#that England does emerge

[unnamed-atlas]

Really disappointed to find out there isn't a community of people writing geowizard fics where he does his exploration missions in fictional settings. We need to start putting that guy in situations. Make him cross the elden ring map in a straight line and somehow come out perfectly fine at the end. I want him crossing Night Vale without using any roads and cutting through the dog park and somehow coming out the other end unscathed. I want that man thrown into a minecraft server like hermitcraft or empires and running around them in the same style as his 'how not to travel' series. I want him choosing a random direction, walking into the countryside, and ending up in rosswood park. I want him playing geoguesser in the adventure time universe and being cracked at it. Do you see my vision.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Second Time's The Charm

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Summary: You and your kind of ex-wife

Lips smashed against yours before you could even compute what was going on.

They were still as soft as ever and you opened your own so Alexia could slip her tongue inside.

"Hi," She said, pulling away slowly.

"Hi."

You smiled at her.

She looked nearly the same as when you divorced her and left the country. The same cheeks. The same nose. The same eyes. The same awkward little smile on her face.

“I missed you,” She said,” I heard from Alba you were coming home and I couldn’t believe it. I missed you!”

“I missed you too, Ale.”

Her arms were open and you stepped into them. They were just as familiar as they were when you broke up and you melted into them now.

“Sorry,” Someone said,” What the fuck?! Alexia, you’re dating now?!”

Both you and Alexia looked at Mapi in confusion.

“No. Why would you think that?”

“Because you just started snogging her in front of all of us,” Lucy replied, hands shoved into her pockets casually,” I thought we were meant to be meeting the new medic but, no, I guess you were really getting acquainted.”

You laughed, shaking your head fondly as Alexia pouted, her arms tightening around you just like they did years ago when Alba teased you for being mushy.

“She’s my wife,” Alexia insisted, stamping her foot.

“Ex-wife,” You butted in quickly as the team’s mouths fell open in shock. Very few of them had been on the team the same time you and Alexia had been married, childhood sweethearts that eloped the day after you both turned eighteen.

Alexia laughed nervously and you narrowed your eyes.

You recognised that laugh. You’d heard that laugh for years when she pretended to a teacher that her homework was just in her locker and that’s why she hadn’t handed it in or when she promised Eli that she wasn’t the one that broke her favourite glass cabinet and it was really her who had kicked a football right through it.

You knew that laugh very well.

“Alexia,” You said, teeth gritted,” What did you do?”

“Now, amor,” She said,” Just remember that-“

“Alexia, confess!”

“I may have forgotten to file the papers.”

“Alexia!” You snapped before sighing. A bubble of laughter emerged from your throat until you were trapped in an almost hysterical laughing fit. “We signed them together. At the kitchen table. How did you forget?”

“I promise I was going to!” She insisted,” But I had other stuff to do and it just got buried and Mama did some cleaning and she must have shredded them on accident!”

“Alexia, that was years ago! Are you saying that we’re still married?”

“That depends.”

“On?”

“On which answer will get me in trouble.”

Fondly, you tugged on her ponytail. “You are so lucky I love you.”

She grinned. “Enough to stay married?”

You shrugged. “Well, it’s a hassle to file the papers and work out the separation of assets again.”

“Oh, thank god.” Alexia fished something out of her pocket and it was only when she slid it onto your finger again that you recognised it as your wedding ring. She was the one that had bought them and while you knew that hers had remained on a chain around her neck, you hadn’t ever wondered what had happened to yours after you returned it.

You just assumed it had been thrown to the bottom of her jewellery box.

“Have you been carrying that around since you found out I was coming home?”

Like a professional, she skirted around your question. “Home! You need to move in again! The clothes you left all got put into a storage locker so we should probably swing by there after work. Your office is practically the same but kind of dusty so I’ll clean it up while you unpack.”

You nodded, mulling over the plan in your head. “You know that if I have back in then so does Mr Stinky.”

Alexia wrinkled her nose in disgust. “You still have him?”

“Yes, Ale! Just because I moved to England doesn’t mean I abandoned my cat!”

She pursed her lips before admitting. “I think there’s still a few of his toys under the sofa. I can never manage to get them all.”

“And I want the left side of the bathroom sink.”

She nodded before freezing. “Hey! Wait, no! That’s my side! That’s always been my side! You can’t just take it!”

You flashed your ring. “You want this to work? I want the left side of the sink.”

“Well…I want…I want…I want the right side of the dresser!”

“Done!”

“Done!”

“Sorry, no,” Mapi butted in. You’d almost forgotten that you were meant to be introducing yourself to the team. “Not done. Let me get this straight. You two got married, divorced but not really and now you’ve decided to get back together?!”

You shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“But you divorced!” It was clear that she was struggling to wrap her head around this.

“It wasn’t really a breakup though,” Alexia said flippantly,” We still hooked up every time she came home. We only really tried to get a divorce because she was leaving for England. I was clingy when I was younger.”

The whole team pointedly stared at Alexia’s hands on your waist and how they hadn’t moved but to put your ring back on your finger.

“Clingier,” You amended,” And I needed to leave for more money. We decided it would just be easier to get divorced but I guess that didn’t work out.”

“Oh!” Alexia said suddenly,” I need to tell Mama! She’ll be so happy! She’s always talking about you to everyone.”

“Oh, I’m glad. I’ll have to call my Mama too. She’s always telling people that her daughter-in-law is Alexia Putellas. You’ll have to come to Sunday lunch this week. My aunts and uncles will be there.”

“Next week we’ll go to mine then,” Alexia agreed,” Mama will want you to try her paella again. She tweaked the recipe.”

“Oh, great! I love Eli’s paella. My-“

“No!” Mapi said, pointing at both of you in turn,” This is moving so quickly. I’m sorry but what the hell?!”

“Oh,” You said,” I didn’t introduce myself properly. I’m y/n. I’m the new doctor on the team. Alexia’s…well I was going to say ex but apparently we’re still married so I’m Ale’s wife! I look forward to getting to know you all.”

[just-a-sewer-goblin]

Collars Of Duty 4

MalinoisHybrid!Simon x reader

- Chapter 3 - Chapter 5

Simon's gone and you're left to deal with his sudden absence. But maybe it's not all over yet.

~ 8,3k Words

Content (might contain spoilers): reader being mean to themselves in their thoughts, hybrid AU, mention of past injury, hints at past attack, mentions of therapy, biting, blood

A.N: I messed with the COD timeline here. I know that some of the things I mention don't happen during this time and don't fit with the canon but it's my AU so shush. Curious if you lot catch the cameo. Have fun. Also not my best chapter but I poured a lot of heart, time and effort into it.

It’s been almost a week since Simon’s transport back to England. A week that you’ve spent at home again. The day you arrived at work to find Simon gone you went back to medical leave. Now as you sit on your couch and look out through your living room window you wonder if that was the best decision.

Simon’s sudden absence left you hollower than you anticipated. You spent barely a week by his side, most of which he was unconscious. So how come you care so damn much already?

You go through your usual routine. Making food, going outside, meeting friends, attending therapy, working on your mind and body. You do everything you did the past few weeks that helped you get back to your feet after Phillip but the worry for Simon won’t fade. It’s always there in the back of your head, a nagging feeling that leaves you thinking about him way more than you probably should.

Is he okay? Are they taking good care of him? Do they take it slow and take his trauma and needs into consideration? Does he have a handler that knows how to help him? How are his wounds?

You feel silly for caring so much about the large hybrid but another pitiful part of you whispers that it might prove that you’re a good person. Caring so much about someone you barely know surely proves that you have a good heart.

Then there’s another part that admonishes you for thinking that. No truly good person would think about whether their actions or thoughts make them a good person and you grow ashamed again. You try to shove all those thoughts somewhere in a corner of your mind where you don’t have to hear them constantly. The back and forth driving you insane without coming up with any conclusive answer.

You worry about him. That’s how it is. You care There is nothing you can do to change that except try not to think about him so much. But honestly you don’t want to stop thinking about him. Something about Simon struck your heart and you feel the need to figure out what.

You sigh as you nurse your mug with your favourite hot beverage in it, taking another slow sip savoring the taste. Has Simon ever had a drink like this? You sigh. Here you go again, thinking about the malinois hybrid without pause.

You let your head fall back against the backrest of the couch, staring at the ceiling. When did your home start feeling more like a self inflicted prison? There’s a restlessness growing in you. It’s starting deep in your stomach and spreads its way through your limbs making you bounce your knee until you almost spill your drink jerking your head back up to safe it at the last second.

Why did you go back to medical leave? You had been more than willing to return for Simon’s case. But as soon as he left you went back home like a snail hiding in it’s shell. You rest your elbows on your knees and let your head hang forward the muscles of your neck stretching uncomfortably.

You’re a damn coward. Resting at home. It doesn’t feel like healing anymore it feels like you’re running away. Running from the center and all the hybrids it houses. You hate it, hate Phillip for ruining all dog hybrids with just one attack. Why does he have the power to make you afraid of all of them. It’s not fair.

Do the others think you’re a coward as well? Hiding at home again after you came back for a week. What is management thinking? That you could return for an emergency but not for the relative calmness of every day? What will happen if you don’t come back quick enough for them? Will you lose your job? Would they actually fire you over something like this?

Just like that sitting at home feels like wasted time. Every minute spent on your couch is a minute you could be working and trying to get over your fear. And suddenly your certain that you have to return to work if you want to make further progress.

Additionally to your sudden urgency to just do something instead of sitting at home and licking your wounds the thought of everyone secretly judging your return to absence makes you feel itchy. But it’s your own judgment makes you the most uncomfortable. You can’t escape your own thoughts that remind you how cowardly you’re behaving. How you’re wasting away thinking about a hybrid who never even was your charge.

Thinking about a hybrid who you foolishly put a lot of hope into.

It makes no logical sense that you feel like Simon was your way back to working with hybrids. You had been sure that working with a problem hybrid would be the worst thing that could happen to you. You had been sure it would make you feel worse and undo everything you’ve achieved in therapy so far.

Now it feels like anyone other than the problem hybrid will hinder your recovery.

For a moment you feel selfish for wanting to gain something out of helping a hybrid. How can you think like that? Even if working with one stops your progress it would be worth it if you could help them. It’s not their job to help you. You’re supposed to help them, that’s what you’re being paid for, dammit. Helping them without gaining anything should be all you want.

Still it would be the best case scenario if working with one would also allow you to slowly get used to them again. It would be nice if the hybrid could help you too. And you decide that you can allow yourself that little bit of selfishness.

But even if that best case scenario were to happen. Before you can get anyone elses help you’ll have to want to help yourself.

The days of peacefully sitting on your couch letting the world outside continue to turn while you exist in your own little reality that consists of your home and the doctors office are over. You’ve had enough time off. It’s time to return to work. If you don’t your own thoughts that continue to run in circles will drive you insane.

No matter how often you dissect what happened with Phillip it won’t change what happened and maybe it’s time to accept that.

It’s probably best if you go back to the center today, before you lose your drive. And what better way to return than just going for lunch. Nice and casual. Nothing scary. At least that’s what you’re trying to convince yourself of as your palms immediately begin getting sweaty.

It’s tiring always being scared and even if it scares you more to go back, at least you’re doing something. You can’t take another second of sitting at home waiting to feel better while doing nothing.

A sudden burst of energy has you rushing all over your home while you get ready and sprint out of your front door before your nerves catch up to you.

You try your hardest not to second guess yourself as your unsteady hands hold the access card against the entrance of the compound. It opens with a beep and you rush through. When you stand in front of the main building you freeze. Your hands are shaking and you will yourself to breathe deeply.

There will be a lot of hybrids at the cafeteria, and suddenly your feet wont take another step. Flashes of teeth, dripping with vicious saliva, snapping and tearing at you appear in your mind. You’re certain that there’s an aggressive hybrid growling behind you but when you turn there’s no one there. Wincing you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to make you feel some semblance of safety.

You’ve already managed to come here and turning around to go back home feels like defeat. You can already taste it’s bitter tang just from thinking about not going through with your plan. For a moment you chew on your lower lip, indecisive then you look up at the building. Liz should be working right now. Maybe she’s willing to have her break with you.

Taking two steps at once, you rush up the stairs hoping you don’t meet anyone, especially no hybrid before you reach Liz’ office. Your heart pumps hectically while you strain your ears to make sure you’ll hear approaching steps over your harsh breathing. You’re lucky, getting there without running into anyone and you quickly slip inside without knocking.

Your heart swells at the way Liz positively beams at your appearance. It should not surprise you as much as it does when she immediately takes her break so she can go to the cafeteria with you. The way she links her arm with yours is so easy and natural that it makes you gulp suppressing the strong urge to hide behind her.

You grow more and more tense the closer you get to the cafeteria. Liz chattering fading to the background even if it’s her attempt to distract you. There are two hybrids and their handlers joining your direction. Luckily they’re concentrated on their handlers and the promise of food after training. The two of them don’t even give you any attention besides a quick glance.

When you realize that they won’t attack, you relax minutely. Everything is okay, you’re okay. The hybrids at the center are all friendly. Usually.

Aggressive Hybrids are usually kept on leash. There’s various reasons why a handler might decide to keep their charge on a leash and none of the handlers here would let an aggressive hybrid roam free.

You almost manage to gain some control over your fear until you hear a sudden bark behind you. It’s loud and startling and you can feel your heart jump painfully in your chest.

You rip your arm away from Liz, whipping around. Fear clogs your throat and you can feel your eyes watering in sheer panic.

A golden retriever hybrid is running at you his steps slightly uneven. Where his left leg should be is a prosthetic attached but it does nothing to slow him down. His handler is further down the hallway and from the leash that loosely hangs from the hybrids collar it’s evident that he ripped himself free from his handlers hold.

His ears are perked up and flop with every step, his face lit up with obvious joy but it doesn’t help the terror that floods through you at the sight of him running at you. A very faint voice reminds you that you know this hybrid and he wouldn’t hurt you, but that voice is easily silence by the dread that overpowers everything.

He stretches his arms out to the side and Liz takes a step forward.

Before he reaches you, or Liz can step into his way you thrust out your hand out in front of yourself in sheer desperation.

“STOP!”

Alex skids to a halt like he just ran against a wall, having to shift his weight so he doesn’t fall. The prosthetic makes an awful screeching noise as it scrapes over the floor. His ears droop and his tail halts mid wag, uncertain what just happened. You’d feel bad at the obvious hurt in his expression if you weren’t so desperately harnessing your fear to shove it back into the dark corner it crawled from.

Panic squeezes your lungs and denies you access to your own breaths. You think you hear Liz tell Alex’ handler to wait when he goes to grab Alex’ leash but you concentrate on regulating your wheezing breaths, your hand still outstretched to halt Alex.

The golden hybrid looks at you and takes a few small steps on the spot he’s glued to. His nostrils flare and he cocks his head at you.

“You’re afraid of me?” He half asks half states and the devastation in his voice rips your heart right in two. A whine makes its way from his chest and you shake your head. You panic retreating at the need to reassure and calm the hybrid. He did nothing wrong and here you are, hurting him by panicking.

“No! I’m not scared of you.” You say even if you’re not sure whether that’s true. But you need to say something, anything to stop the hurt in his eyes. He cocks his head at you in question.

“Just got spooked from the way your ran at me.”

He visibly perks back up at that, his tail slowly starting to wag again even if it’s decidedly less enthusiastic than before. Then it slowly gains momentum, getting quicker and stronger until his entire body wriggles with his joy and the sight steals a small smile from you.

“I only wanted to hug you. I haven’t seen you in forever. I promise I won’t rush. May I hug you?” He asks with so much hope in his voice that you can’t say no.

Briefly you scan his body language, finding nothing but excitement and restraint so you nod even if the way your blood rushes through you is almost painful.

Alex stays true to his word, slowly steps forward, opening his arms for you and waits until you mirror the gesture. Then he wraps his bulky frame around you, squeezing you to his chest. Immediately he pushes his face against you and takes a deep breath, smelling you. His mustache tickles you and you squirm giggling inadvertently.

He rumbles deep in his chest, huffs in displeasure at your movements which only makes you giggle and squirm more. Your fear slowly retracts its claws from your chest, hissing in displeasure at your entire being remembering Alex as safe.

You can feel him relax right along with you. Until all that is left is warmth and contentment. The close contact to him after weeks of staying away as far as possible from any and all hybrids fills your chest with warmth choking you up slightly. After you allow yourself to bask in his hug for as long as you deem acceptable and after you swallow your tears back down, you step back and shake your head at him fondly.

“You know that this is exactly why you’re still on leash. Always so easily distracted rushing off to investigate whatever scent you caught. Although I’m honored I’m the distraction this time.”

He folds his ears back and the chuckle of his handler reminds you of his and Liz presence. The man, Chad, steps forward and gently cuffs the back of Alex head. The hybrid playfully snaps in the direction of his fingers. You nearly flinch until you remind yourself that this is Alex and he’s just playing.

“Lucky for him we’re not training right now and you’re a very special distraction. It’s good to see you again.”

You remember the day you left Alex as his charge, a mixture of pride and pain in your chest. You’d worked months with Alex after he lost his leg in an explosion during a mission. You’d helped him regain his agility and confidence and it was only normal that you developed a deep bond with the hybrid.

It was always a happy occasion when a hybrid got to go back to having a work handler and you shake Chads outstretched hand with a warm smile. As you make your way into the cafeteria you try to concentrate on Alex and his handler, who’s taken his leash in hand again.

“We get to go back to the real work next week.” Alex tells you puffing his chest and pride blooms in your own chest. You know how much his work means to him and it will be great to see him leave the center after a year and a half of working hard to get back in shape. Still the thought stings a little.

You’ll miss him. He’s been one of your favorite charges and even after you left him in Chad’s capable hands - so they could work and train to become a team while Alex fully regained his abilities - it was nice to meet him in the hallways and outside on the training grounds.

You try to concentrate on the joy instead. He’ll get to go back to doing what he loves and you wonder when you’ll be able to do the same. With the way you currently need to check every hybrid around you for any sign of aggression you don’t see any possibility of you taking on a new charge soon.

With Simon it had been easy. He’d been an emergency which left not enough time to think, to doubt, to get lost in your fear. Now that he’s gone you have too much time to cook up all the worst case scenarios in your head again.

While you try to have lunch without always looking around like a spooked rabbit you get to watch Chad and Alex interact and their easy camaraderie and banter makes you jealous. It makes you overly aware of the fact that you’re unable to interact with a hybrid like that at the moment.

But you love this job. You love working with them and helping them and developing all these bonds. Harshly you stab your fork into the food. Even if it takes forever, you will be able to do it again.

As if to mock you the scar on your shoulder throbs at the aggressive movement and you subconsciously reach up, pressing against it. Alex turns his head towards you from his place besides you. You give him a small tight lipped smile.

He says nothing, but under the table he moves his leg until his thigh touches you and you stare down at the contact.

The next day you join Alex and Chad while training at their insistence the day before. They’re all too eager to show off their hard work to you and it’s almost mesmerizing the way they clear the obstacle course together.

The centers agility course is a jungle of platforms that are raised over the ground with obstacles in between. The platforms vary from the size of your hand to a square meter and some are slanted to test the balance.

They can be roughly divided into two heights one being a few centimeters above the ground while the second level is mostly at two meters with platforms of varying heights in between. There is no designated path through the course which allows a handler to challenge a hybrid with new angles at already well known obstacles.

The slight tugs Chad gives on the leash help Alex to find the right footing while he concentrates on sniffing out the hidden object. You.

You’re crouched behind an obstacle that’s on the second level, keeping out of sight. You peek at the pair of them moving through the course stopping at a point where you doubled back to confuse Alex.

The single minded focus of the hybrid is admirable but also dangerous out in the field. In the field concentrating on nothing besides what he’s supposed to sniff out means running into the line of fire, stepping onto a contact mine or whatever other horrible things wait for them in the field. That is why he’s connected to Chad with the leash.

You almost shout a warning, your heart leaping into your throat, when Alex lifts his head to track your scent not watching the small platforms under his feet. You can already see his foot miss the next platform but Chad gives a gentle tug and Alex rights his direction without looking down.

His foot finds the platform and you exhale heavily with relief. You can only continue watching in awe. You’d known that Chad was a good handler. While working with Philip you had often seen the two of them train but you always had your own hybrid to concentrate on so you never got to appreciate the incredible team these two make.

