gnawing on building systems like electrical wiring, doors, and weather strip. It’s a known fact that most home fires are caused by electrical problems and rodents like to chew on wires. Rodents can and will cause a huge risk to the home and family. http://www.yellowpages.com/seattle-wa/mip/ampm-exterminators-12443332Rat removal exterminator Prevention of rat infestation: It is wise to work on preventing the rats from gaining entry into the home. AMPM Exterminators shared information that every job procedure is designed to treat the current pest problems quickly and thoroughly. The homeowner was also advised that if a preventative service was booked a list of measures to take would be provided. The homeowner decided on getting a monthly recurring service for prevention to protect the family and the home. AMPM EXTERMINATORS is a pest control service that can and will help to determine the frequency of a homeowners pest control needs. People that have a lot of traffic in and out tend to need a monthly service. AMPM Exterminators, a pest control service, has a vested interest in providing a proven, environmentally conscious, cost-effective solution for all pest control needs. Professional pest control company with exterminators for bed bugs, little black sugar ants, carpenter ants, rat control, house mice, rodent control,birds,beetles, moths, flies, termites, wasps, yellowjackets and hornets. Ampm Pest control service takes pride in family and pet friendly effective pest control in King county areas of Seattle, Bellevue, Redmond, Kirkland, Renton, Everett, Bothell and Issaquah to list a few. Bed Bugs extermination services, Mouse Control, Rodent, Carpenter Ants, Spider control are available to residential including single family residences, apartments, commercial including hotels, restaurants, schools and industrial establishments including warehouses and grocery stores. Attic and Crawlspace Rodent Restoration including cleaning, sanitizing and insulation removal & repair after rats, mice, squirrels, birds, bats Infestation. Find answers to questions about cost facts, information, and discover pest control tips when contacting this pest control company. Every home is different and service and repair costs may vary. AMPM Exterminators has years of inspections experience and every client deserves a customized solution for all pest problems. Media Contact Company Name:  http://ampmexterminators.com/commercial/Mice Rats and Rodents in the Seattle, Bellevue & Redmond Eastside Area Contact Person: Duke pickler Email:  http://www.abnewswire.com/email_contact_us.php?pr=seattle-home-and-commercial-building-owners-seek-professional-rats-mice-inspections-during-the-rainy-season-to-save-moneySend Email Phone: 4254950306 Address:15127 NE 24th St. Suite 221  City: Redmond State: Washington Country: United States Website:  http://ampmexterminators.com/http://ampmexterminators.com/and air ventilation areas must be checked. It’s crucial to be prepared before and after the Crawlspace and Attic clean up of a rodent infestation. Do-it-yourself methods are not thorough. A professional pest control exterminator would be sure to check all entryways that could be giving accessibility to the home. All holes found would be closed and sealed so that no more rats could get in. The wife was very stressed about the ramifications of infectious viruses in the rodent’s urine, feces and nesting material. Airborne hazards to the family’s health. After doing an online search of how to get rid of the rats, the couple opted to contact AMPM Exterminators. A pest control company that would eliminate the rodent infestation. Also would provide experienced technicians in Crawlspace/Attic Cleanup. http://ampmexterminators.com/commercial/Rats cause damage and unsanitary conditions if rodent removal is not done: The nasty pests will damage and soil the insulation which could mean replacement. Rats leave stai

from Ampm Exterminators Seattle WA | Bellevue WA | Kirkland WA | Redmond WA | Issaquah WA | Sammamish WA - Docs.com https://doc.co/AM3aHH

[anewdinosaureveryweek-blog]

Parasaurolophus

Timeline: ~76.5-74.5 million years ago (Late Cretaceous)

Bone Location: Alberta, Utah, New Mexico

Length: ~9.5 m (31 ft.)

Height: ~3.3 m (11.8 ft)

Weight: ~2.5 tons

Jurassic Park: Yes

Parasaurolophus ( par-ah-SAWR-OL-uh-fus ) was a type of ornithopod dinosaur, the Ornithopoda sub-order includes Hadrosauridae, Hypsilophodontidae, and Iguanodontidae. Those actually happen to be some of my favorite families of dinosaurs because they are all actually pretty different from what some may call ‘regular plant-eaters’. Ornithopoda includes dinosaur families that all have some sort of crests on their head and duck-looking beaks. From its bones, we know that its forelimbs and thighbones are actually relatively shorter and stronger for a hadrosaurid, this leads scientists to believe that it was possible that Parasaurolophus could move on either 2 legs, or 4. Parasaurolophus had about 30 rows of teeth, which were being replaced constantly, almost like a shark’s teeth. Instead of eating meat, though, Parasaurolophus ate plants. The fact it could stand up on its hind legs is an evolutionary advantage, it wasn’t limited to plants that only grew on the ground, it could eat plants that Ceratopsians and Pachycephalosaurs couldn’t, possibly even reach high up into trees if it really tried. Now, Parasaurolophus’ crest has been subject to a lot of different theories, one by Alfred Sherwood Romer in 1933 suggested that it could have been used as a snorkel or gas tank when submerged under water. Eventually, that idea was replaced by the much more popular theory: Parasaurs used their crests as a resonating chamber to create low-frequency sounds to communicate. 

This is a little saddening because it would've been great to see a herd of parasaurolophus take a break and go swimming every once in a while, maybe even graze a little and bring up food from the bottom of a river and start munching. Not only that, but this also seems like an evolutionary advantage, to not be limited to plants growing on the ground. 

Anyway, besides the sound-making, Parasaurs might have used their crests for mating purposes, in a paper by James A. Hopsin published by Cambridge University Press, it is stated, 

“The following hypothesis is presented: cranial crests, whether hollow or solid, served as visual signal structures, and hollow lambeosaur crests were also vocal resonators; all crests promoted successful matings within species, i.e., they served as premating genetic isolating mechanisms.” 

The last part “they served as premating genetic isolating mechanisms” means that the difference between species crests is what aided Hadrosaurs (and therefore Parasaurs) in mating with just their species. That is backed up by the fact that, in Hadrosaurs, facial features were well developed, different species had different variations of crests, and crest variation was sexually dimorphic. The fact that facial features were well developed is evidence that their DNA was probably not being mutated as much i.e. species most likely didn’t intermingle when it came to mating.

Sure, it would've been fun to go river dinosaur spotting for Parasaurolophus back in that time period, but the fact that dinosaurs might have had as complex mating rules as some animals of today is still a very intriguing thought. In a way, this is even better.

Sources:

www.prehistoric-wildlife.com, Darren Pepper. "Parasaurolophus." Parasaurolophus. www.prehistoric-wildlife.com, n.d. Web. 13 Jan. 2017.

"Introduction to Ornithopoda." Introduction to the Ornithopoda. N.p., n.d. Web. 15 Jan. 2017. 

Switek, Brian. "Dinosaurian Snorkels, Air Tanks and Tubas." Smithsonian.com. Smithsonian Institution, 10 Jan. 2012. Web. 15 Jan. 2017. 

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