Alex finds you easily while Chad watches over him, clearing his path, making sure he doesn’t get hurt while he concentrates on his work and when Alex finds you in record time, you can’t help but clap and holler in excitement.

Chad ruffles Alex hair and the golden retriever hybrid beams with pride. His tail wags a mile a minute and when you’re all back down on the ground he does a few silly circles on the spot giving an excited bark which makes Chad laugh.

A deep feeling of peace settles over you. This is what it’s supposed to be like. A soft smile sneaks onto your lips. Watching Chad and Alex is weirdly healing, reminding you of what a healthy hybrid handler relationship looks like. You have been able to build one with every charge you’ve had besides Phillip. And with him it wasn’t because you didn’t try.

For the first time fear isn’t the first emotion bubbling up when you think about Phillip. This time it’s sadness. In his chase for his independence he sold his soul to someone else. But you don’t think that the proud hybrid realized that. He probably didn’t realize that the gesture of attacking you was empty considering the reasons for it. It proved jack shit. But hey at least he got what he wanted in the end.

Even that thought doesn’t chase the sadness away. So you concentrate back on Chad and Alex and you realize you’re a little less frustrated with yourself when you go to bed that evening. You got to work with a hybrid again and it had went well. Things will get better after all.

After the day you spent with Alex you come back to work for good. You do not have your own charge at the moment but you try to be useful in every way you can. Instead of working with a hybrid you start helping with the equipment, running errands and giving the other handlers advice that you feel not qualified to give considering how long you’ve been absent and the reason for your absence.

The way you try to avoid running into hybrids makes you feel ashamed of yourself once more but you don’t have it in you to just casually cross paths with them. It’s so stupid, the way one hybrid ruined every hybrid for you. You’re determined to change that, to not see a threat in every hybrid but maybe… maybe not today.

You duck around the corner as you spot a hybrid walking down the hallway with her handler and press yourself against the wall counting down from ten to calm yourself. It’s frustrating as hell that interacting with Alex didn’t magically heal you.

Why could one hybrid not heal the wounds of one other hybrid? Your pulse still jumps at every hybrid you see. You still try to hide instead of normally passing them. And you grow frustrated with yourself. Healing sucks. It’s hard to understand why books and movies always seem to picture it as this magical beautiful journey when most of the time it feels like running in circles and standing in your own way.

How would things be if Simon was still here? Would you walk the hallways unafraid with his large form looming next to you? Maybe if he’d become your charge you would feel better already.

You shake your head. Thinking about that doesn’t help you, you try to remind yourself. Simon’s in England and there isn’t anything you can do.

You peek around the corner, seeing that the hybrid is gone you continue on your way, glad that the tiles help you hear when someone’s approaching. You look at the stack of papers in your arms and almost scoff at yourself. Running errands instead of doing what you actually get paid for.

But with Simon gone you don’t know how you’re supposed to jump into the deep end and take the position as a handler again.

You should have known. You should have known it would come back to bite you in the ass that you didn’t sign the handler agreement. Maybe with that you could have been transferred with Simon and stayed by his side for the time it will take for him to be able to go back to active duty.

Apparently the Doc had asked for the papers that prove that Simon is your charge so she could have you called to the center before he left. When she called the office they had to tell her that no such papers were signed.

You’re lucky that the Doc hasn’t told anyone that you lied to gain access to his medical report. At least you don’t think she has or someone would have approached you about it by now. It still might happen and you’re unsure whether you should talk to her about it before you possibly get a lawsuit.

Thinking about that does nothing to calm your racing heart and you almost flee inside Liz’ office when it comes into view as if her presence will shield you from your own thoughts and feelings as well.

You drop the stack of papers on her desk and she sighs, pushing up her glasses and meets you eyes.

“I should probably thank you but honestly, how dare you bring this to me instead of accidentally spilling coffee all over them.”

Hearing Liz who enjoys the office work say something like that startles a laugh out of you and she grins.

“One of those days?” You ask and she nods, stretches her arms over her head and groans when her back audibly pops.

She takes her smoothie and slurps it through her straw. “You know I looked into it for you. But there is no way for us to obtain any information on Simon’s well being. I’m sorry.”

You plop down into the empty chair before her desk and crane your neck until you’re staring at the ceiling. “Yeah. I already expected that. If only I had signed those damned papers.”

You catch Liz shrug out of your peripheral vision. “Well with the English laws being the way they are it’s not certain that would have done anything either.”

Lazily you let your head roll forward. “Hm?”

“Ah, right. You only do the hands on work. The hybrid-handler laws in England demand the hybrid to sign an agreement too for the handler-hybrid relationship to have legal effect. So your signature alone would probably not give you any information on him anyway.”

“Oh.” You think about it. You know the English laws are different but you never looked into it since they don’t concern you, at least they never did until now. Either way you will never know what’s become of Simon and it frustrates you.

“Well, it is what it is.” You say resigned and put your hands on your knees to push yourself up. If only you could mean that. “Back to running errands I go.”

Before you can leave the room Liz’ voice stops you. “You have to take on a charge again at some point.”

You half turn to her smiling, even though you don’t feel like smiling at all. “Exactly. ‘At some point.’ That point is not now. It’s barely been a few days of me being back.”

She shakes her head at you and you’d be embarrassed or angry at her disappointed expression but you know it’s because she cares. “Why are you so damn hesitant? You were fully ready to take Simon as charge?”

You purse your lips in thought, turning to her fully. “With him it was easy. I didn’t have time to imagine all the things that could go wrong. Just ‘bam here’s this hybrid you have to take care of’. Now that he’s gone I have too much time to think about what it means to take on a new charge.”

Liz clicks her tongue. “Maybe I’ll just drop a hybrid at your doorstep so you don’t have time to think.”

You gasp in mock offense. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.” She says dryly and you’re not sure if she’s still joking. So you laugh it off while fleeing her office before she decides to make any more valid points.

That better have been a joke or you’d strangle her. And then thank her because thinking about it - dropping a hybrid at your doorstep might actually work. Your close the door, turn to walk back down the hallway and almost walk into Meg from HR.

“Oh good. I was looking for you.”

You gulp. Oh no. Did the Doc rat you out after all? Would they fire you? Shit. You rub your palms against your pants. Did you do anything wrong? What if she knows you lied to get the Doc to talk about Simon? Would they file a lawsuit because of something like that?

“Follow me.” She says curtly and you nod, too startled and scared to get a simple yes out. Walking behind her through the hallway makes you feel like you’re walking to your own execution and you thank whoever is listening that you don’t run into any hybrids. You’re not sure your heart could handle any more anxiety.

The clicking of her door closing while she indicates for you to sit down at her desk sounds like a threat and when you sit you rub your sweaty palms against your thighs.

She sits down on her side of the desk and clicks something on her computer then she looks at you seriously and you feel like you’ll be in serious trouble in a few second. Hopefully you won’t cry, that would be embarrassing.

She sighs. “Do you remember the aggressive hybrid you were called in for from your leave?”

You nod and this time you manage to weakly say: “Yes.” Oh no. Oh no no no no. Pleas no.

She taps a pen against her chin and studies you. “You know we really hoped you could take another charge soon so management isn’t the happiest about it but we were promised a substitute and compensation so we decided to leave it up to you.”

Is she doing this on purpose? Dragging it out? What substitute? What the hell is going on?

“We got a request for you from the center in England he is currently at. They want you to work there with him for however long it takes to get him back on his feet. You’re one of our best even if you’re currently not exactly fitting your job description. I heard you got along well with him.” Something in her gaze softens at her last statement and you release your held breath a heavy weight dropping off your shoulders.

She doesn’t know about the papers. It feels like your heart can finally get a break. But then everything she said hits you and you start nervously bouncing your leg. They requested you? You’re sure they have more than enough handlers at the center he’s currently at. Surely they have competent personnel?

“Why… did they request me?�� You carefully ask, not sure you’re allowed to ask any questions. Which is absurd if you think about it because of course you’re allowed to ask questions if she specifically called you to her office to give you a choice.

She purses her lips and twirls the pen in her fingers. “Apparently he’s giving them trouble. They don’t know what to do and found out he was more comfortable with you. Usually they would just give a problematic hybrid like him a medical discharge from his duties but apparently he’s a big enough asset for them to reach out to us.”

You nod trying to understand. What happened? Things hadn’t looked that bad. What had happened that Simon is once again deemed a problematic? Are you willing to go to England for an unknown amount of time because they ask you to? It might be months until he’s rehabilitated.

Your thoughts return to the few moments you had with him. You remember him in the bath, the way he’d let you dry his hair. The way you felt like you might overcome your fear with him. Maybe you don’t have to try with another hybrid. Maybe Simon is meant to be your charge so you can both help each other. This might be what you’ve been waiting for without knowing.

You’re a bit unsettled by how quick you’ve come to your decision. You should probably think this through more but you’d sign the handler papers in a heartbeat. That reminds you…

“What about him? Don’t the laws in England demand that he agrees with me being his handler?”

She nods, rifles through a stack of paper on her table and finally finds what she’s looking for. She folds the stapled stack of papers open on the last page and slides it over her desk towards you. At the bottom two lines for signatures sit.

“He already signed.”

You stare at the line where his name sits in neat block writing. You can’t help yourself but run your finger over it. Your heart thumps hectically in your chest. He already agreed to you being his handler. All you have to do is sign as well. You try to come up with all the logical questions and things that should make you hesitate.

“What about housing and stuff?” You hate how you say ‘stuff’ like you don’t know what you’re talking about. Your thoughts are rushing. You have a hard time getting a hold of them. Taking care of contracts and the whole organizational stuff was never your strong suit. Your strong suit is working with hybrids, at least you thought so until Phillip. But the fact that Simon apparently wants you as his handler makes the smallest bit of confidence grow.

They want you in England because whatever happened makes them think you can help him. Whatever he said makes them think you’re who they have to turn to. You can do this. This is also what the hybrid wants. What will happen to Simon if you refuse?

Meg rips you from your thoughts. “They board and lodge their staff if they chose to live on site.”

You nod and then hold your hand out for the pen.

“Are you sure?” Meg asks and hesitantly gives in to you. You scribble your signature on the line next to Simon’s.

“Yes.” You say. Actually you aren’t sure at all. It’s probably stupid to sign so quickly when you haven’t asked a lot of important questions but if you don’t sign now you’ll think about it and then fear will claw at your chest and prevent you from going for it. Maybe it’s stupid and reckless. But it feels right.

Meg shrugs and takes the paper with your signature back. “Alright. Simon Riley is officially your new charge. They want you over there as quickly as possible so you should take the earliest flight you can. We’ll prepare your papers and request your substitute.”

Liz is gripping the steering wheel so hard her knuckles are stark white. Your knee is bouncing again and she glances at you from the corner of her eyes every now and then. She insisted on driving you to the airport and you’re very thankful despite arguing at first that she doesn’t have to.

“What is it?” You ask and now both your legs are bouncing.

Her hands shift on the wheel before gripping hard again. “Are you sure about this?”

You sigh and put your face in your hands. “No.” You mumble. She has the audacity to laugh at that. You shoot her a look and then start laughing too. What the hell are you doing? You’re about to fly to a whole other continent for a hybrid you don’t even really know.

She shrugs but her hands relax. “We can still cancel it all. I’ll kidnap you, no one will ever know that you tucked your tail and ran.”

That makes you laugh harder and you shake your head resting it back against the headrest. “I feel insane for this but I couldn’t say no. Maybe I’ll end up regretting this but maybe… Maybe everything will work out? What if this is what I need? A problem hybrid in a whole other country who wants me as his handler.”

Liz purses her lips. “I don’t know. I’ve never known you to be so impulsive but if you feel like you have to do this I won’t stop you. But if I receive word that you want to come back and don’t want to do this after all, I’ll terminate the contract and personally come get your ass back to the US.”

You snort at that but something in you calms down. Despite her joking tone you know that she means every word. You look at her for a while and it hits you that you don’t know how long you’ll be in England. Who knows when you’ll be in the same room as her again.

“Thank you.” You say quietly and Liz just nods.

The rest of the ride is comfortably quiet.

At the airport she squeezes you tightly and helps you with your luggage. Before you know it you’re on the plane and taking off. Your whole body starts getting jittery with nerves. You breathe deeply remembering one of the exercises your therapist gave you. She offered to keep holding your sessions online and you’re incredibly thankful for it.

You manage to calm down during the flight and even sneak in a nap, waking up with a racing heart to the announcement that the plane is on approach. As soon as you touch ground and have permission to use your phone you text Liz to let her know that you landed safely.

Half an hour later you’re in a cab going for the rehabilitation center you’ll stay at for an unknown amount of time. You wipe your hands on your pants thankful that the cab driver doesn’t try to make conversation so you can look out the window at the darkness of the evening.

It’s weird to think about how much more of the day Liz has left while it’s already very late evening here.

The street lights illuminate parts of the road and you feel like you’re dying inside from all the uncertainty of what is to come. You wish the drive would never end so you can’t arrive at the center. Alternatively you’d be happy with a concise list of what exactly will happen and who exactly you’ll meet. You get neither an endless ride nor a list. Sooner than you’d like the cab stops and you’re left with your gigantic luggage on the sidewalk.

You sincerely hope no one watches the awkward waddle you do while dragging your heavy bag with you to the front gate. Your wishes go unnoticed because someone approaches you quickly and you straighten up your heart jumping into your throat.

When the person is finally close enough for you to make them out clearly your breath hitches and you can’t help but look at him with wide eyes. He’s a snake hybrid. You’ve never seen one before and even if you’re aware of how rude it is you can’t stop staring.

“Welcome! You’re the handler from America, right?” He greets you and you gape at him nodding. He has a split tongue. The street lamps illuminate him dimly and if you aren’t mistaken the faint outline of scales is visible at his temples and his jaw.

He waits a moment and then slightly squirms under your scrutiny. “Ah. Am I your first snake hybrid?”

That manages to shake you out of it and you nod mumbling an apology. He easily hoists up your baggage onto his shoulder and opens a door in the gate with a key card.

“Don’t worry. I get that reaction with most people. We’re all really happy that you’re here. Simon has been… difficult to say the least.” The snake hybrid goes on and you can’t help but wonder how he knows so much. Who is he? Is he the companion hybrid of one of the handlers here?

You’re staring again while you follow him and his shoulders tense. “Oh! I forgot to introduce myself. How silly. I’m Nathair but please call me Nate.”

You give him your name in return and he stops for a moment to extend his hand for you to shake before continuing his way towards a large building. Before you can get a good look at the way it’s structured Nate leads you through the entrance door and towards a reception desk.

Smoothly he slides behind it sorting some papers and putting them in a folder then he gets a key card and stands again. He extends the folder to you and you take it before Nathair rounds the desk again, takes up your luggage once more and makes his way down a hallway. You hurry to follow.

“Those are some papers we need signed, some information like a map and the rules of our center. I also included Simon’s file.”

Suddenly your interest is piqued. “Where is he?”

Nate turns down another hallway and you already know it will take a while before you’re comfortable with the layout of the center. Thank god for the map.

“He’s being kept in a safety room where he will stay until he is ready to join you.”

“Join me?” You have to jog a few steps to keep up with Nate’s quick pace and when he notices he slows down. Here in the light of the building you can get a good look at him.

He’s magnificent. Broad shoulders, copper coloured hair and a dusting of dark reddish brows freckles that get denser towards his temples and fade into a few scattered scales. His skin is pale and along his jaw fading down his neck you can make out some more scales.

His eyes are big and round and something about them is slightly off. You can’t say exactly what it is though. The hands which are holding up your luggage are strong but slender and on the back of them you can once again see reddish brown scales disappear under his sleeves.

“Yes. Join you. Hybrids and handlers share their rooms here but with Simon being the way he is we didn’t deem it safe enough to bring him to the general housing wing yet. “

Suddenly you feel stupid again. You really agreed too quickly without enough information. You didn’t even know about the rooming situation. You straighten your shoulders. It’s too late now and it’s not like you would decide differently if you were given the choice again.

“This one’s yours.” Nate finally stops in front of a door. Right on the door, engraved in a small plastic plate, is your name. You swallow nervously as Nate unlocks it and puts your baggage down inside against the wall next to the entrance.

You walk in and a small smile blooms on your face. It’s cosy. Not so small that it feels cramped but not big enough to make you feel lost in it either. The curtains are drawn over the windows and there is even a small kitchenette cramped into the corner next to one of the windows.

On the right side nestled into a corner is a decently sized desk and on the left opposite to it is the bed pushed against the wall.

You walk in looking through an open door on the right side at the end of the room. It’s the bathroom. At the far end of the tiled room you see another door. Once you’ve scanned every corner you turn back to ask Nate about the door and you catch him with his split tongue out. He blushes a brilliant red under his freckles and lifts his hand to rub the back of his head.

“Ah… sorry. I was just smelling the room.” He sheepishly admits and you cock your head at him in curiosity.

“I smell better with my mouth and tongue than I do with my nose and I wanted to get your scent.”

You laugh at the embarrassed expression on his face and he turns even redder which makes you shake your head and put your hands up. “No, no! I’m not laughing at you!”

You take a step in his direction. “Nate, I work with dog hybrids for a living. I’m used to being smelled.”

He seems taken aback by that then he grins. “Do you mind then?”

You shake your head and Nate takes a step closer his split tongue testing the air for a few moments before he steps back and nods. “Thank you. Not knowing how someone smells feels like I don’t fully know who they are. Like I never saw a their face.”

You nod. “If I say I understand that I’d be lying because I obviously do not experience these things like you do. But it makes sense, no need to be embarrassed.”

He seems happy with that and looks around the room. His eyes settle on another door in the middle of the right wall. He steps towards it.

“Through this you’ll get to Simon’s room. It’s exactly the same as yours just mirrored. His room also shares the bathroom with yours.”

Ah that’s the other door you noticed in the bathroom. Curiously you open it and look into Simon’s room. Just like Nate says it’s a perfectly mirrored version of yours. But it’s empty and suddenly you can’t stay a moment longer here without having seen Simon. You need to make sure he’s okay.

“Nate. Where is Simon? Can I see him?”

The snake hybrid once again scratches the back of his head. “It’s already late.”

“Please. I need to know he’s okay. I came all this way specifically for him.”

Nate looks at you for a long moment and whatever he sees in your expression makes him sigh and relent.

Your ribcage hurts from the violent beats of your heart as you follow Nate through the building. He leads you down so many turns that you’re sure you won’t find your way back on your own.

The fact that all the hallways look basically the same doesn’t help your orientation but all you think about is seeing Simon again. He’s probably mostly healed by now. Will he be excited to see you? After all he signed the agreement first.

Nate leads you down the corridor to a seeming dead end but when you get closer you see that there is actually a door at the end. You both stop before it and the snake hybrid gets his key card.

“Would you like me to go in first and make sure he’s calm?” He asks and you immediately shake your head.

“It will be fine.”

Nate presses his lips into a thin line but nods and unlocks the door. You wipe your palms on your pants the excitement of seeing him again almost overwhelming you. You’re here and he is here and everything will be fine.

The door opens and you step into the room. Simon’s on his feet at the other end and oh, he looks spectacular. You’ve been separated long enough that his health noticeably progressed during that time.

His ears perk forward and Nate slips into the room besides you, closing the door.

Seeing Simon standing on his own without any struggle fills you with relief and your eyes with tears. Physically he already looks so much better than you remember him and the joy of that realization almost makes you shake.

“It’s you.” He rumbles and you cannot restrain yourself anymore taking hasty steps in his direction. Giddy that he’s alive and on his feet and looks well. Everything will work out after all. You’ll take care of each other.

You realize your mistake too late, blinded by the happiness. Time seems to almost slow to a halt. For a moment Simon’s eyes widen, then his tail bristles and his ears press against his head, his lips peel back revealing his dangerous canines.

Your heart stops but you’re mere steps from him and before you can stop the malinois hybrid charges the last steps that separate you.

“No!” Nate shouts somewhere behind you but you barely hear it over the ringing in your ears.

Simon barrels into you, throwing you to the floor and your head cracks against the tiles making pain explode all over the back of it. Simon’s honey coloured eyes are narrowed in aggression and his growl rattles your bones. His big body presses you against the cold hard floor uncomfortably. Every bone aching from the fall.

His teeth flash and you barely have the time to throw up your arms, crossing them in front of you to shield your face and neck. His fangs sink into your forearm. The intensity of the pain almost makes you cry out and you grunt.

Your eyes widen as you look up at Simon’s expression, nose scrunched as he grinds his teeth deeper into your arm until you feel like he’ll break right through your bones. He’s growling like he wants to kill you. His broad shoulders block out the room behind him. All you can see is his vicious snarl and angry eyes.

For some reason it’s the trickle of blood running down to your elbow that catches your attention. How funny, you think, that your own blood can tickle you like this.

[meltedbrains]

Mickey Smith and Martha Jones: RTD and race.

The two most notable black characters in the first RTD era of nuwho, but it's not a strong competition, the next runner up is probably 'unnamed american newswoman' (later called Trinity Wells).

It's easy to point at RTD's track record and decry his work as racist, but how bad was it?

Let's give RTD the benefit of the doubt: Mickey was written as a character before Noel Clarke was ever cast. RTD wanted to write the new companion with a home life that she would easily leave: Jackie is overbearing and Mickey is needy. In contrast to Rose's bravery and curiosity, Mickey gets kidnapped, literally cowers from the TARDIS, and whines, constantly.

Mickey is frequently the butt of the joke. The ninth Doctor intentionally gets his name wrong; in Father's Day Jackie says (of his 5 year old self) "God help his girlfriend, if he ever gets one"; in the chase scene in Boom Town he runs into the cleaning cart and gets his foot stuck in a bucket; in School Reunion he realises that he's the k9 equivalent, not another companion; and in The Girl in the Fireplace we have this lovely exchange:

Rose: "No, you can't keep the horse." Doctor: "Why not? I let you keep Mickey."

Mickey is not necessarily a poorly written character, he has a solid arc from whiny to confident; he gets over his jealousy of the Doctor and goes off on his own adventures. He was written as unlikeable (but not too unlikable) so that the audience would want Rose to be with the Doctor (both romantically and on a literal basis), it's also something he grows out of. His characterisation is not the issue. The fact that we learn very little about his life outside of Rose is. We don't know his job or meet his family (we do eventually meet the not-dead version of his nan). It's one thing for him to get stuck in a bucket when everyone else gets to be athletic but why do the other characters need to find any opportunity to insult him?

But on to Martha, she actually does not really have an arc (more on that later). In her first episode she is shown to be smart, headstrong and compassionate. She takes charge in an emergency and saves the day (with help from the Doctor). For some unknown reason the Doctor kisses her, and bafflingly she falls in love (I understand why narratively, but not from a writing room decision). She takes him to task about living in Rose's shadow, but for some reason this plot thread continues for more than three episodes. The Martha that saves the world from the Master is the same Martha that we were introduced to.

She is intentionally written as not Rose. Rose is an only child from a single parent family; Martha has two siblings and two living parents (although divorced). Rose left school at 17; Martha is in medical school. Rose lives on a council estate with her mum; Martha's family has their own house and she has moved out. Rose has a boyfriend; Martha is single.

At the time of writing/airing (2007) RTD was 44, he was, and still is, a cis, white, man. It's hardly surprising that his understanding of race or gender is lacking. He managed to push the envelope by having notable black characters, and maybe that's all we should have asked for, but he could have done better at the time.

The Doctor did not have to be so aggressively rude to Martha about not being Rose. He insisted that their first trip was just a favour after saving him on the moon and the second trip was just to even out past and future travel; Donna meanwhile got invited to travel the universe after just one adventure. RTD (and Moffat) did not have to compare Mickey to an animal on two separate occasions. Martha did not have to get stuck with a human Doctor in 1913 rural England (seriously, this story could happen in any time in any place with little change, I understand that it wants to make a point about WWI but it's not specific enough to matter). Her parents did not need to break up over a young, blonde woman. The Master did not need to enslave her entire family.

Why did the Doctor tell Martha to "walk around like you own the place" when she was worried about being mistaken for a slave? Why did Shakespeare fetishise her for the colour of her skin and 'revealing' clothing? Why did Martha not complain about her straightened hair getting wet in Gridlock and why did it have no effect? (although this would have also been pretty cringey, better to just do away with the rain altogether). Why did Rose know Donna but not Martha? And finally: Why did he marry off his two black characters despite their only scenes being part of an ensemble?

It's pretty obvious that there were no people of colour in the writing room, certainly not any black women. If there were more black (or generally poc) characters these flaws would not be so bad, or obvious. But there aren't and they are.

A lot of the complaints against Martha's writing can be chalked up to sexism, and they're right. So, does sexism better explain RTD's bad writing? All three of his companions mothers (Jackie, Francine and Sylvia) are essentially the same person: overbearing, loud, skeptical of the Doctor, and quick to anger and violence. The companions leave with the Doctor, in part, to get away from them (Martha literally walks away from her family's arguing, that she was made to mediate earlier in the episode). You'd be hard pressed to argue that he's not trying to make a point. But so often discrimination walks hand in hand with itself. For a long time Martha was the only companion of colour (I don't think Mickey counts). Other characters frequently pointed out her one sided love for the Doctor and despite realising that they were treating her unfairly she never got the same treatment as Rose or Donna. Although there is sexism in his writing it doesn't quite explain why Martha seemed worse off than the other companions. A lot of the plot points she goes through look different viewed with the lens of racial inequality. The writers keep making the point that racism is wrong, but they keep putting Martha in situations where she is discriminated against. Their addressing of it is rarely head-on; characters will say something racist (normally in a laughable, dated, sort of way), Martha will say it's racist and then the plot will continue. No harm, no foul.

RTD has since conceded that he should have written a better character arc for Martha than 'woman realises man is not over his ex, stops travelling with him and joins a paramilitary science group.' (At least they gave her a good personality to make up for it).

Maybe he will realise that there is an undercurrent of racism right next to the sexism in his writing. I wouldn't hold your breath.

Fast forward nearly 20 years to 2024 and RTD is back, this time with a black Doctor and (in 2025) a new poc companion. In direct contrast to Martha's concerns the Doctor now experiences racism and prefers Lagos to historical England; Ruby steps on a butterfly and completely changes history. Is this an apology? Does this make up for his treatment of Mickey Smith and particularly Martha Jones and Freema Agyeman? No.

Neither the 15th Doctor nor Belinda get a character arc for their tenure (and depending on your interpretation, we never really meet Belinda), and Belinda is completely overshadowed by the younger, blonde, woman that preceded her (with the worst sidelining I've ever seen for the series finale, you'd think she was filmed separately and added in in post). In his first era RTD had Daleks appear in every season: 1 solo episode, 1 two-parter and three two part season finales. Rose fought them three times, Martha twice and Donna once. In his re-re-boot RTD broke from his usual pattern but still relied on Classic Who villains; yet Gatwa is the only Doctor not to fight Daleks, Cybermen or The Master, the so-called 'big three' of villains. There was a notable absence of aliens and big set pieces, more contained episodes than before (1 bottle, 2 Doctor-lite) and no two-parters outside of the finales. With a standard runtime this wouldn't be noticeable, but as it is there is far less time for the characters to breathe. Ruby is the only one of the main three characters to feel truly fleshed out (no wonder, she got the Christmas special, both solo episodes, and the season finales, bringing her up to standard run of 12 episodes). Knowing you have a reduced run time why did you not focus on the characters you had? Character work is what you're meant to be good at.

There are two versions of the 10th Doctor running around - one in a parallel Earth with Rose (why is it her job to heal him?) and one on our Earth with Donna - and for whatever reason Billie Piper will be back on our screens. RTD is forcing us all to relive his 'glory days' with him and his poc characters are paying the price.

RTD's worst written characters are all poc, even those that get good characterisation or development are treated unfairly by other characters or the narrative. It's impossible to ignore that these actors and their characters are poc and it's impossible to ignore the differences between them and their white counterparts. The 10th doctor moved past Rose and started treating Donna better in one episode but couldn't afford the same respect to Martha after thirteen.

I think RTD did the best he could with what he had, it's just that what he had wasn't good enough. He didn't have the experience or the ability to write meaningfully about black characters and should have brought more writers into the room with him. But unintentional racism is still racism. Mickey and Martha were both second best to white romantic options; Rose left Mickey for the Doctor and the Doctor could never love Martha after Rose. Had there been more poc characters this would just be romantic tension; Mickey wasn't a great boyfriend and the Doctor simply wasn't interested in Martha. He shouldn't have compared Mickey to K9, the Doctor had previously travelled with multiple companions at once, including men, it's unnecessary and inaccurate. He shouldn't have kept writing Martha into scenarios where she would have to fight back against racism: 3 of her episodes are set in the future, 5 are in the past (two, two-parters) and 4 are modern day (including the finale). You couldn't imagine a 'post-racism' world were Dr Jones and Mr Smith were both teachers hiding from the family of blood as world war 4 loomed over the students?

So, has it gotten better? The writing room and the supporting cast are more diverse, and 15 got two(!) whole episodes that explored race and discrimination (with it being explicitly mentioned in others). The writing and production department seem aware that race is an important factor in a character's life and that they need to do better than before. Maybe the fault lies with Disney and their production schedule, the unknown future of the series and whether the actors would be available. Whatever the case, Belinda ended up with a flatter character than Martha and neither her nor the 15th Doctor got a character arc before leaving. That feels like a step forward in visual representation and two steps back in character writing. Belinda is largely... there.

It seems unlikely that Mickey or Martha will ever return, Noel Clarke is too controversial and Freema Agyeman seems to have a successful career of her own (although she has apparently returned to the UK). Despite UNIT playing a large role in the last two series, there has been no mention of either character and the 10th Doctor saving them in The End of Time may well be their last appearance. Belinda seems unwilling to travel with the Doctor while she has to take care of Poppy and 15 has just regenerated into Billie Piper (he could still return for special episodes). Who knows when we'll get the next poc character, maybe a companion, maybe the Doctor again.

And where does that leave us, the audience? Do we rejoice in more poc characters on screen and the handful of moments or episodes that make this known through dialogue or plot points? Or maybe we should ask that all the characters get thought out writing, including the poc. Satisfying can be the next step, let's just have an arc.

The envelope has already been pushed with their inclusion, let's keep pushing it. And replace RTD, his time is past.

[yonko-world]

The USUK Incest Accusation: A Canon-Based Response

A textual analysis of USUK in Hetalia: addressing the ‘incestuous’ criticism with canonical evidence and character interpretation.

I'm a Japanese Hetalia fan. I’ve seen some people criticizing USUK as a “proship”, so I wanted to take a closer look at whether the relationship between the US and UK in canon can really be considered incestuous.

Abstract

The USUK (America × England) pairing, a fan-created coupling based on the manga Hetalia, has remained a popular and enduring favorite across international fandoms for many years. However, beginning in the 2020s, there has been a noticeable rise in ethical criticisms against this pairing—particularly the claim that “USUK is incestuous.”

While this paper does not seek to investigate the broader context or fandom dynamics that led to the spread of such claims, it will demonstrate that—upon closer reading of the original settings and narrative representations—accusations of USUK being incestuous do not hold up. The goal of this paper is to respond to such criticisms by presenting a clear, textually grounded argument based on canonical evidence.

1. Understanding the Background and Basis of Incest Accusations

1-1. Incest as a Religious and Cultural Taboo

In many cultures and religions, incest is considered ethically unacceptable. This stance is often rooted in concerns over familial role confusion and the preservation of social order. However, such norms are based on societal and religious conventions and do not necessarily reflect the emotional or relational complexities involved.

1-2. Incest as a Legal and Human Rights Issue

From a legal and ethical standpoint, incest is also criticized because it is believed that free consent between close relatives is difficult to ensure. Such relationships may entail coercion or dominance, especially when a power imbalance is present. In this context, the core concern lies in the freedom and fairness of mutual consent in romantic or sexual relationships.

1-3. Structure of the Incest Criticism Toward the USUK Pairing

In order to evaluate whether the accusation of “incestuous implications” in the USUK pairing is valid, we must examine the following three points:

Whether there exists a de facto familial (or sibling-like) relationship between England and America

Whether there is a power hierarchy or psychological dominance in their relationship

Whether their current relationship reflects a continuation of a “guardian and dependent” dynamic

2. Examination of the Elements Commonly Cited as the Basis for Criticism

2-1. Whether There Exists a De Facto Familial Relationship Between England and America

The official data book Hetalia World☆Stars Character Book Collezione (2021) clearly outlines the family relationships of each character. According to the book:

England's family: his older brothers Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland (members of the same union)

America's family: his adoptive brother, Canada

There is no mention suggesting that England and America currently share any familial or family-like relationship.

This supports America’s line in the episode “Cleaning the Storage Room” (2007): 「もう君の弟でもない」(“I'm no longer your little brother.”) Taken at face value, this implies that their fraternal—or familial—relationship is already dissolved.

What about before America gained independence from England? In the episode “Battle for the New Continent: America” (2008), England, France, and Finland visit the New World to see a newly emerged child representing a new nation—America. Upon seeing him, both England and France initially argue that he must be their younger brother due to his resemblance. However, when they notice that his mannerisms more closely resemble Finland’s, they both backtrack and say: 「似てるかどうかで決まるもんじゃないからな！」(“It’s not about who he looks like!”) This moment indicates a rejection of the earlier claim to familial connection.

In a post-independence episode titled “The African Front”, a common soldier remarks to them: 「お二人って兄弟？なのに似てないんですね」(“You two are brothers? But you don’t look alike at all.”) This implies that even to outsiders within the story, England and America do not appear to be related in any physical sense.

Returning to “Battle for the New Continent: America”, there is a scene in which England tells young America: 「今日からお前は俺の弟だ！」(“From today, you’re my little brother!”) America, who already seemed aware of his own identity, responds without surprise: 「うん。じゃあおにいちゃんってよぶね」(“Okay. Then I’ll call you big brother.”) However, England, recalling his contentious relationships with his own older brothers or other elder nations, quickly walks it back: 「いや…イギリスでいいよ…」(“No… just call me England.”) This exchange illustrates England’s own discomfort with being placed in a fraternal role.

The subtitle of the episode is “Flag-Crusher England.” In Japanese fan culture, the term "flag" refers to a narrative cue or setup that signals a future development—such as a romantic or familial relationship. In this case, the “brotherhood flag” (兄弟フラグ) would be a hint that England and America might develop a sibling-like bond. By “crushing” the flag, the episode title suggests that England himself rejected or undermined that implication. Ultimately, this leaves the status of their fraternal bond ambiguous at best.

In conclusion, there is no canonical evidence to support the existence of a familial or sibling-like relationship between England and America. Any such interpretation remains ambiguous, unsupported, or actively refuted in the original material.

2-2. Power Dynamics and Psychological Dominance in the Relationship Between England and America

Next, we examine whether a power imbalance exists between the two characters.

We will analyze the question of power imbalance from the following three perspectives: (a) Their historical relationship as countries (e.g., colonial vs. imperial power) (b) Emotional or psychological dependence or dominance (c) Narrative representations of superiority/inferiority or teacher/pupil dynamics

According to a comment by Hidekaz Himaruya, America was originally portrayed as “a kind of proto-country” (“Battle for the New Continent: America”), and subsequently became a colony under England. After growing up and achieving independence, America entered into a relationship with England as a fellow sovereign nation.

Thus, in terms of historical national status (a), their relationship transitioned as follows: Colonizer–Colony → Independent Nation–Independent Nation

It is important to note that America's independence was not something "granted" by England—it was something America actively fought for and won.

Therefore, in terms of (a) historical power dynamics, we can summarize as follows: While there was once a power hierarchy with England as the colonial power and America as its colony, this structure was overturned with America's independence, and their relationship thereafter became one between equals.

Now, let us consider how (b) emotional or psychological dependence/dominance and (c) narrative superiority/inferiority or guidance dynamics played out prior to America’s independence—when the historical power imbalance was still in place.

As mentioned earlier, their first encounter occurs in “Battle for the New Continent: America,” and their relationship develops further in “America and England” (2006). To understand their dynamic before independence, we will review depictions from these two episodes.

Depictions from “Battle for the New Continent: America” and “America and England”

In “Battle for the New Continent: America”,

England, after a prolonged rivalry with France, (A1)decides to let America himself choose who he wishes to align with . In his eagerness to attract America, England emits such a sinister aura that even France is frightened—causing America to burst into tears.

France, on the other hand, offers America his delicious-looking cuisine. America begins to approach France, and England—unable to present anything more appealing—assumes the contest is lost and crouches down, shedding tears of frustration.

Yet , (A2)America is concerned upon seeing England in tears and chooses to go to him instead. Witnessing this, France dejectedly concedes: 「あっ俺ふられた…」(“Ah... guess I lost.”)

Thus, England becomes (B)“America’s ‘big brother’ (maybe?)” and, while reflecting on the hardships America will face in the future, he resolves: (C)「こいつと二人支え合って生きて行こう」(“Let’s support each other and live together.”)

Then, (D1)America—who had been peacefully asleep in England’s arms—suddenly jumps up and runs toward a wild buffalo. Ignoring England’s warning cries, young America proceeds to lift the buffalo and swing it around as if it were a toy.

England watches in shock and mutters: (D2)「あれ…？もしかしてこいつ結構一人でもやってけるんじゃ…」(“Huh...? Maybe he doesn’t even need my protection...”) His expression reveals a sudden realization that challenges his assumed role as protector.

In “America and England”,

(E)France teases England: 「友達いないイギリス君」(“Poor England, no friends again, huh?”) England snaps back: 「う…うっさい！ケンカじゃ俺に勝てない癖に！」(“Sh-shut up! You can’t even beat me in a fight!”) —but he is clearly still in a foul mood.

When he visits America, the young boy greets him cheerfully: 「来てくれただけでもうれしいぞ」(“I’m just happy you came to see me!”) (F)England, momentarily soothed by the child’s warmth, notices France watching them smugly from the shadows and blushes in embarrassment.

After spending some time together, England prepares to leave. (G1)America desperately clings to him, crying: 「帰るなんて許さないぞ！」(“I won’t let you leave!”) He pleads: 「こんな広い所で一人は怖い」「心細いよ」(“It’s scary to be alone in such a big place.” / “I feel lonely.”)

England responds gently: 「心細いのは経験あるからよくわかるよ」(“I know what it’s like to feel lonely.”) 「またくるからお前もがんばって強くなれよ」(“I’ll come back again. Be strong until then.”)

(G2)Later, when England visits again, he finds America greatly changed. Now taller than England and speaking in a confident, casual tone, America welcomes him as if nothing had happened. England is utterly stunned by how much—and how quickly—America has grown.

Supplementary Analysis for A1–G2

(A1), (A2) – On the surface, the episode presents the scenario as a competition where America is “forced” to choose between England and France. However, the narrative clearly depicts that the final decision is shaped by America’s own volition and emotional response. In this sense, the initiative lies with America. Specifically, (A2) portrays a moment in which America, having already exchanged words one-on-one with England, approaches him of his own accord out of empathy, suggesting they were already growing emotionally close. France seems to recognize this and withdraws voluntarily.

(B) – In England’s internal monologue, he says that he “became America’s big brother (maybe?),” indicating his uncertainty. Although he was previously asserting, alongside France, that America was “his younger brother,” this line reveals England himself is unsure whether a sibling relationship truly exists between them.

(C) – This marks a moment where England becomes aware of a sense of responsibility as America’s protector. However, rather than imagining a one-sided guardianship, he envisions a future in which they will “support each other and live together,” implying a mutual partnership.

(D1), (D2) – When America falls asleep in England’s arms, he is presented as a vulnerable child, reinforcing the image of someone in need of protection. However, this expectation—held by both England and the reader—is subverted when America suddenly awakens, displaying tremendous natural strength by lifting and playing with a wild buffalo. This scene undermines even England’s own emerging sense of identity as “America’s protector,” highlighting how America’s extraordinary nature destabilizes traditional roles.

(E) – England tries to brush off France’s teasing by citing his superior fighting skills, but deep down, he is clearly affected by the jab about having no friends.

(F) – England is able to interact sincerely and comfortably with young America, who shows him open affection. However, when France watches this moment smugly from the shadows, England blushes with embarrassment. This likely stems from an awareness of the asymmetry in their relationship—a lonely colonial power finding emotional comfort in a much younger, innocent colony.

(G1), (G2) – From (G1), we can infer that America, though still a dependent colony, feels close enough to England to cry out: “I won’t let you leave!” This illustrates his emotional reliance on England, born from loneliness and fear. England, in turn, is touched by America’s sincere longing and hurries to visit him again. However, in (G2), that budding codependence is abruptly disrupted by America’s growth. When England visits next, he finds a completely changed America—taller, more confident, and emotionally independent.

Thus far, we have reviewed the narrative portrayals of England and America before the latter's independence. In summary:

(b) Regarding emotional or psychological dependence, it appears that England (as the colonizing power) and America (as the colony) were drawn to each other through their shared sense of loneliness. They began to form a relationship in which England sought to be needed and America sought someone to rely on—a kind of mutual dependence mediated by the power imbalance. However, this dynamic was disrupted before it could solidify, due to America’s precocious strength and rapid growth. He quickly outgrew the role of a dependent, undermining the structure before it could be fully established.

This reading is supported by a note from Himaruya’s Miscellaneous Setting Collection (2008), which describes America as: 「昔は泣き虫ですぐにイギリスやフランスを頼る弟体質だったが、厳しい西部の風に吹かれてるうち、いつの間にか精神的にも肉体的にも異常に成長してしまい、なんか甘えられなくなっていた。」(“He used to be a crybaby who clung to England and France like a dependent little brother, but after being exposed to the harsh winds of the West, he somehow grew unusually strong—both mentally and physically—and couldn't bring himself to depend on them anymore.”)

(c) Regarding portrayals of superiority, inferiority, or a mentor-pupil dynamic: while England is older, America is repeatedly shown to possess exceptional strength even as a child. Moreover, the narrative often depicts shifts in who holds the initiative, suggesting that no fixed hierarchy exists between the two. We can therefore conclude that a clearly defined top-down or teacher-student relationship is not consistently represented in the work.

It is true that in “Cleaning the Storage Room” and “Make a British Food” (2007), flashbacks show a younger America who is unable to push back against England’s fussing and instead chooses words that would please him.

However, based on the foregoing analysis, these scenes are better interpreted not as evidence of coercion or oppression, but as signs of America’s personal kindness and his desire not to hurt England’s feelings. In other words, they stem from his own volition—not from a forced or imbalanced power dynamic.

2-3. Is the Current USUK Relationship a Continuation of the “Guardian and Dependent” Dynamic?

In the previous section, we examined their relationship during the period prior to America’s independence, when a clear power imbalance existed. We found that even then, their bond could not be reduced to a fixed hierarchical structure. However, this was largely due to America’s exceptional abilities and rapid growth, and not necessarily the result of a conscious choice made by either party.

This section shifts focus to the post-independence period, in order to examine how their relationship evolved and to consider to what extent the “guardian and dependent” model was preserved—or perhaps transcended.

Let us begin with their first canonical appearance in Hetalia, the episode “Hetare 2: Allied Forces” (2006). As Hidekaz Himaruya comments, “Since America is a country formed by defeating England, they’ve had a bad relationship from the start.” In this episode, they are portrayed as bickering rivals with a troubled history.

During a strategy meeting, a quarrel breaks out when England rejects one of America’s selfish proposals. Their exchange—

「また君か。本当に昔からイギリスは否定が好きだね」（“You again. England’s always been a sucker for denial,”）

 followed by,

「俺が一番否定したいのはお前の存在自体なんだけど…」（“The thing I want to deny the most is your existence”）

—reveals the routine nature of their disagreements and reflects England’s pride as a former colonial power.

The quarrel escalates when England complains, 「だいたい恩も忘れて独立しやがって！ お前頭の中までハンバーガーなんじゃねーの？」（“You had the nerve to forget your debt and declare independence! Your brain’s made of hamburgers?”） America retaliates: 「…じゃ俺も言わせてもらうが、この間君の家に遊び行ったとき出されたスコーン、あれすごーくまずかったぞ」（“...If I may say something in return, those scones you served me the other day were absolutely awful.”） England shouts, 「てめぇ！ 人がせっかく作ってやったのにそういうかっ！」（“You bastard! I worked hard to make those for you!”） America, surprised, responds, 「アレ君の自作だったのか！？」（“Wait, YOU made those!?”） Their argument quickly derails from the meeting’s agenda into personal grievances.

This scene clearly portrays that the former colonizer–colony dynamic has already collapsed. Yet it also shows that America had recently visited England’s home, and England had baked for him—a personal gesture that America appreciated enough to keep quiet about, despite disliking the taste.

While this moment may reflect lingering traces of their past relationship, it also illustrates America’s agency: he visited England of his own volition, and despite his displeasure, chose not to ruin the mood. This is quite different from the passive behavior of a “protected child” indulging in a caretaker’s affection.

In the next episode, “Hetare 3: G-R Nonaggression Pact?”,

America proudly shows off a new fighter plane, which he says he developed specifically “to beat up England.” to which England responds childishly by brandishing a cursed chair “that kills anyone who sits in it.” They continue exchanging immature provocations.

Later, England invites America out for drinks to gather intelligence, but ends up getting drunk himself and blurting out his true feelings. Slurring and crying, he yells: 「俺のおかげで一人前になれた癖に、偉そうにすんなよなっ！」（“You only became a proper country because of me, so don’t act all high and mighty!”） 「一緒にフランスと戦ったときは いい友達になれると思った俺がバカだったよ」（“I thought we could be good friends when we fought France together—guess I was a fool!”） 「バーカバーカ アメリカのバーカ」（“You idiot, idiot, America you big idiot!”）

This outburst reveals that England does recognize America as an equal, but also shows his lingering emotional complexity. He once had hopes of building a genuine friendship with America, and even now he seems unable to let go of that desire.

This is reminiscent of their dynamic in “America and England,” where England, though strong and solitary, sought a relationship of mutual trust even before America’s independence. Though he often says things like “I helped you because you were pitiful” or “you forgot your debt,” these statements emphasize his role as a giver—but what he truly wanted (and still wants) from America was not deference, but recognition and connection.

These episodes are among the earliest in the series and can be interpreted as foundational to their relationship. However, as Hetalia continued over the years—with new episodes, illustrations, and variations—there were occasional depictions that seemed to contradict this initial framing.

For example, in some post-independence episodes, England’s resentful and somewhat overbearing behavior, stemming from his lingering feelings, fades, and he is instead portrayed as the “straight man” constantly overwhelmed by America’s antics. This could give the appearance of a mischievous child and a long-suffering guardian, though not necessarily reflect a true hierarchy.

There was also a period when Himaruya seemed to playfully exaggerate the idea that “England raised America.” In some cases, America’s outrageous behavior is chalked up to England’s poor parenting skills. In The Book Paper (2008) and Go Go Allied Forces (2008), characters like Japan and France imply that England’s leniency or incompetence is to blame for America’s behavior, framing him as a “failed child.”

These portrayals may have strongly influenced the fan perception that America is a product of England’s failed parenting.

However, it is important to recognize that the original context of this “failed child” narrative stems not from America’s immaturity, but from England’s emotional pain and frustration over being surpassed by someone he once cared for. America was not depicted as an underdeveloped adult, but rather as someone who grew too strong—so much so that England’s protective role was rendered obsolete.

Given Hetalia’s frequent use of gag-style exaggeration, it is more appropriate to treat these instances as inconsistent tonal shifts rather than canonical retcons.

There are also works that frame the guardian–dependent dynamic as a cherished memory. In the 2011 illustration titled “Before the Inevitable Farewell,” a young America and Canada are seen peacefully sleeping under dappled sunlight, with their heads resting on England’s lap. England gazes down at America’s sleeping face with a gentle expression, but a scar on his cheek hints at battle elsewhere, implying that his time with the children was a form of healing for him as well.

To readers, this may appear to idealize England as a loving guardian and America (and Canada) as children in his care. However, as the title suggests, the scene presumes that this gentle arrangement will come to an end with America’s independence. In this light, the dynamic depicted here cannot be applied to their current relationship.

Finally, it is worth noting the discrepancy that can arise between Himaruya’s narrative intent and how readers interpret certain depictions. As of 2025, the ongoing Hetalia World☆Stars: Gangsta is set in a parallel world, but many of its characters resemble their mainline counterparts. As such, it provides valuable insight into their canonical dynamics.

According to official character notes, Lord (the counterpart to England) “used to dote on Hero (America) like a younger brother,” but as Hero matured—becoming more self-assured and taller—a sense of distance grew between them. Now, they are “rival-like figures who trust each other and constantly challenge one another.”

This setting clearly frames the guardian–dependent relationship as something in the past, while emphasizing present equality and rivalry. It is a deliberate contrast of past and present.

However, some scenes in Gangsta still show behavior that appears protective: for example, Lord covers Hero’s eyes to shield him from the sight of France (Parran) writhing sensually in distress, or he offers to pay off Hero’s overdue tribute money. These actions could be interpreted as overprotective or “parental.”

What these examples reveal is this: Even when certain actions may appear to reflect a guardian–dependent relationship, they do not necessarily define the present relationship. If we interpret these behaviors consistently with the established setting, they are better understood as remnants of a past connection, rather than indicators of current roles.

The same interpretive lens can—and should—be applied to the original Hetalia canon as well.

3. Conclusion

As we have seen, the critique of the US–UK pairing as "incestuous" lacks validity from any reasonable standpoint.

Impressions such as "they look like a parent and child" or "they seem like siblings" are not being dismissed outright. However, using those impressions as grounds to ethically deny the possibility of the USUK pairing is unsubstantiated. And relying on impressions like that risks missing the point of how their relationship actually works in canon—it can seriously limit how we understand or explore their dynamic.

This is because their relationship can no longer be adequately understood within the former framework of "guardian and dependent." Rather, it appears to be a bond sustained by two independent entities who continue to choose to relate to one another through mutual intent.

While America has relinquished institutional ties through his independence from England, he has since actively chosen to maintain a relationship with him. On the other hand, England, after years of struggling with his own emotions, seems to have finally come to face them—and while he may still waver at times, he genuinely cherishes the bond he now has with America. The fact that their connection continues to this day suggests it is based not on hierarchy or dependency, but on mutual trust and understanding.

From this angle, labeling US–UK as "incestuous" fails to account for how their relationship has evolved—and continues to evolve—in canon. It risks flattening a complex and thoughtful dynamic into something reductive, which is ultimately a loss for any reader trying to engage with the story more deeply.

Afterword What has been discussed in this paper is intended solely as a rebuttal against interpretations or criticisms that claim the US–UK pairing is "ethically problematic." It does not deny or diminish the readings that find a familial or sibling-like affection in their relationship, nor the appeal that such readings hold. The multilayered and flexible nature of interpretation that Hetalia offers allows each fan the freedom to imagine and embrace the relationship in their own way. Finally, I would like to reaffirm that this paper is presented as one perspective among many within that broad spectrum of understanding.

[gremlin-girly]

Fic title: The sound of the sea (you know…?😏😏)

Oh Sydney now I wonder who l should make this about👀

The Sound of the Sea

Pairing: Bucky x sirenf!reader

Tags/warnings: nudity, meetcute, no smut

A/N: Sun, Sea and Sirens coded? Yup. I never had a Bucky fic for that planned as I was too focused on ... well, all of the fics and a secret fairy option 🥴🤭

Bucky had missed the sound of the sea.

He was grateful that Sam had let him borrow his family's boat for a few nights to escape the humdrum of Louisiana hospitality.

Waves crashed gently against the bow, rocking the boat to and fro. Bucky remembered being on the boat to England when he got drafted; the weather was worse and he was trapped in a giant metal ship crammed with hundreds of others, puking their guts up and missing home. He'd been missing Steve, his mom and his sister.

That had been lifetimes ago.

Bucky took a swig of beer and looked to the stars. The night was clear so they sparkled against the black of the sky like twinkling lights. He mapped Orion's Belt and the Little and Big Dippers, tracing them with his left hand.

"Fly me to the moon,

Let me play amongst the stars."

The singing caught him off guard and Bucky patted his pockets for his phone. He couldn't remember liking such a serene version of Sinatra's famous song but then again, he wasn't the best with technology.

"Let me see what spring is like,

On Jupiter or Mars."

There's a splash in the water beyond the boat and Bucky wants to face palm. His phone isn't playing anything and he is anchored. Someone is probably swimming around the boat.

Although, this far out?

Bucky's instincts take over. He wasn't prepared for much of a fight but he stalks around the boat, peering to find a dingy or the woman singing but finds nothing.

Then at the other end of the boat, the singing continues;

"In other words hold my hand,

In other words, baby, kiss me."

Bucky dives to the other end of the boat, heart frantic. No one's there.

"Hey!" He calls to the darkness. "I know you're out there!"

There's silence for a moment and then he sees a shape emerge from the water about five feet away from him and he flicks on his phone torch. A woman squints back at him.

Her shoulders are bare, so no tactical gear from the torso up and she doesn't have any SCUBA kit on. She's a civilian.

He sighs. "What are you doing out here?"

"What are you doing out here?" She throws back. "I thought this boat was empty."

"It's not, clearly." Bucky huffs but then his face softens into a smile. "Was that you? Singing?"

The woman smiles back, bobbing in the water. "Well, unless you see anyone else around here. Then yes."

"It was beautiful." He swallows, suddenly acutely aware that there was a gorgeous woman in the water before him. "Sorry for interrupting. I just - you-"

"Scared you?" She chuckles and Bucky can feel his face heat up.

"Now, I wouldn't say scare. More like startle." He counters, leaning his arms onto the side of the boat. "But I'll ask again; what are you doing all the way out here?"

"What does it look like?" She asks playfully, leaning onto the water, exposing her bare chest. Bucky chokes on a swig of beer and hurriedly turns around. She sighs with a smile looking up at the stars. "Swimming and stargazing."

"Right." Bucky grits taking a large gulp of beer.

"Do you like stargazing?" She asks, the swish of water echo up the sides of the boat.

"Yeah. I was about the find Ursa Major before I heard your singing."

She hums and Bucky can feel himself relax against the side of the boat, slumping slightly. He places back towards the sky, the stars wink back.

"Sorry." She says quietly. "I thought the boat was empty."

"So you've said." He chuckles. "Don't apologise, it's alright."

"Do you mind if I... stay a while?" She asks almost sheepishly, and Bucky can hear her arms spreading the water as she moves closer to the boat. "I like coming out here to look at the stars."

Bucky takes a cautionary glance down at her in the sea. Her gaze is excitable and pleading. God, he can't say no. His heart thunders.

"Sure. Um, you wanna come aboard?" He points to the rear of the boat. "I have beer and some water if you want a rest from swimming."

She laughs again; another beautiful sound. "I'm naked so if you have any blankets, sure."

Bucky blushes hard but forces himself to nod. Soon enough, the mystery swimmer is sat on the boat, drying herself off before clinking a beer with Bucky wearing the scratchiest blanket known to man.

They spend the night pointing to the sky, discussing the different constellations and planets. Bucky has never felt more at ease around this stranger and he wonders whether he would see her again.

When he asks, she smiles.

"There's an observatory that you can see planets that are even further than the human eye or an average telescope." He blunders, trying not to trip over his words. "I... would like to take you if youve not been."

"I would like to go." She says and then looks disheartened. "But how far away is it? How close to the water?"

Buckh blinks at the odd questions and shakes his head. "I don't know. I'd have to check Boogle or whatever."

"Boogle?" She frowns and shakes her head. "Who the hell is Boogle?"

Bucky laughs awkwardly. She's so cute and he's trying so hard not to mess this - albeit very strange - encounter up. "It's a, um, search engine thingy. I think I've said it wrong. Look, um, if I could get your number we could text about it?"

It was a ham-fisted attempt and Bucky inwardly groans at himself but the stranger grins, rattling off her number as he types it into his contacts and offers her name because he'd been too excited to ask.

He can't remember when he fell asleep, or when the mystery woman had put her blanket over him, and was half convinced it had been a dream when he woke up alone in the middle of the ocean. Until he found a sweet note thanking him for the beer and company.

He smiled to himself as he headed back towards the shore. He couldn't wait to rub this in Sam's face. Or learn more about his mystery ocean woman.

[moonselune]

EEE THE INBOX IS OPEN I hope you're at least a lil familiar with dungeon meshi, would you do maybe some headcanons (or whatever works best for you) for your choice of crew with Tav being like Senshi so they're a BOMB ass camp cook and also incredibly resourceful and creative with ingredients and such- no offense to Gale but just like, if Faerun has a similar culinary scene to England like most high fantasy does and then camping on top? then... ya know... euh... BUT IF NOT THEN NO WORRIES- I LOVE YOUR WORK ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

I unfortunately have no idea about dungeon meshi but i completely get the concept. Gonna do it for the boyssssss

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale:

Camp was calm, the fire crackling merrily as the group gathered after a long day of adventuring. You had long endured Gale's enthusiastic—but consistently mediocre—attempts at camp cooking. His confidence was unshakable, even in the face of countless charred, bland, or overly experimental meals that left the group quietly swapping snacks after dinner. Gale meant well, and his ego swelled with every polite nod or forced smile after a meal. But tonight, enough was enough.

As Gale hovered over his latest attempt—a watery, over-salted stew with floating lumps of... something—you decided it was time.

"Move over, Gale," you said firmly, stepping beside him with a cooking knife in hand.

He looked up, affronted but amused. "I beg your pardon? Move over? I’m creating an artisanal experience here."

"Artisanal isn’t the word I’d use," you muttered under your breath, then louder, "Look, you’ve done well, but it’s time someone with a bit more culinary experience took charge."

Gale froze, his spoon poised dramatically mid-stir. "Oh? And you believe you’re more skilled than I? A Wizard of Waterdeep? An acclaimed intellectual?" He set the spoon down with exaggerated care, crossing his arms. "Do elaborate."

"I’ve kept quiet long enough," you shot back. "But if I have to eat one more overcooked slab of boar or mystery stew, I’ll lose it. Just let me take over."

Gale smirked, clearly intrigued and slightly offended. "If you think you can do better, darling, the fire is yours. Impress me."

The group, now invested, watched with keen interest as you strode confidently into the supply tent. You emerged moments later with an assortment of herbs, spices, and preserved ingredients you had personally gathered and prepared over the course of your travels. Gale, feigning disinterest, lounged by the fire, but his eyes were glued to your every move.

First, you prepared a base for a savory stew with precision, chopping fresh vegetables, seasoning with a deft hand, and even adding a splash of wine that Gale had claimed for magical rituals. The aromas began to waft through the air, causing Shadowheart to wander closer, feigning an excuse to refill her waterskin. Astarion sniffed the air dramatically, muttering, "Finally, someone in this camp who doesn’t treat food as an afterthought."

Gale’s smirk wavered as you added a homemade spice mix, explaining to the group the balance of flavors—earthy, sweet, and smoky.

"It’s all about layering," you said, casting a sly glance at Gale. "You don’t throw everything in at once and hope for the best."

"I would call that an oversimplification," Gale countered, sitting up straighter.

When dinner was finally served, the group fell into a stunned silence as they took their first bites. Scratch barked happily as he devoured his own share, and even Lae’zel—typically indifferent to culinary flair—muttered, “Efficient and pleasing. Acceptable.”

Gale took a tentative bite, his expression shifting from cautious to betrayed. "Well, it’s not... bad," he admitted grudgingly, but the twinkle in his eye gave him away.

"Not bad?" Karlach guffawed. "It’s leagues better than the watery shoe-leather you call dinner!"

Gale huffed, folding his arms. "Well, clearly, you’ve had more... practice."

"Oh, stop pouting," you teased, reaching out to pinch his cheek. His indignant yelp only made you laugh harder. "You’re still my brilliant wizard, just not my brilliant chef."

He tried to maintain his grumpy façade, but as you leaned in and kissed him lightly, the corners of his mouth twitched upward. "I suppose I’ll allow this arrangement... for the good of the group."

"Magnanimous of you," you said, laughing, as you handed him another bowl. "Now eat up, Gale. Even a Wizard of Waterdeep needs sustenance."

From then on, camp dinners were a delight, the group often offering to hunt and gather for your concoctions. Gale, in his own way, found new joy in watching you command the firepit and create meals that brought smiles to everyone’s faces. And though he pretended otherwise, you caught him sneaking second helpings of your food more often than not.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion:

The campfire crackled softly as the evening wind danced through the surrounding trees. Dinner preparation was in full swing, with you at the helm. Your skill in the kitchen—or, rather, your campfire culinary prowess—had become legendary among the party. Tonight, though, your focus wasn’t on the usual hearty stews or roasted game. It was on something far more delicate and tailored for one particular companion who had stolen your heart.

Astarion.

He lounged near the fire, idly flipping through a book with the air of someone completely unaffected by mortal concerns like hunger. But you’d noticed how he sometimes watched the others eat with a wistfulness he’d never admit. Being unable to enjoy food as he once did was just another quiet burden he carried, a reminder of what vampirism had stolen from him.

Tonight, you were determined to change that.

The idea had struck you earlier that day while hunting—a blood sorbet. It was resourceful, creative, and perfectly suited to Astarion’s unique palate. After securing the freshest blood you could (thanks to some carefully collected boar blood and a little bit of your own), you set to work. Using a simple chilled container enchanted by Gale to keep things cool and some foraged ingredients for flavor, you worked on crafting something that might actually please Astarion.

When the sorbet was finally ready, you approached him with an air of nonchalance.

“Astarion,” you said, setting the small wooden bowl in front of him, “I made this for you.”

He raised a skeptical brow, setting down his book. “Darling, while I appreciate your boundless generosity, I’ve told you before—food and I no longer have a pleasant relationship.”

You leaned closer, grinning. “This isn’t just food. It’s blood sorbet. Humor me. One spoonful”

Astarion blinked, his red eyes darting to the dish. It was an unexpected gesture, even for you. Slowly, he took the bowl, sniffing delicately before scooping a small amount onto the provided spoon. The crimson, semi-frozen mixture caught the firelight, glinting like rubies.

He hesitated, then slipped the spoon into his mouth.

His reaction was immediate—a slow blink, followed by a faint furrow of his brows. He removed the spoon, turning it over in his hand as though trying to parse what had just happened.

“Well?” you asked, unable to hide the eagerness in your tone.

“It’s…sweet,” he admitted, his voice laden with reluctant surprise. “And oddly palatable. Not quite as… visceral as I prefer my meals, but… impressive nonetheless.”

You grinned triumphantly. “Told you. I’m a culinary genius.”

Astarion chuckled, shaking his head. “I still prefer it straight from your vein,” he said, his voice dropping into a teasing lilt as his eyes lingered on your neck, “but I suppose I can’t fault your creativity.”

“Maybe next time I’ll make you a blood pâté,” you quipped, leaning in slightly. “Or a nice blood reduction to drizzle over some… I don’t know, undead foie gras?”

He rolled his eyes, though his lips curled into a genuine smile. “You are insufferable. Delightful, but insufferable.”

You smirked. “And you love it.”

Astarion leaned back with a contented sigh, swirling the remaining sorbet with his spoon. “Perhaps I do. Though next time, darling, save yourself the effort and just let me drink directly from you. It’s far less fuss, and I promise to be gentle.”

You flushed, unable to keep from laughing at his unabashed audacity. The rest of the party looked on in various stages of amusement and confusion as Astarion savored your latest creation, the blood sorbet proving to be an unexpected success—and a sweet reminder of the lengths you were willing to go to bring a little joy to his long and hungry existence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Wyll:

The day had been long and grueling, filled with skirmishes and moments of harrowing danger. Wyll sat by the campfire, his posture slouched, his usual poise dimmed by exhaustion. Gale was busy stirring a pot of something that smelled… fine. But fine wasn’t what Wyll needed right now. Fine wouldn’t fill the gnawing emptiness that came from the taxing day. Wyll didn’t say it, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes: he needed something warm, hearty, and comforting. Something that felt like home.

You caught his expression from where you were tidying up your gear. Quietly, you set your things aside and approached him.

“Rough day?” you asked softly, kneeling down beside him.

He glanced up at you and gave a half-smile. “You could say that. But it’s part of the job, isn’t it?”

You hummed thoughtfully, brushing a hand lightly across his forehead, your touch lingering as you pressed a gentle kiss there. “Give me an hour,” you murmured, your voice as soothing as the promise itself. “I’ll take care of it.”

Wyll blinked at you in surprise but didn’t argue. Your confidence had a way of being infectious. As you left the camp, he leaned back with a puzzled but slightly lighter heart, curiosity mingling with the exhaustion.

Exactly an hour later, you returned, carrying a steaming dish and a goblet of wine you’d swiped from Shadowheart’s stash (you’d deal with her later). The smell wafting from the bowl was intoxicating—savory and rich, with hints of roasted herbs and spices that teased at the memory of home-cooked meals.

“Dinner is served,” you declared, handing the bowl to Wyll with a flourish. The smile that spread across his face was immediate as he accepted the dish.

“You are a lifesaver,” he said, voice filled with gratitude. “No, really—this is why I adore you.”

You laughed lightly, shaking your head. “You haven’t even tried it yet. For all you know, I could’ve put a goblin’s toenail in there.”

“If it smells this good, I’d still eat it,” he replied, already picking up a spoon.

Wyll took his first bite, and you held your breath, watching for his reaction. At first, his expression froze, and your stomach sank. Did he hate it? Did you go too heavy on the spices? Did you accidentally add—?

“Oh gods,” Wyll finally said, his voice trembling as tears welled up in his eyes. “It’s… it’s perfect.”

The spoon clattered back into the bowl as he set it down, his hands moving to rub at his eyes. “I—I don’t even know what to say. Thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed this.”

A warm smile tugged at your lips, and you reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re welcome, Wyll. You’ve had a hard day. You deserve something to make it a little better.”

“No, seriously,” he said, his voice still thick with emotion. “If I didn’t already love you, this would’ve sealed the deal. You’re incredible.”

You grinned, sitting beside him and nudging him lightly. “Eat up, then. Don’t waste it on tears.”

Wyll chuckled through his sniffles and dug back in, savoring every bite. For the rest of the evening, he didn’t stop singing your praises, his spirits lifted immeasurably by the simple but heartfelt gesture. As far as you were concerned, that alone made the effort worth it.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Halsin:

The sun filtered gently through the canopy of the forest as you set the final touches on the picnic you had promised Halsin. The woven basket sat open on the soft blanket, revealing the bounty you had prepared using the finest ingredients the forest had to offer. Halsin approached, his broad frame moving easily through the woods, and his face lit up at the sight before him.

"This is… remarkable," he said, crouching down to take in the spread. "You truly are full of surprises."

You waved off his compliment with a playful smile. "I promised I’d take care of everything, didn’t I? The forest has so much to offer if you know how to look."

On the blanket sat carefully foraged dishes, each showcasing your resourcefulness and creativity. There was a fresh salad of wild greens and herbs, dressed with a vinaigrette made from wildberries. Accompanying it were roasted mushrooms, their caps stuffed with a savory mixture of nuts and herbs. A loaf of dense, nutty bread you’d baked on a hot stone was paired with a small jar of fresh, hand-churned butter, a sprinkle of dried herbs worked into it for flavor.

Halsin’s grin widened as he inspected it all. "And here I thought this picnic would be simple—perhaps some berries and dried meat. But you’ve created a feast!"

As he settled onto the blanket, you passed him a plate, and he dug in eagerly. The pair of you ate amidst light conversation, the forest’s natural symphony providing the perfect backdrop. Every bite Halsin took was met with a hum of approval, his appreciation only making your heart swell with pride.

Once the main meal was finished, you gave him a conspiratorial grin. "I saved the best for last," you said, reaching into the basket.

From it, you produced a small jar of honey-sweetened custard. It was a delicate dessert, crafted with painstaking care using honey you had collected earlier, blended with creamy milk and infused with a hint of lavender. Halsin’s eyes widened as you handed it to him.

"You know my fondness for honey," he said, voice touched with both surprise and delight.

You chuckled. "I might have paid attention to a few things."

Halsin didn’t waste time. Using the spoon you offered, he took a bite, and the look of bliss that crossed his face was worth every moment you’d spent preparing it. He devoured the dessert quickly, barely pausing to breathe, which left you laughing as you noticed a streak of honey glistening on his cheek.

"Slow down, you’re worse than Scratch," you teased, reaching over to wipe the honey away with your thumb.

Before you could pull your hand back, Halsin caught it gently, his warm eyes fixed on yours.

"You’ve truly outdone yourself," he murmured, his voice low and sincere. "But I think I’m still hungry for something else."

You barely had time to respond before he leaned in, his lips capturing yours in a kiss. It was warm and sweet, tasting faintly of the honey he’d just devoured, and it stole your breath away. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, a quiet laugh rumbling in his chest.

"You’ve made this day unforgettable," he said softly. "Though I think I may have to insist you let me cook for you next time—if only to match your artistry."

You grinned, your heart fluttering at his words, and nestled closer to him, the remains of the picnic forgotten as you lost yourself in his presence.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Hope this was okay nonnie! And I hope you guys enjoyed this ! Again thank you all for your sweet comments, hopefully will get back to regular posting soon - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[bennetsbonnet]

It's surprising and, perhaps, a little depressing for a book so ostensibly beloved and held up as one of the finest in English literature, that Pride and Prejudice is so widely misquoted and misunderstood. It seems to be primarily viewed as a romance in the public's imagination, rather than the comedy of manners it truly is.

A large part of these misconceptions are admittedly, due to its various adaptations. I think a lot of people are surprised when they read the novel for the first time and discover that Mr Collins does not possess an affinity for boiled potatoes; that the proposal scene does not take place in the rain; that the second proposal is not made by Mr Darcy stumbling over his words at dawn and, ultimately, that he does not emerge from a lake in a wet white shirt. Nor is he really a brooding romantic hero.

The adaptations have had such a huge impact on the popular perception of Pride and Prejudice, that all of these products can be found on only the first two pages of an Etsy search of the title. All very nice products, I am sure. However, none of them contain quotes found in the original novel:

(quite why you'd want to be seen in a 'barely tolerable' hoodie I don't know but... each to their own... )

I question how widely-liked the actual novel is, if those who are keen to walk around in merch or decorate their homes inspired by Pride and Prejudice, are doing so with references that are nowhere to be found in the book's pages. Adaptations are part of many of our paths to falling in love with the novel; they were part of mine. But there are so many hilarious quotes contained within the first few chapters alone, you soon realise that nothing can live up to Austen's quick, witty dialogue or her observational comedy.

Yet, even when the novel is correctly quoted, it is not always done in an apt manner. Jane Austen was deemed important enough by the Bank of England to warrant her own banknote. Released in 2017, it looks like this:

I remember the controversy about the portrait, and how little it actually looks like the only (incomplete) drawing we have of Jane (which was said by those who knew her to not even resemble her all that well), but that's another matter. I'm most interested in the quote from Pride and Prejudice beneath it:

Let's put the quote in context. It is taken from chapter 11, and spoken by Caroline Bingley who is trying, unsuccessfully, to capture the attention of Mr Darcy.

Why did she pick up a book? Because Mr Darcy did:

'Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same'

How much enjoyment did she derive from the book? Not a great deal, apparently:

'Miss Bingley’s attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy’s progress through his book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on.'

And now comes the actual passage from which the quote is taken, which tells us why Caroline chose that particular book:

'At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, “How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library."'

On the surface, such a quote—especially taken in isolation—would invariably lead you to believe that said character was an avid reader. However, the context demonstrates that Miss Bingley is far from a bookworm.

If you were left in any doubt, however, her next action surely confirms it:

'No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement'

As soon as Caroline realises that her quest to capture Mr Darcy's affection is futile, she throws her book away entirely; perhaps there are more enjoyable pursuits than reading, after all.

So, a quote deemed to have such importance as to be immortalised forever alongside Jane Austen on the currency of an entire nation (the design of which will likely be used for several decades) is so important in the context of the novel that it is... uh... *checks notes* ignored entirely. Right.

I mean, I don't necessarily understand why the quote had to be about reading but if it was, I could argue that a quote from Mr Darcy in chapter eight, about how extensive reading improves the mind could be far more sincere. Or why not one of the numerous lovely quotes from the novel? Obviously, an agenda was set and a quote needed to be found to match it.

Still, it is quite ironic indeed that reading actually opens your eyes to how ridiculous a choice of quote was made.

Anyway, what is my overarching point? Well, I think, largely due to its various adaptations, a majority of people believe they know the story of Pride and Prejudice. But shockingly few, despite it being consistently ranked as one of the most popular books, actually understand it on the level which it deserves to be.

This post was not intended to bash adaptations, it is absolutely fine to like them! But they are, by their very nature, going to differ from the book. That is inevitable. Yet, I think it's quite sad when people watch a film or series and believe they can possibly understand the story on the same level. Spoiler alert: you cannot. I know books are a luxury and reading is time-consuming, but Pride and Prejudice is out of copyright now. PDFs are abundant, as are audiobooks if you cannot sit and read!

Put some time and effort into understanding the novel. I promise not a single second of it will be wasted; you will gain a deeper admiration for Jane Austen's talent as an author, and you will fall in love anew with the many wonderful characters she so beautifully brought to life.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Flower Remedies

Flower remedies are specially prepared flower essences, containing the healing energy of plants. They are prescribed according to a patient’s emotional disposition, as ascertained by the therapist, doctor, or patients themselves.

THE 38 BACH REMEDIES

agrimony: puts on a cheerful front, hides true feelings, and worries or problems

aspen: feelings of apprehension, dark foreboding, and premonitions

beech: critical, intolerant, picky

centaury: easily comes under the influence of others, weak willed

cerato: unsure, no confidence in own judgement, intuition, and seeks approval from others

cherry plum: phobic, fear of being out of control, and tension

chestnut bud: repeats mistakes, does not learn from experience

chicory: self-centered, possessive, clingy, demanding, self pity

clematis: absent minded, dreamy, apathetic, and lack of connection with reality

crab apple: a ‘‘cleanser’’ for prudishness, self– disgust, feeling unclean

elm: a sense of being temporarily overwhelmed in people who are usually capable and in control

gentian: discouraged, doubting, despondent

gorse: feelings of pessimism, accepting defeat

heather: need for company, talks about self, and concentrates on own problems

holly: jealousy, envy, suspicion, anger, and hatred

honeysuckle: reluctance to enter the present and let the past go

hornbeam: reluctant to face a new day, weary, can’t cope (mental fatigue)

impatiens: impatience, always in a hurry, and resentful of constraints

larch: feelings of inadequacy and apprehension, lack of confidence and will to succeed

mimulus: fearful of specific things, shy, and timid

mustard: beset by ‘‘dark cloud’’ and gloom for no apparent reason

oak: courageous, persevering, naturally strong but temporarily overcome by difficulties

olive: for physical and mental renewal, to overcome exhaustion from problems of long–standing

pine: for self–reproach, always apologizing, assuming guilt

red chestnut: constant worry and concern for others

rock rose: panic, intense alarm, dread, horror

rock water: rigid–minded, self–denial, restriction

scleranthus: indecision, uncertainty, fluctuating moods

star of Bethlehem: consoling, following shock or grief or serious news

sweet chestnut: desolation, despair, bleak outlook

vervain: insistent, fanatical, over–enthusiastic

vine: dominating, overbearing, autocratic, tyrannical

walnut: protects during a period of adjustment or vulnerability

water violet: proud, aloof, reserved, enjoys being alone

white chestnut: preoccupation with worry, unwanted thoughts

wild oat: drifting, lack of direction in life

wild rose: apathy, resignation, no point in life

willow bitter: resentful, dissatisfied, feeling life is unfair

The system consists of 38 remedies, each for a different disposition.

The basic theory is that if the remedy for the correct disposition is chosen, the physical illness resulting from the present emotional state can then be cured.

There is a rescue remedy made up of 5 of the essences—cherry plum, clematis, impatiens, rock star, and star of Bethlehem—that is recommended for the treatment of any kind of physical or emotional shock.

Therapists recommended that rescue remedy be kept on hand to help with all emergencies.

Flower remedies are more homeopathic than herbal in the way they work, effecting energy levels rather than chemical balances.

They have been described as ‘‘liquid energy.’’

The theory is that they encapsulate the flowers’ healing energy, and are said to deal with and overcome negative emotions, and so relieve blockages in the flow of human energy that can cause illness.

Edward Bach was a graduate of University College Hospital (MB, BS, MRCS) in England.

He left his flourishing Harley Street practice in favor of homeopathy, seeking a more natural system of healing than allopathic medicine.

Concluded that healing should be as simple & natural as the development of plants - nourished & given healing properties by earth, air, water, and sun.

Bach believed that he could sense the individual healing properties of flowers by placing his hands over the petals.

His remedies were prepared by floating summer flowers in a bowl of clear stream water exposed to sunlight for three hours.

He developed 38 remedies, one for each of the negative states of mind suffered by human beings, which he classified under seven group headings: fear, uncertainty, insufficient interest in present circumstances, loneliness, over-sensitivity to influences and ideas, despondency or despair, and overcare for the welfare of others.

The Bach remedies can be prescribed for plants, animals, and other living creatures as well as human beings.

Originally, Bach collected the dew from chosen flowers by hand to provide his patients with the required remedy.

This became impractical when his treatment became so popular that production could not keep up with demand.

He then set about finding a way to manufacture the remedies, and found that floating the freshly picked petals on the surface of spring water in a glass bowl and leaving them in strong sunlight for three hours produced the desired effect.

Therapists explain that the water is ‘‘potentized’’ by the essence of the flowers.

The potentized water can then be bottled and sold. For more woody specimens, the procedure is to boil them in a sterilized pan of water for 30 minutes.

These two methods produce ‘‘mother tinctures’’ and the same two methods devised by Bach are still used today.

Flower essences do not contain any artificial chemical substances, except for alcohol preservative.

Bach flower remedies and flower essences have not yet officially won the support of allopathic medicine, despite the fact that more and more medical doctors are referring patients for such treatments on the strength of personal conviction.

However, it is difficult to discount the scores of testimonials.

Some practitioners refer skeptics to the research that has been done regarding the ‘‘auras’’ of living things.

Theoretically, the stronger the aura, the more alive an organism is. Flower essences have very strong auras.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References

[fuckyeahgoodomens]

The Chic Magazine interview with the Good Omens cast and crew by Keeley Ryan, August 2023 :)

'It was wonderful to get the Good Omens family back together'

There were plenty of miracles, mysteries and mayhem when Good Omens returned to the small screen for a second season.

The PrimeVideo series, which was originally based on Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's best-selling novel, is heading beyond the source material this season.

The six-part series highlights the ineffable friendship between Aziraphale, a fussy angel and rare-book dealer, and the fast-living demon Crowley.

And while the duo put a stop to the apocalypse last time, there are the sparks of a new mystery that will take viewers from before The Beginning, to biblical times to grave robbing in Victorian Edinburgh; the Blitz of 1940s England to the modern day.

The cast includes David Tennant and Michael Sheen as Crowley and Aziraphale, Jon Hamm, Maggie Service, Nina Sosanya, Miranda Richardson, Shelley Conn, and Derek Jacobi also star in the series.

And Michael Sheen told how the Good Omens "world has grown" with season two - and opened up about his first day back at Aziraphale's bookshop.

In an interview conducted before the SAG strike, he said, "It was lovely to be back in the bookshop after having seen it burnt down the ground.

"Clearly I had managed to save a few books! Actually, it was extraordinary - your brain does a double take - my desk, the cash machine, the record player - everything is all so familiar even though it is a totally different location.

But we have expanded - there is much more of the world of Soho here including Aziraphale's favourite the magic shop and my favourite the pub - our world has grown."

The actor also praised Neil Gaiman's writing, noting how there's "something about the way Neil sees the mundane that is extraordinary."

He said, "His writing has such a breadth of reference and yet is so accessible and entertaining even when taking on big epic or philosophical issues.

There's something about the way Neil sees the mundane that is extraordinary. When things filter through his imagination they emerge in an entirely unique way and yet it feels like it's always been there.

Add in the sprinkling of the imagination of Terry Pratchett and cocktail has been created - utterly familiar."

Producer Sarah-Kate Fenelon told Chic how the second season of Good Omens is "building on the universe" - and how they had been "sowing the seeds of a second season without anybody knowing" last season. "

She said, "I work with Neil Gaiman and know in part that Gabriel, who is played by Jon Hamm, his character is not in the book of Good Omens - but it was included in the first season. We were sowing the seed of a second season without anybody knowing.

"That character was written by Neil and Terry as a potential second book. They never got to write it, but now we're able to tell Gabriel's story. It's kind of a lovely evolution, where we're just expanding the universe.

"A lot of locations on the set are locations from season one. We've also been able to explore new shops, like we've got the record shop and we've got The Dirty Donkey pub, which we go into - it was in season one, but we never got to go into it.

"Season two is just building on the universe."

The Wicklow native added that it was "wonderful to get the Good Omens family back together" for a second season.

She said, "We were lucky that a lot of our crew and creative talent were able to come back for a second season. But also, we had our cast return. Miranda Richardson plays a totally different character this season and we have a new Beelzebub.

"And then obviously, we've got Maggie and Nina playing themselves, Maggie and Nina, as written by Neil. It was wonderful to get the Good Omens family back together again."

Noel Corbally, who works as an associate producer on the series, recalled how they marked a special anniversary of the first season's release while prepping for season two.

The Irishman said, "We went for dinner that night to relive the celebration, happy to be back again.

"Even now, it's been more than a year since we wrapped and to be able to come back into the studio that's just been frozen in time with everything wrapped up — we had a week to turn it back to life, have it be a live street again.

"It's been a week. But it's been amazing. We had our original lighting team come back, our original art department — and they've just done a fantastic job."

And while there are plenty of easter eggs for fans to spot throughout the six episodes, the pair shared their favourites.

Noel shared, "I think that my favourite easter egg is actually in the record shop. It's a song that we play in the background. It's so subtle, but it's from the musical Happy As A Sandbag.

"Maggie's character Maggie runs the record shop, which was owned by her grandfather in the story. But the musical, Happy As A Sandbag, Maggie Service the actress - her mother and father met on the musical and fell in love. Having that was an homage to them for bringing us Maggie."

Sarah-Kate said, "I quite like the easter eggs in the title sequence. If you look really closely, there is a Gabriel or Jim in every shot, which people tend not to notice. It's like Where's Wally?"

Rob Wilkins, who manages Terry Pratchett's estate and serves as narrative EP, told how he was "elated" for the second season to be out — and about moving beyond the book's source material.

He explained, "There were lots of nerves, because there is no source material. There's no book. I went through the whole of season one with the mantra that we've got a beginning, a middle and an end.

"And at the end of season one, which was the only season at the time, I felt very relaxed - we're all grounded through Terry and Neil's words, and that's fine. We know where we're going, we've got the novel to refer to.

"And so with season two, of course there's going to be nerves — there's no source material.

"But Neil is 50% of the creative team that brought you Good Omens, so in him we trust. And we genuinely do, from the bottom of my heart - of course we do.

"There's excitement about what Neil is going to bring from the page and from the page to the screen, but trepidation as well — I'm a fan as much as anybody else, I want to know where the stories are going."

Rob added that some of his own favourite easter eggs within the second season include a nod to Terry in The Dirty Donkey pub - as well as a special sight in the bookshop.

He said, "I love the fact that in the bookshop, Teny's hat and scarf are just hanging there. Terry, as a huge patron of bookshops around the world, he just left his hat and scarf in there and moved on one day and left them behind.

"That's a lovely one for me, as well - it means more to me, I think, than anything else."

Rob opened up about the success of the first season - and why it was something that he didn't necessarily expect.

He continued, "There's the Terry Pratchett fandom, there's the Neil Gaiman fandom and push them together and there's a big crossover. But what we created with season one, we created Good Omens fandom from the show.

"People came to Neil's work and Terry's work through the show. It created something entirely individual of its own making, and that freaked me out because I didn't see that one coming.

"I didn't see that as a thing. I thought the fans would be rooted in Terry or Neil. I didn't realise that the ineffable husbands in all of that - I love David and Michael, but I didn't realise the love people would have for them as our demon and our angel.

"I shouldn't be surprised. It's just my admiration for them as actors and for what they do, and for people getting it I think that that's the thing that's meant a lot to me, that people have understood what we tried to do."

Costume designer Kate Carin told how having the opportunity to join Good Omens' second season was a "gift" - and opened up about why it was impossible to pick a favourite scene.

She explained, "When you see the whole show - you think, when you're watching episode one, you're like, 'oh my god, that's the best'. But then you watch something in episode two and it's like, 'that's awesome!'

"I would say that I'm a disciple of the show now. I didn't know the book when I was approached about the job. I'd obviously heard of it, and I'd seen season one — as a punter, I watched it.

"To get the opportunity to come and work on season two, it's a gift for a costume designer.

"You do fantasy, you do period, you do contemporary and all of the wavy lines in- between - you're given a lot of rope to play with."

The character of Shax, played by Miranda Richardson, was a "really fun character to design for" - as Kate told how plenty of ideas jumped to mind after reading the description.

She said, "When Neil writes on the page that you have a 50s inspired female demon, that gives you a lot of scope to play with. "

And when I started drawing her, I actually had to stop myself because I kept coming up with ideas."

And with the series jampacked with magical moments and settings, set decorator Bronwyn Franklin told how there was one particular shop that has a "certain magic'!

She said, "I actually think the magic shop is my favourite shop. The bookshop used to be, but now that l've done it twice - it's still beautiful. It is Aziraphale's home. It feels more magical because Aziraphale lives there, and there's the whole angelic side.

"But this one, it really has a certain magic. From a set decorator's point of view, it's a joy. Will Godstone, he gets to sit there and he's got his little cash register and if he's got no customers, he can sit there and have a little cup of tea.

"You just have to feel that person, live that person and think that it's yours. I always come into a space like this and think, 'how would I like to be?' Because if it makes me happy, it'll make the cast member happy, it'll make the viewers happy."

Michael Ralph, who is the series' production designer, told how while it's impossible to pick a favourite set, the bookshop is "one that will resonate most'.'

Aziraphale's bookshop contains more than 7,000 real books and Michael noted that it was important for the setting to feel real, not just for the audiences at home but for the cast and crew.

He said, "There's not a fake book in here. Couldn't do that. In a way, if you look at any bookshelf - I spent almost a day just moving books around, to make the bookshelves look like they're real. They could be flat dressed, and then they're not real. But this is real, when they're just moved around a little bit; or people have pulled them out and put them in incorrectly.. .that's what's real about a bookshop."

[blue-aconite]

the offside rule || j.h.s

Summary: Jake learns that his girl is crazy about football, but not the kind he expected.

Warnings: jake being a sweetheart, no use of y/n

Word Count: 1.5k

Pairings: Jake Seresin x f!reader

Authors Note: This is inspired by @roosterforme's Sundays Are for the Boys and @teacupsandtopgun's Jake and Flick universe. This is also very self-indulgent and somewhat based on parts of my life.

“What are you doing?” Jake emerged from the bathroom, only to find his girlfriend on the couch, watching what looked like soccer. 

“I’m watching football, what does it look like?” She didn’t take her eyes off the screen as she reached for the beer bottle on the coffee table. 

Jake didn’t know how to respond. He knew what soccer was, he wasn’t an idiot but he never knew that his girl enjoyed the sport. 

“Soccer, baby. It’s called soccer.” 

Jake knew it was the wrong thing to say as she turned around, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“I’m going to forgive you this time. But in the future, for your information, it’s called football. Not your ridiculous term soccer.” She was all business, a sharp edge to her tone that Jake hadn’t really experienced in their relationship so far. 

There was a sparkle in her eyes that told him she wasn’t as serious as her tone suggested though. Jake flopped down on the couch next to her, plucking the beer out of her hands. “Is this MLS?” 

She snorted, rolling her eyes as she looked him up and down. “MLS is a shit league. It only got interesting since Messi signed for Inter Miami and it’s still shit. You know, we call it the retirement league because it’s where all the greats come to wind down and just kick around.” 

“Hey!” Jake protested. “Doesn’t it have a somewhat good reputation?”

She shook her head. “Baby, I love you but you’ve been greatly deceived.” She patted his cheek, opening another beer, seeing as he had stolen hers. 

Jake grumbled, sinking lower into the couch. Granted, his soccer knowledge was limited but he thought that MLS at least was a popular league. 

“What’s this then?” He pointed to the screen where the game was playing. 

His girl clapped excitedly, tossing the cap onto the table. “This is the greatest league in the world. I give you the Premier League.” She dramatically spread her arms, as if showing him something of great importance. 

In a way, Jake guessed that she was. He had no idea she was this passionate about this but he found it endearing that she did. 

“I recognise that, it’s England, yeah?” Jake was 80% certain he was right but he could also be wrong. Like he said, his knowledge of soccer was limited. 

“Yes! PL is played in England and it’s hands down the most popular and watched league. But there’s obviously others as well.” 

He was a bit intrigued and Jake also wanted to know more about something that made his girl this excited. “Others?” 

“Oh, you’ve got La Liga for example, and Ligue 1. And then there’s Serie A and Bundesliga. My dad used to watch a lot of Eredivisie too. He was a lifelong fan of Ajax.” She quieted down a bit at the end, a sad smile on her face as she remembered her dad. 

Jake pressed a kiss to her shoulder, hand finding hers. He gave a supportive squeeze. He understood now why this was so important to her. 

“Did you guys watch a lot together?” He asked as the game seemingly was paused, the players leaving the field. 

“Yeah. He took me to my first game when I was 4. I barely remember it but I remember the feeling. And he coached my team for as long as I played.” 

That surprised Jake. “You used to play?” It wasn’t something that had come up but he guessed it was somewhat of a sore subject. 

“From the age of five til I was fifteen, maybe sixteen,” she paused. “Uh, I quit playing when he got sick. He wanted me to continue but it just wasn’t the same. It was our thing and then all of a sudden he wasn’t there and..” 

Jake pulled her into his arms, lips pressed to her forehead. “Baby, why haven’t you told me about this before? I would have loved to know more about football if I knew it meant this much to you.” 

She smiled when he called it football and Jake counted it as a small victory. “I honestly don’t know. You’re more of an American football fan and I just figured you didn’t care about this.” 

“I would have cared if you told me. Hell, I know you don’t really care about the Cowboys but you still hang out with me when they play. And wear the jersey.” 

She laughed then, leaning back from his embrace but kept their hands intertwined. “I wear the jersey because I know it gets you all hot and bothered.”

“Well, that’s definitely a perk. You do look very good in blue.” Jake kissed her then, hands sneaking under her shirt to trace her skin. 

She was blushing when they pulled apart and Jake grinned, proud to be the one to make her that way. 

“So is Ajax your team?” He asked, playing with the hem of her shirt. 

“No. As much as I respect and enjoy Dutch football, the Premier League always called to me more. And then I fell in love with Manchester United.” 

Jake’s eyebrows shot up, teasingly pinching her sides. “Fell in love, huh? That means I got competition?” 

She rolled her eyes, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Don’t worry, I won’t leave you for the Red Devils.” 

“Good. Is this them then?” He gestured towards the screen, where the game had resumed. 

“No, they play Aston Villa tomorrow. This is Newcastle vs Arsenal.” 

Jake watched as the team in black and white kicked the ball back and forth. “Okay, you’re going to have to explain this to me. I know nothing.” 

She launched into the game, explaining what was happening as well as informing him about the rules and terms. Jake tried his best to keep up but figured he was going to have to do some independent studying to catch up. 

If this was important to his girl, it was important to him. He watched as she kept on talking, gesturing back and forth with her hands, eyes alight with excitement. 

“But there must be leagues outside of Europe, yeah?” He asked after learning that the ones she had rambled off earlier were all based in European countries. 

“For sure, but those are the most popular ones. And considering how much of an impact the Champions League, Europa League and Conference League have, it’s difficult for leagues outside of Europe to compete.” 

Jake’s mind was reeling, trying to piece all the information together. “Wait, Europa League and Champions League? Conference? Where’s that?” 

“All of those are played by teams in Europe. You qualify for UCL when you win your league in your country, and the second tier goes on to play in the UEL and third tier in UECL.” At Jake’s confused expression, she smiled apologetically. 

“Sorry, this is way overboard. How about we keep that for another day and we just keep to the basics for now?” 

Jake breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes please.”

She handed him another beer, smiling softly. 

“So, do I get a Manchester United jersey? It’s only fair, I got you a Cowboys one.” Jake asked. 

He was comfortably leaning back against the armrest of the couch. Initially he had tried to get her to snuggle with him but quickly found out that she wasn’t going to sit still while watching the game. 

“Babe, you’ll get a jersey when you deserve one. Maybe earlier if you can explain the offside rule to me.”  

He was screwed then. “Never mind. I’ll wait.” 

“It’s really not that difficult. A player would be seen as offside if their entire body is in front of the last defender of the opposing team, on the opposing team's half.” 

Jake tried to imagine what it would look like but his mind came up blank. “You’re just speaking gibberish, that doesn’t make sense.”

She smiled softly, a gleam in her eye. “Don’t worry, I’ll make you a football fan. Just you wait.”

“I can’t wait. I’m also very excited to see you watch your team play.” 

The game was now over and she climbed into his lap, hands finding the back of his head. “Oh, you’re in for a wild ride.” 

Making the most of their position, Jake grabbed a hold of her thighs as he stood up, ignoring her squeal as he headed towards the bedroom. “How about I give you a ride right now?” 

Two months later, when Jake officially got the offside rule right, a package was waiting for him on the kitchen table when he got home. 

His heart swelled as he pulled out a bright red Manchester United jersey, embroidered with his callsign on the back. There was a note inside the box as well and Jake laughed as he read what his girlfriend had written. 

Now you’re a real football fan. Glory glory Man United! 

Ps. Come find me ;) 

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.” He called, jersey in hand as he stalked the house. 

Her laughter echoed through the house. “Come claim your prize, cowboy.”

Taglist: @wildbornsiren​ @ryebecca @imjess-themess @reels-and-wheels @antiquitea @writercole @hederasgarden @yanna-banana @bobfloydsbabe @hollandorks @anniesocsandgeneralstore @ereardon @luminousnotmatter @roosterscock @thedroneranger @fandomxpreferences @honkytonk-hangman @princessmisery666 @bradshawsbitch​ @a-reader-and-a-writer @green-socks @angstybluejay @seresinhangmanjake @ayorooster​@notroosterbradshaw​ @indynerdgirl @gigisimsonmars @girl-in-the-chairs-void @bradshawbabes @unhinged-btch @horseshoegirl @sadpetalsstuff @bradshawbaby @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @ummjustfics​ @septemberrie​ @somenamewithepineapple​ @seresinsweetie​​ @crescentwolf​ @seresinhangmanjake​ @waklman​ @roosterforme​ @rosiahills22​ @dempy​ @i0veless​ @ilovewriting06​ @kmc1989​ @demxters @amortentiadrops @teacupsandtopgun @hangmanscoming @hangmanssunnies

[pxnsneverland]

Ruthless Grace | Austin Butler x OC (part 1)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14

plot summary: Amidst the grime and squalor of Victorian England's winding cobblestone alleys, a young woman's life hangs precariously in the balance. Violet, a poor peasant girl with long raven locks and piercing gray eyes, possesses a haunting beauty that belies the harsh realities of her existence. Tragedy struck two years prior when Violet's mother succumbed to illness, leaving her to fend for herself and her father – a cruel, selfish man consumed by vices of alcohol and gambling. On one fateful night, Violet's father drags her unwillingly to that very den of iniquity, and there she learns a horrifying truth from the club's greedy, perverted owner: to repay his mounting gambling debts, her father has sold her into sexual servitude. Violet's vehement protests fall on deaf ears, until an unlikely savior emerges from the shadows. Lord Austin Butler intervenes with a bargain of his own. This dangerous man offers to pay off Violet's father's debts in exchange for her accompaniment, and Violet is torn from the only life she has known. While Austin's demeanor remains shrouded in mystery and detachment at first, Violet gradually glimpses his softer, even playful side as time passes within the manor's walls and an unexpected connection blossoms between the unlikely pair.

pairings: austin butler x oc

word count: 3,025

warnings/notes: I decided to post another Austin fic I've been playing with for a little while. This is a set up chapter for the story and hopefully you guys enjoy it. The romance will begin soon :)

Chapter 1: Anchors and Aspirations

The icy wind bit through Violet's thin shawl as she maneuvered through the bustling market square, her gray eyes flitting from stall to stall. With the stealth of a seasoned thief, she slipped a hand into a basket, withdrawing a bruised apple before anyone noticed. At her heart, there was no love for thievery, but survival in the grim alleys of Victorian England left little room for scruples. As she tucked the stolen fruit into the folds of her dress, a shadow loomed over her. Her heart caught in her throat. She turned slowly, only to see Mr. Clarence Johnson, a local shopkeeper known for his scrupulous eye and unforgiving nature.

“Miss Everly,” he said, his tone surprisingly soft, his gaze not on the stolen apple but on her face. “You look more worn than usual. Are you unwell?”

Violet tensed. Clarence Johnson was an uncommon figure in their decrepit part of town; his presence alone suggested he was either lost or up to something far beyond her understanding.

“I am just fine, sir,” Violet replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering of her heart. “Just tending to some errands for my father.”

“Aye,” he nodded slowly, his bushy eyebrows knitting together in concern.

“But you needn’t resort to pilfering for your sustenance,” he continued, glancing at where the apple had disappeared into her dress. “There are other ways, Miss Everly, ways that do not risk your slender neck at the gallows.”

Violet stiffened, her hand instinctively clutching the fabric over the apple. The threat of the law was always a ghost that haunted her every step in these streets. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Johnson, but I assure you, I manage as best I can.”

Clarence surveyed her with those discerning eyes that missed little. “Your father,” he began, his voice dropping to a softer timbre, “he does little to provide, am I right?”

The accusation stung because it was true, yet Violet felt a surge of defiance. “He is my father still,” she said coldly, daring him with her gaze to speak ill of the man despite his failures.

Clarence sighed digging into one of his pockets and pulling out a few coins. He handed it to Violet. “Go buy the apple, girl. It would be a shame to see you hang for a fruit.” A trace of regret flitted across his features. “Miss Everly, I—” He paused, seeming to choose his next words with care. “I find myself in need of a reliable assistant at my shop. Someone keen and observant. Your... talents could be put to better use than thievery.”

Violet's heart pounded fiercely against her ribcage at the offer. Employment from Mr. Clarence Johnson was an unexpected lifeline, a beacon in her relentless sea of struggles. Yet, mistrust curled inside her like a dormant snake. Why would a man of his standing offer her, a known petty thief, an opportunity?

"I appreciate your offer, Mr. Johnson," Violet started cautiously, her voice a low murmur as she glanced around the bustling market to ensure no eavesdroppers lurked nearby. "But why would you trust someone like me in your establishment? You know very well my... activities."

Clarence's eyes softened, hinting at a depth that Violet hadn't noticed before. “Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Miss Everly. I’ve watched you, not just today but many times. You’re quick, smart, and despite your current... enterprise,” he said, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “you have morals. You steal only what you need and no more.”

He was right—Violet never took more than necessary to survive. Her actions were driven by desperation, not greed. The acknowledgment of that fact from Clarence Johnson stirred something akin to hope within her chest.

"Consider it," he urged gently as he started to turn away, leaving the coins in her palm.

Violet watched Clarence's retreating figure, the coins heavy in her hand like the sudden possibility they represented. In a world that had offered little but hard edges and cold shoulders, the warmth of an unexpected offer ignited a flicker of daring in her spirit. She could almost taste the promise of stability, a stark contrast to the bitter tang of pilfered fruit and the relentless ache of uncertainty. Still, Violet knew better than to leap without looking. Her life had taught her the sharp lessons of betrayal and disappointment too well. As she moved away from the market square, her mind raced with both the perils and prospects of Clarence Johnson's proposal. Could she truly step into the light of legitimate work without the shadows of her past pulling her back? And more pressingly, what did Clarence see in her that others didn't? Was it pity, a calculated gamble, or perhaps something more personal?

As she wandered through the alleys, her route took her instinctively towards home—a term used loosely for the cramped, dingy room she shared with her father. The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, revealing Edward Everly slumped over a table littered with empty bottles. The stench of stale liquor and despair hung thick in the air. Violet's entrance went unnoticed by her father, his consciousness lost to the depths of another drunken stupor. She stood there a moment, her gaze hardening as she took in the sight of his decrepit form. This was the life she was born into, one suffocated by poverty and neglect, a stark reminder of what awaited her if nothing changed.

With a soft sigh, she stepped over the threshold, her boots echoing softly on the bare wooden floor. The coins still clenched in her hand felt like both a promise and a burden. She walked past her father, careful not to disturb his fitful slumber, and seated herself on the small, worn-out chair near the cold fireplace. Here in the dim light of their one-room abode, Violet allowed herself a moment to think. Mr. Clarence Johnson’s offer was tempting—an escape from this life of constant desperation. Yet doubt gnawed at her; trust was a luxury she could scarcely afford. Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden groan from across the room. Edward Everly stirred, his eyelids fluttering open only to squint at his surroundings in befuddled drunkenness.

"Violet?" he slurred, his voice soaked with alcohol and confusion.

"Yes, Father," she replied quietly, steadying her voice to hide the tumult inside.

"What are you doing, sitting there like a lost soul? No food again?" His voice was rough, accusatory, as he tried to focus his bleary eyes on her.

Violet's hand tightened around the coins, the metal biting into her palm. She considered telling him about the job offer, about the possibility of change, but the words died on her lips. Her father's unpredictable temper and his disdain for any sign of ambition or hope outside his own distorted view discouraged any such revelations. Instead, she rose to her feet, smoothing the front of her dress with a practiced motion. "I'll get us something to eat," she said, her tone neutral. "Rest now. You need it."

Edward grunted in response, collapsing back onto the table with a weary thud. Violet turned away, feeling the weight of responsibility press down on her once more. As she stepped out into the waning light of day, the coins still in her grasp represented more than mere currency; they were a test of her courage and resolve.

The streets outside whispered with the voices of dusk—traders packing up their stalls, children playing before they were called in for supper, men heading towards the pubs for their evening respite. Violet moved through them like a shadow, unnoticed yet sharply attentive. She made her way to the tiny store at the corner of the street, its windows dimly lit and shelves sparsely stocked. Mrs. Bauble, the elderly proprietor, looked up from her knitting as Violet entered, her eyes narrowing slightly with suspicion and then softening as she recognized the young woman.

"Back again, Violet?" Mrs. Bauble asked, setting aside her knitting. Her voice was raspy yet carried a warmth that was often absent in their bleak surroundings.

"Yes, Mrs. Bauble," Violet replied, approaching the counter with the coins still tight in her grip. "A loaf of bread and whatever meat you can spare for this."

Mrs. Bauble eyed the coins and then Violet, a knowing look crossing her features. "Trouble or fortune, my dear? Those coins look heavy with one or the other."

Violet offered a small, weary smile. "Perhaps a bit of both," she confessed softly.

The old woman nodded as if she understood all too well the dual nature of sudden opportunities. She turned to gather the requested items, wrapping them carefully before handing them over to Violet. "Be cautious, child. Fortune's favor is a fickle friend," she advised, her wrinkled hand briefly squeezing Violet's.

Violet nodded, feeling the weight of the old woman's words sink into her heart. "I will, thank you, Mrs. Bauble," she murmured, taking the small parcel with a sense of gratitude mixed with trepidation. As she left the store, the cool evening air brushed against her face, whispering possibilities that both exhilarated and terrified her. The walk back home was a quiet one, filled with the sounds of her own footsteps echoing off the cobblestones and the distant laughter of children not yet called to their suppers. Violet's mind spun with thoughts of Mr. Clarence Johnson’s proposal. It was a chance to step away from the shadowy margins of survival into something resembling a normal life. But at what cost? Could she really leave behind the streets that had taught her everything about resilience and distrust just as easily?

The uncertainty churned inside her as she approached the door of her humble abode once more. Violet paused, hand on the latch, feeling the divide between her current life and the one that might await her with Clarence Johnson. She could almost hear her mother’s voice, soft and encouraging, urging her to take a chance for a better future. Yet, the haunting memories of past betrayals loomed large, making her hesitate. Resolutely, Violet pushed open the door, stepping back into the shadowed confines of the room she shared with her father. Edward Everly was now snoring loudly, lost in an alcoholic haze that seemed to provide him the only peace he knew. Violet set down the small parcel of food on the shaky table and took a moment to look at him. Despite everything, he was still her father, and a pang of compassion tempered her longstanding resentment.

Quietly she unpacked the bread and meat, setting aside a portion for herself before preparing a smaller plate for Edward when he would inevitably awaken. Her actions were mechanical, performed with little thought as her mind wrestled with larger concerns. She knew that accepting Clarence’s offer would mean more than just changing jobs; it would mean stepping into an unknown world, risking exposure and vulnerability in ways she hadn't before.

Later, as darkness enveloped the room and the flickering candle cast long shadows across the peeling walls, Violet sat with her thoughts, tracing the outline of the bread with her fingers. The sense of impending change weighed heavily on her. It wasn't just the prospect of leaving behind the familiar, suffocating squalor that gnawed at her; it was also stepping into a realm so vastly different from anything she had known. What if she was unprepared for the challenges? What if she failed?

As these doubts swirled in her mind, Edward stirred from his stupor, his movements sluggish as he adjusted to the dim light. He squinted at the plate set before him and then up at Violet, a rare flicker of confusion crossing his usually indifferent gaze.

"Did you fetch this, Violet?" he mumbled, his voice hoarse.

"Yes," she replied quietly, watching him closely.

He took a piece of meat and chewed slowly. For a moment, there was silence between them—a silence filled with unspoken words and stifled dreams.

"Why do you stay?" Edward's question came unexpectedly. His eyes, clearer now, fixed on her with an intensity that made her flinch slightly.

Violet paused, her breath catching in her throat. It was not like Edward to show interest in her choices or her life. The question hung in the air, heavy and laden with implications that Violet had long avoided. She searched for an answer that could appease both her father and her own restless heart. "I stay because this is my home," she replied quietly, her eyes not meeting his. "And because you are here."

Edward snorted, a bitter laugh escaping him as he looked around the decrepit room that barely served as a shelter. "This? This is no home, Violet. It's a prison. You're young still. You shouldn't be shackled by my failures."

His words, so starkly honest, struck Violet with unexpected force. It was rare for Edward to acknowledge his own shortcomings so openly or to express concern for her well-being. This glimpse of the man he might once have been—before grief and vice had reshaped him into the figure he now presented—left her momentarily speechless.

"You could leave, find a better life. Isn't there anyone...?" His voice trailed off, his question unfinished but clear.

Violet’s heart pounded in her chest as she considered her father's words. They echoed the very thoughts that haunted her nightly dreams—the possibility of a life beyond these walls, a chance at happiness that seemed so tantalizing yet so remote. But the thought of leaving her father in this state, as wretched as it was, tugged at her conscience. "There might be," she admitted softly, allowing herself to think of Clarence Johnson once more. His offer had been genuine, filled with promises of respect and a new beginning. Yet, the weight of her current reality shackled her ambitions.

"But I fear what leaving would mean for you," she continued, her voice barely above a whisper.

Edward scoffed, looking away from her piercing gaze. "Don't make an anchor out of me, Violet. I'm already drowning." His voice was gruff, edged with the harsh self-awareness that alcohol sometimes brought to his lips.

Violet swallowed hard, feeling the sting of tears she refused to shed. Her father’s usual indifference made his moments of clarity all the more painful for their rarity and raw honesty.

"I need to think on it," she finally said, standing up and moving towards the small window that overlooked the dim alleyway below. There, she pressed her forehead against the cool glass, trying to draw strength from the night itself. The tangled streets of London sprawled out before her—so familiar and yet suddenly brimming with the promise of escape. Her heart fluttered at the thought, a wild bird caged by years of oppression and fear.

Inside, Edward shifted uneasily in his chair, watching her silhouette framed against the weak moonlight that dribbled through the grimy window. For a moment, he seemed about to speak again, perhaps to retract his harsh truths or to further encourage her departure. But no words came; instead, he sank back into his chair with a heavy sigh that spoke volumes of his resignation to life's cruel turns.

Violet remained at the window long after her father's breathing evened out into the rhythm of sleep. Her thoughts were tumultuous waves crashing against the shore of her resolve. Clarence’s proposal was not merely an employment offer; it was an invitation to step into a world where she could perhaps wash away the stains of her past and emerge reborn. It promised safety, respectability, and above all, an identity unchained from the degradation that had colored her life. Yet, her father’s words haunted her: "Don’t make an anchor out of me." Could she really leave him here, adrift in the haze of his vices, or was it her duty to stay and prevent him from sinking deeper into despair? The weight of decision seemed insurmountable, anchoring her to this moment of indecision.

Violet pressed her cheek against the cool pane, the glass fogging slightly with each exhaled breath. Outside, the labyrinthine alleys of London whispered secrets of escape and adventure, but also murmured warnings of betrayal and hardship. Each whisper tugged at her soul, a symphony of opportunity and fear mingling in the night air. Her thoughts were interrupted by a soft noise behind her. Turning slightly, she saw Edward shifting again in his chair, his face etched with lines of discomfort and regret. For a fleeting second, she saw not the man who had failed her but rather the father who had once held dreams and aspirations beyond the confines of their dreary existence. The weight of his words echoed in her mind, a haunting reminder of their shared struggles and the unspoken bond that tied them together.

Drawing in a deep breath, Violet stepped away from the window. The cool air had not offered solace nor had it stiffened her resolve. If anything, it had only deepened her turmoil. Walking over to the flickering candle, she snuffed it out with a quick pinch, plunging the room into darkness. She navigated through the black with practiced ease, her every step whispering against the wooden floor. Reaching her modest bedding in the corner, she lay down without changing, drawing the thin blanket up to her chin. The darkness was not just a physical veil but also a metaphor for the uncertainty that clouded her future. As she lay there, her mind continued to race, replaying her earlier conversation with her father, weighing each word, each pause.

As sleep eventually claimed her in its restless embrace, Violet dreamt of vast oceans and endless horizons—a world away from the cramped confines of their decrepit home. In her dreams, the ocean was a deep blue, not the murky grey of London's foggy mornings. She stood on the deck of a ship, the wind tugging at her hair and billowing her threadbare dress like a sail. This was a freedom she had never known, unshackled from the burdens of her father's failures and the oppressive weight of their squalid existence.

Stay tuned for part 2!! Click HERE to view!

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX (see full series list here)

1994

I've just been attacked by dementors and I might be expelled from Hogwarts. I want to know what's going on and when I'm going to get out of here.

That's what Harry had written in his note to you and Sirius — and also in notes to Ron and Hermione too.

The pair of you had been livid, of course — "this is what happens when he's left alone with those people!" — and three days later, you stand on the doorstep to Number 4, Privet Drive, Little Whinging with a group of other Order members.

"Alohomora," you say, pushing the door open. You make your way into the hallway, all the lights turned off.

Tonks lets out a whistle at a stack of antique decorative plates on a table beside her. "Wow, look at these plates, they're proper fancy! Just look — "

She immediately drops it with a crash.

"Oops," she says, repairing it with a wave of her wand.

You make your way up the stairs, unlocking the door with your wand while the others wait at the bottom of the stairs. Harry slowly emerges from the room, poking his head out the door, wand clutched tightly in his hand.

"Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone's eye out," Moody growls.

Harry doesn't lower his wand. "Professor Moody?"

"I don't know so much about 'Professor'. Never got round to much teaching, did I? Get down here, we want to see you properly."

Harry still doesn't move, clearly wary of your party.

"It's alright, Harry," you say gently. "We've come to take you away."

"P-professor?" he says disbelievingly. "Is that you?"

"Why are we all standing in the dark?" Tonks says. "Lumos."

The tip of Tonks's wand flares, illuminating the hall with light. You beam at the sight of your godson, already looking older than when you last seen him.

You stride forward and wrap him in a tight hug, beaming. "Good to see you, Harry."

"Yeah, you too..."

"Ooh, he looks just like I thought he would," Tonks says excitedly. "Wotcher, Harry!"

"Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus," Kingsley Shacklebolt says from the back. "He looks exactly like James."

"Except the eyes," Dedalus Diggle wheezes. "Lily's eyes."

Moody squints suspiciously at Harry, his magical eye pointed towards him searchingly. "Are you quite sure it's him? It'd be a nice lookout if we bring back some Death Eater personating him. We ought to ask him something only the real Potter would know. Unless anyone brought any Veritaserum?"

"Harry, what form does your patronus take?" Remus asks.

"A stag," Harry answers nervously.

"That's him, Mad-Eye."

Harry descends the stairs, still looking a bit confused, stowing his wand in the back pocket of his jeans as he goes.

"Don't put your wand there, boy!" Moody roars immediately. "What if it ignited? Better wizards than you have lost a buttock, you know!"

"Who do you know that's lost a buttock?" Tonks asks curiously

"Never you mind, just keep your wand out of your back pocket!" he barks, hobbling off to the kitchen. "Elementary wand safety, nobody bothers about it anymore..."

Wow, how many times did you hear that during your training?

"And I saw that," Moody adds irritably as you roll your eyes at the ceiling.

Remus holds out his hand and shakes Harry's. "How are you?"

"Fine..." Harry replies, looking as though he's still in shock at what's going on.

"I'm — you're really lucky the Dursleys are out..." he mumbles.

"Lucky, ha!" Tonks exclaims, grinning. "It was me that lured them out of the way. Sent a letter by Muggle post telling they'd been short-listed for the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. They're heading off to the prize-giving right now...or so they think."

She winks at you and you smile back, remembering the side-splitting laughter that had infected you as the two of you cooked up that idea a few nights previous.

"We are leaving, aren't we?" Harry asks. "Soon?"

"Almost at once," Remus says. "We're just waiting for the all-clear."

"Where are we going? The Burrow?" Harry asks hopefully.

You shake your head. "No, not the Burrow." You follow Moody into the kitchen, the group of Order members walking in after you. "Too risky. We're set up headquarters somewhere else, somewhere undetectable."

Moody sits at the kitchen table swigging from a hip flask, taking in the many electrical appliances in the Dursleys' kitchen.

"This is Alastor Moody, Harry," Remus tells, pointing toward him.

"Yeah, I know."

"And this is Nymphadora — "

"Don't call me Nymphadora, Remus," Tonks says with a shudder. "It's Tonks."

" — Nymphadora Tonks, who prefers to be known by her surname only," Remus finishes, glancing at Tonks.

She folds her arms. "So would you if your fool of a mother called you Nymphadora."

"And this is Kingsley Shacklebolt," Remus continues. "Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle — "

"We've met before," squeaks Diggle, dropping his top hat excitedly.

" — Emmeline Vance — Sturgis Podmore — and Hestia Jones."

Harry nods awkwardly at each of them in turn.

"A surprising number of people volunteered to come get you," Remus says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

"Yeah, well, the more the better," Moody says darkly. "We're your guard, Potter."

"We're just waiting for the signal to tell us it's safe to set off," Remus explains, glancing out the kitchen window. "We've got about fifteen minutes."

"Very clean, aren't they, these Muggles?" Tonks says as she looks around the kitchen with heat interest. "My dad's Muggle-born and he's a right old slob. I suppose it varies, just like with wizards?"

"Uh — yeah," says Harry, turning to you. "What's going on, I haven't heard anything from anyone, what's Vol — ?"

Several of the witches and wizards make odd hissing noises and Moody growls, "Shut up!"

"What?"

"We're not discussing anything here, it's too risky," Moody explains, looking around him warily with his magical eye.

"We can talk about it once we're back at headquarters," you say.

"How're we getting there?"

"Brooms," Remus replies. "Only way. You're too young to apparate, they'll be watching the Floo Network, and it's more than our life's worth to set up an unauthorised Portkey."

"She says you're a good flier," Kingsley says, gesturing to you.

"He's excellent," you reply proudly, smiling at Harry.

Remus glances down at his watch. "You better go and get packed, Harry, we want to be ready to go when the signal comes."

"I'll come and help you," Tonks says brightly, following Harry upstairs to his bedroom.

Remus pulls an envelope and piece of parchment out of his pocket, bending over the kitchen table to start scribbling something down. You walk around the room, looking at different photos of the Dursleys.

Baby Dudley, with a proud Petunia and Vernon standing over him; Petunia and Vernon on their wedding day; several more photos of Dudley growing up — there's an obvious absence of Harry. If a stranger were to walk into this room without knowing anything about the Dursleys beforehand, they would never know Harry even exists.

"What a strange device!" Podmore exclaims, curiously opening and closing the kitchen microwave while Kingsley stands behind him. He waves you over. "What does it do?"

Because of your Muggle father, you are often questioned on Muggle items and customs — though usually by Arthur Weasley.

"It cooks food," you reply. "It's called a microwave."

"A microwave..." Kingsley repeats thoughtfully, opening the door and peering inside with immense interest.

Nearby, Hestia laughs at a potato peeler that she came across in one of the drawers. You give her a look, confused as to what could possibly be so humourous about a potato peeler, but she just continues to snicker and giggle as she turns it over in her hands.

"Excellent," Remus says when Harry and Tonks return, Harry's trunk bobbing along in the air behind them. "We've got about a minute, I think. We should probably get out into the garden so we're ready. Harry, I've left a note telling your aunt and uncle not to worry — "

"They won't," says Harry.

"That you're safe — "

"That'll just depress them."

" — and you'll see them next summer."

"Do I have to?"

Remus smiles but doesn't answer.

"Come here, boy," Moody says gruffly, beckoning Harry towards him with his wand. "I need to Disillusion you."

Harry's brows knit nervously. "You need to what?"

"Disillusionment Charm," Moody replies, raising his wand. "Lupin says you've got an Invisibility Cloak, but it won't stay on while we're flying; this'll disguise you better. Here you go — "

He raps Harry hard on the top of his head and Harry's body takes on the exact colour and texture of the kitchen unit behind him, like some sort of human chameleon.

"Nice one, Mad-Eye," Tonks says appreciatively, and Harry looks down in surprise, spinning in place as he surveys his new look.

"Come on," Moody says, moving towards the back door and unlocking it with his wand.

You all step out onto the Dursleys' impeccably well-kept lawn. It looks practically untouched — a contender for the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition indeed.

"Clear night," Moody grumbles, peering up into the dark sky above. "Could've done with a bit more cloud cover. Right, you," he barks at Harry, pointing his finger at him, "we're going to be flying in close formation. Tonks'll be right in front of you. The rest'll be circling us. We don't break ranks for anything, got me? If one of us is killed — "

"Is that likely?" Harry asks apprehensively, but Moody ignores him. When he turns his worried eyes to yours you shake your head, resisting the urge to roll your eyes at Moody's grimness.

" — the others keep flying, don't stop, don't break ranks. If they take out all of us and you survive, Harry, the rear guard are standing by to take over; keep flying east and they'll join you."

"Stop being so cheerful, Mad-Eye, he'll think we're not taking this seriously," says Tonks as she straps Harry's trunk and Hedwig's cage into a harness hanging from her broom.

"I'm just telling the boy the plan," Moody growls. "Our job's to deliver him safely to headquarters and if we die in the attempt — "

"No one's going to die," you say calmly, receiving a doubtful grumble from Moody in the process.

"Mount your brooms, that's the first signal!" Remus says sharply, pointing into the sky at the shower of bright red sparks flaring high above you.

You swing your leg over your broom — your dusty old Cleansweep Seven that you've had since you were fifteen and that has seen more of the inside of your garden shed than the open air — and wrap your hands around the flaking handle. You're a pretty average flier — nothing compared to James, of course...but who could ever compare to him?

"Second signal, let's go!" Remus says loudly, as this time green sparks explode into the air far above you.

You kick off hard from the ground. The cool night air rushes into you as you rise higher into the air, the houses and buildings of Little Whinging becoming smaller and smaller as your group ascends. Looking up, the sky is vast and clear, revealing the billions of gleaming stars twinkling above. You can't help the small rush of giddiness that sparks in you at the sight of it.

"Hard left, hard left, there's a Muggle looking up!" Moody shouts over the wind, and your circling group follows Tonks as she swerves, Harry close behind. "We need more height...give it another quarter of a mile!"

"Bear southeast and keep climbing, there's some low cloud ahead we can lose ourselves in!" calls Moody.

"We're not going through clouds!" Tonks shouts angrily. "We'll get soaked, Mad-Eye!"

You're glad to hear this, your fingers turning numb around the handle of your broom in the chill.

You alter your course every now and then according to Moody's instructions, you and the rest of the guard circling Harry and Tonks as you move.

"We ought to double back for a bit, to make sure we're not being followed!" Moody shouts.

"Don't be mad! We're nearly there now!" You yell, recognising the streets hurtling past below. "If we keep going off course, we won't have to worry about being followed because Harry'll have died from hypothermia by then!"

"Time to start the descent!" Remus orders. "Follow Tonks, Harry!"

You dive, flying lower and lower until you touch down on a quiet street with several less-than-welcoming houses lining it.

"Where are we?" Harry asks.

"In a minute," Remus says quietly, looking at Moody expectantly as he rummages around in his cloak.

"Got it," he mutters, pulling out Dumbledore's trusty Deluminator and clicking it. The nearest streetlamp goes out with a pop. Moody clicks the Deluminator again and one by one each lamp on the street distinguishes, leaving the faint glow of lit rooms behind curtains the only source of light on the street.

"Borrowed it from Dumbledore," Moody explains to Harry, pocketing the Deluminator once more. "That'll take care of any Muggles looking out the window, see? Now, come on, quick."

Together, your group makes it towards houses Number 11 and Number 13. Even though he's been Disillusioned, you can still see Harry's form shivering with the cold, and you make a slow sweeping motion down the length of his body with your wand, muttering a quiet warming spell under your breath. You hear him breathe a sigh of relief.

"Thanks."

Remus tuts quietly under his breath. "No spell for the rest of us, then?"

You smile. "You're not my godson."

Even in the dark, you can see him rolling his eyes at you.

"Here," Moody says, thrusting a piece of paper towards Harry. "Read quickly and memorise."

"What's the Order of the — ?"

"Not here, boy!" Moody snarls immediately, his eyes wide. "Wait 'til we're inside!"

He snatches the parchment out of Harry's hand and lights it on fire, dropping it to the ground, the edges curling in the flame.

"But where's — ?"

"Think about what you've just memorised," Remus says quietly.

After a moment, the run-down door of the Black house emerges in the space between 11 and 13, followed soon by grimy walls and windows.

"Come on, hurry," Moody growls, prodding Harry in the back.

You tap the door with your wand. Loud metallic clicks and squeaks sound behind the door before it creaks open, revealing the darkened hallway beyond. "Get in quick, Harry. But don't go far inside and don't touch anything."

You shuffle into the hallway behind Harry, casting a wary eye to the curtained portrait at the end of the hall, waiting for Moody to finish returning the light to the streetlamps before closing the door behind him.

"Here." Moody raps Harry hard over the head with his wand, lifting the Disillusionment Charm and returning Harry to his usual, visible state. Probably could've been a bit more gentle with it, but whatever.

"Now stay still, everyone, while I give us a bit of light around here," Moody says quietly. With a soft hissing noise, the old-fashioned gas lamps flicker to life, illuminating the depressingly drab hallway you're standing in.

Hurried footsteps alert you to Mrs Weasley's entrance, emerging from the basement door with a smile on her face as she makes her way toward you.

"Oh, Harry, it's lovely to see you!" she whispers, pulling Harry into a tight hug before holding him at arm's length and examining him critically. "You're looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you'll have to wait a bit for dinner, I'm afraid..."

She turns to you and the rest of the Order members and whispers urgently, "He's just arrived, the meeting's started..."

Everyone starts to make their way through the door, and Harry moves to follow Remus when you gently hold him back, a hand on his shoulder. "Sorry, Harry. Order members only. We'll talk later, yeah?"

"Ron and Hermione are waiting upstairs, you can wait with them until the meeting's over, and then we'll all have dinner," Mrs Weasley whispers to him. "And keep your voice down in the hall."

"Why?"

"I don't want to wake anything up."

"What d'you — ?"

"I'll explain later, I've got to hurry, I'm supposed to be at the meeting — I'll just show you where you're sleeping."

You give Harry and Mrs Weasley a wave before heading down into the basement, opening the door as quietly as possible and slipping into your usual spot beside Sirius at the table while Dumbledore speaks to Remus and Moody about Harry. You listen as Dumbledore outlines plans and guard duty: looks like you're on tomorrow night. Brilliant.

Snape sits across from you, and when your eyes meet he gives you a near-imperceptible head shake. Nothing on Wormtail yet. Then his eyes shift to hatred as he wrinkles his nose at Sirius beside you, and you notice that your husband is currently pretending to scratch his nose with just his middle finger extended, directly in Snape's eyeline.

Of course.

When the meeting is finally over, most of the Order members file out of the kitchen and upstairs, speaking in hushed voices as they enter the hall. You pull one of the scrolls of parchment from the middle of the table into your hands, skimming your eyes over a plan of the Department of Mysteries, exits and entrances marked in red.

Just then, you hear a clatter and a great, thankfully muffled, screeching starts from the hall. You sigh, rubbing your temples, and move to stand up and deal with your darling mother-in-law when Sirius gently pushes you back into your chair, standing up.

"I'll handle it."

Bill and Mr Weasley sit close by, heads pressed together as they mull over parchment and documents. After a minute or two, the screaming stops and Sirius reopens the door, Harry following close behind with Remus and the rest of the kids.

Mrs Weasley clears her throat and Mr Weasley jumps to his feet, hurrying over to give Harry's hand a shake. "Harry! Good to see you!"

Bill starts to try and roll up the scrolls and you move to help him, handing him the plan of the Department of Mysteries.

"Journey all right, Harry?" he asks. "Mad-Eye didn't make you come via Greenland, did he?"

"He tried," Tonks says, striding over to help you and immediately knocking over a candle, sending the wax spilling onto the parchment. "Oh, no — sorry — "

"Here," you say, waving your wand and muttering a spell to repair the parchment. In the light your wand casts, you spy Harry trying to catch a glimpse of what's written on the parchment.

Mrs Weasley sees him too, and clicks her tongue disapprovingly, snatching up the scrolls and shoving them into Bill's arms. "This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly at the end of meetings."

She sweeps off towards a dresser to start unloading dinner plates and you grab a cloth and wipe down the table for dinner.

"Sit down, Harry," Sirius says, retaking his usual spot at the table. "You've met Mundungus, haven't you?"

Mundungus, who has been snoring away at the end of the table, stirs and jolts awake. "Someone say m' name? I agree with Sirius..."

He raises his hand in the air as though voting, and you snort.

"Meeting's over, Dung," you say with a smile, giving his back a poke as you pass by with more plates. "Harry's arrived."

"Eh?" He peers at Harry before his face lights in recognition. "Blimey, so 'e 'as! Yeah...you all right, Harry?"

"Yeah."

Mundungus fumbles in his pockets and produces his trusty black pipe, lighting the tip with his wand and taking a long pull from it. A cloud of green smoke thickens the air around him instantly.

"Owe you an apology," he grunts.

"For the last time, Mundungus," calls Mrs Weasley in frustration, "will you please not smoke that thing in the kitchen, especially not when we're about to eat!"

"Ah. Right, sorry, Molly."

He stuffs the pipe back into his pocket, with slight reluctance.

Soon, a series of heavy knives are chopping meat and vegetables on their own, supervised by Mr Weasley, while Mrs Weasley stirs a cauldron dangling over the fire. Mundungus, Sirius, and Harry are talking at the table, and from the few snippets you overhear you can tell Sirius is complaining about being stuck inside with nothing to do — which you don't blame him for.

"At least you've known what's been going on," Harry says bracingly.

"Oh, yeah," Sirius says sarcastically. "Listening to Snape's reports, having to take all his snide hints that he's out there risking his life while I'm sat on my backside here having a nice comfortable time...asking me how the cleaning's going — "

"What cleaning?" Harry asks.

"Trying to make this place fit for human habitation," Sirius replies, waving a hand around the dismal kitchen. "No one's lived here for ten years, not since my mother died, unless you count her old house-elf, and he's gone round the twist, hasn't cleaned anything in years — "

"Sirius?" Mundungus pipes up, eyes focused on a silver goblet in his hands, examining it with immense interest. "This solid silver, mate?"

"Yes," he answers, surveying the goblet with obvious distaste. "Finest fifteenth-century goblin-wrought silver, embossed with the Black family crest."

"That'd come off, though," Mundungus mutters thoughtfully, scrubbing the crest with his cuff.

"Fred — George — NO, JUST CARRY THEM!" Mrs Weasley shrieks.

Fred and George have bewitched a large cauldron of stew, an iron flagon of butterbeer, and a heavy wooden breadboard, to hurtle through the air towards the table. Harry, Sirius, and Mundungus leap away, just in time to avoid the pot of stew that skids the length of the table before stopping at the end, the flagon of butterbeer that falls with a crash and spills over the surface, dripping onto the floor, and the sharp knife that slips from the breadboard and sticks in the table where Sirius' hand had been moments before.

"FOR HEAVEN'S SAKE!" Mrs Weasley screams, face red with fury. "THERE WAS NO NEED — I'VE HAD ENOUGH OF THIS — JUST BECAUSE YOU'RE ALLOWED TO USE MAGIC NOW DOESN'T MEAN YOU HAVE TO WHIP YOUR WANDS OUT FOR EVERY TINY LITTLE THING!"

"We were just trying to save a bit of time!" Fred says, hurrying forward and wrenching the knife out of the table. "Sorry, Sirius, mate — didn't mean to — "

Harry and Sirius are laughing, and you turn your face away to hide your laughter from the furious Mrs Weasley. Mundungus struggles to his feet, swearing and muttering under his breath.

"Boys," Mr Weasley steps in, lifting the stew pot back into the middle of the table. "Your mother's right, you're supposed to show a sense of responsibility now that you've come of age — "

"None of your brothers caused this sort of trouble!" Mrs Weasley snaps at the twins, slamming a fresh flagon of butterbeer onto the table while you clean away the mess from the previous with your wand. "Bill didn't feel the need to Apparate every few feet! Charlie didn't charm everything he met! Percy — "

She stops dead, catching her breath with a frightened look at her husband. Mentions of Percy are not particularly welcomed in the house at the moment, after Percy and Mr Weasley had an especially heated argument and Percy chose his job at the Ministry over his own family.

"Let's eat," Bill says quickly.

For a few minutes, there is silence in the room but for the scraping of plates and cutlery and the creak of chairs as everyone settles down for the meal. You sit beside Sirius, who smiles and pulls your chair closer to his as you eat.

He tugs on the sleeve of your jumper, rolling the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. "I like this, it suits you. You look very pretty."

You scoff, giving him a smile. "Of course you like it, Sirius, it's yours. Anyways, I'm thinking of going back home soon just to collect a few things," you say. "Is there anything you want? I am seriously missing my telescope here — "

A loud burst of laughter drowns out the rest of your words, as Fred, George, Ron, and Mundungus roll around in their chairs.

"...and then," chokes Mundungus, tears running down his face, "and then, if you'll believe it, 'e says to me, 'Dung, where did ya get all them toads from? 'Cause some son of a Bludger's gone and nicked all mine!' And I says, 'Nicked all your toads, Will, what next? So you'll be wanting some more, then?' And if you'll believe me, lads, the gormless gargoyle buys all 'is own toads back off me for twice what 'e paid in the first place — "

"I don't think we need to hear any more of your business dealings thank you very much, Mundungus," Mrs Weasley says sharply.

"Beg pardon, Molly," he answers at once, wiping his face and winking at Harry. "But, you know, Will nicked 'em off Warty Harris in the first place so I wasn't really doing anything wrong — "

"I don't know where you learned about right and wrong, Mundungus, but you seemed to have missed a few crucial lessons," Mrs Weasley says coldly, before shooting a particularly nasty look at Sirius and standing up to fetch a large rhubarb crumble for dessert.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Mundungus is certainly not the most law-abiding man, but he has his uses.

"Molly doesn't approve of Mundungus," Sirius says quietly to Harry.

"How come he's in the Order?"

"He's useful," Sirius mutters. "Knows all the crooks — "

"Well, he would, seeing as he is one himself," you add, taking a sip from your wine.

Sirius nods. "He's also very loyal to Dumbledore, who helped him out of a tight spot once. It pays to have someone like Dung around, he hears things we don't. But Molly thinks inviting him to stay for dinner is going too far. She hasn't forgiven him for slipping off duty when he was supposed to be tailing you."

Several helpings of crumble later, the air in the room moves to a relaxed laziness as you finish telling the story of Remus's first time getting drunk at Hogwarts to Tonks, who giggles and laughs while Remus shakes his head and becomes increasingly interested in his goblet. Sirius's hand rests on your hip, idly drawing circles with his finger.

"I don't — uh — I don't remember that," Remus says, cheeks crimson as he glances at Tonks to see her reaction.

You hum, smiling at him. "Well, I certainly do. "

Tonks smiles appreciatively at Remus, yawning loudly.

"Nearly time for bed, I think," Mrs Weasley says, yawning too.

"Not just yet, Molly," Sirius says, pushing away his empty plate and turning to look at Harry. "You know, I'm surprised at you. I thought the first thing you'd do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort."

The change in the atmosphere is rapid: Mrs Weasley sits bolt upright, her fists clenched; Remus lowers his goblet warily, eyes meeting yours.

"I did!" Harry says indignantly. "I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we're not allowed in the Order, so — "

"And they're quite right," Mrs Weasley says firmly. "You're too young."

"Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?" Sirius asks, raising his eyebrows. "Harry's been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He's got the right to know what's been happen — "

"Hang on!" George interrupts loudly.

"How come Harry gets his questions answered?" says Fred angrily.

"We've been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven't told us a single stinking thing!"

"You're too young, you're not in the Order," Fred says in a high-pitched imitation of his mother. "Harry's not even of age!"

"It's not my fault you haven't been told what the Order's been doing," Sirius says calmly. "That's your parents' decision. Harry, on the other hand — "

"It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!" Mrs Weasley says sharply, a dangerous look on her face. "You haven't forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?"

"Which bit?" His tone is polite, but you spot the familiar tense in his jaw and know that this calmness won't last long.

"The bit about not telling Harry more than he needs to know," Mrs Weasley replies stonily.

Everyone else in the room is dead silent, their eyes flitting between Sirius and Mrs Weasley as though watching a tennis match. You meet Remus's eyes across the table, subtly shaking your head.

"I don't intend to tell him more than he needs to know, Molly," says Sirius. "But he was the one who saw Voldemort come back. He has more right than most to — "

"He's not a member of the Order of the Phoenix!" Mrs Weasley snaps. "He's only fifteen — "

"And he's dealt with as much as most in the Order, and more than some — "

"No one's denying what he's done!" Mrs Weasley's voice rises, her fists trembling with anger. "But he's still — "

"He's not a child!" Sirius says impatiently.

"He's not an adult either! He's not James, Sirius!"

Sirius stares back at Mrs Weasley, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue. His voice is ice. "I'm perfectly clear who he is, thanks, Molly."

"I'm not sure you are!" Mrs Weasley says hotly. "Sometimes, the way you talk about him, it's as though you think you've got your best friend back!"

"What's wrong with that?" says Harry.

"What's wrong, Harry, is that you are not your father, however much you might look like him! You are still at school and adults responsible for you should not forget it!"

"Meaning I'm an irresponsible godfather?" Sirius demands, his voice rising.

"Meaning you've been known to act rashly — "

"Enough, both of you,” you say loudly, stopping the two. You inhale deeply. "Harry deserves to know a certain amount. He has been left in the dark for a month, and I have no doubt that he's used this time to come up with a few interesting theories of what's been going on. Don't you think he deserves to know what is true, from us, rather than a muddled version from...others?"

You don't doubt that a few of Fred and George's Extendable Ears have survived Mrs Weasley's purge.

Mrs Weasley looks back at you, breathing deeply. "Well..." she looks around the table for support, but receives none. "Well...I can see that I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart — "

"He's not your son," Sirius says quietly.

"He's as good as!" Mrs Weasley snaps back fiercely. Great, just when you thought the argument had come to an end. "Who else has he got?"

You pause, hoping you misheard her.

"He's got us!" Sirius snaps back, gesturing between you and him.

"Yes. The thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?"

Immediately, you feel your anger flare and you glare daggers back at her. "It's not like he had a choice, Molly!" You snap defensively. "How could you say something like that — "

"Molly, you're not the only person at this table who cares about Harry," Remus says sharply. "Sirius, sit down."

Sirius, who had begun to rise from his chair, sinks slowly back into his seat, face white.

"I think Harry ought to be allowed a say in this," Remus continues calmly. "He's old enough to decide for himself."

"I want to know what's been going on," Harry says at once.

Mrs Weasley looks at him for a moment, swallowing harshly. "Very well. Ginny — Hermione — Ron — Fred — George — I want you out of this kitchen, now."

Instant uproar.

"We're of age!" Fred and George cry together.

"If Harry's allowed, why can't I?" Ron shouts.

"Mum, I want to!" Ginny wails.

"NO!" shouts Mrs Weasley, her chest heaving as she stands. "I absolutely forbid — "

"Molly, you can't stop Fred and George," Mr Weasley says wearily. "They are of age."

"They're still at school — "

"But they're legally adults now."

"I — alright, fine, Fred and George can stay, but Ron — "

"Harry'll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!" Ron says heatedly. "Won't — won't you?" He adds uncertainly, meeting Harry's eyes.

"'Course I will."

Ron and Hermione beam.

"Fine!" Mrs Weasley shouts. "Fine! Ginny — BED!"

You hear Ginny stomping and raging at her mother all the way up the stairs, awakening Walburga's portrait when she reaches the hall. You sigh, hurrying off to force the curtains shut over the crazy woman with immense effort. You return, shutting the door to the stairs behind you, and fall back into your seat with a heavy sigh.

"Okay, Harry...what do you want to know?" Sirius speaks.

"Where's Voldemort? What's he doing? I've been trying to watch the Muggle news," Harry asks immediately, "and there hasn't been anything that looks like him yet, no funny deaths or anything — "

"That's because there haven't been any suspicious deaths yet," says Sirius. "Not as far as we know, anyway...and we do know quite a lot."

"More than he thinks we do, anyway," Remus adds.

"How come he's stopped killing people?" Harry asks.

"He doesn't want to draw attention to himself at the moment," you answer. "It would be dangerous for him. His comeback didn't quite come off the way he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up."

"Or rather, you messed it up for him," Remus says with a satisfied smile.

"How?" Harry questions, perplexed.

"You weren't supposed to survive!" Sirius says. "Nobody apart from his Death Eaters were supposed to know he'd come back. But you survived to bear witness."

"And the very last person he wanted alerted to his return the moment he got back was Dumbledore," says Remus. "And you made sure Dumbledore knew at once."

"How has that helped?"

"Are you kidding?" Bill says incredulously. "Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was ever afraid of!"

"Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the Order of the Phoenix the day Voldemort returned," says Sirius.

"So what's the Order been doing?" asks Harry, looking around the table at everyone.

"Working as hard as we can to make sure Voldemort can't carry out his plans," Sirius answers.

"How do you know what his plans are?"

"Dumbledore's got a shrewd idea," says Remus, "and Dumbledore's shrewd ideas normally turn out to be accurate."

"So what does Dumbledore reckon he's planning?"

"Well, firstly, he wants to build up his army again," says Sirius. "In the old days he had huge numbers at his command; witches and wizards he'd bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark creatures. You heard him planning to recruit the giants; well, they'll be just one group he's after. He's certainly not going to try and take on the Ministry of Magic with only a dozen Death Eaters."

"So you're trying to stop him getting more followers?"

"We're doing our best," you say.

"How?"

"Well, the main thing is to try and convince as many people as possible that You-Know-Who really has returned, to put them on their guard," Bill tells. "It's proving tricky, though."

"Why?"

"Because the Ministry is still in denial," you say with a sigh. "You saw Fudge after Voldemort came back, Harry — he hasn't changed his mind at all. He's completely refusing to believe it."

"But why?" Harry asks desperately. "Why's he being so stupid? If Dumbledore — "

"Ah, well, you've put your finger on the problem," says Mr Weasley with a wry smile. "Dumbledore."

"Fudge is frightened of him," you say.

"Frightened of Dumbledore?" Harry says incredulously.

"Frightened of what he's up to," says Mr Weasley. "You see, Fudge thinks Dumbledore's plotting to overthrow him. He thinks Dumbledore wants to be Minister of Magic."

"But Dumbledore doesn't want — "

"Of course he doesn't," Mr Weasley speaks, adjusting his spectacles. "He's never wanted the Minister's job, even though a lot of people wanted him to take it when Millicent Bagnold retired. Fudge came to power instead, but he's never quite forgotten how much popular support Dumbledore had, even though Dumbledore never applied for the job."

Remus clears his throat. "Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore's much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice. But it seems that he's become fond of power now, and much more confident. He loves being Minister of Magic, and he's managed to convince himself that he's the clever one and Dumbledore's simply stirring up trouble for the sake of it."

"How can he think that?" Harry says angrily. "How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up — that I'd make it up?"

"Because accepting that Voldemort's back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn't had to cope with for nearly fourteen years," Sirius says bitterly. "Fudge just can't bring himself to face it. It's so much more comfortable to convince himself Dumbledore's lying to destabilize him."

"Ignorance is bliss," you say sardonically.

"You see the problem," Remus says. "While the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort, it's hard to convince people he's back, especially as they don't really want to believe it in the first place. What's more, the Ministry's leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet not to report any of what they're calling Dumbledore's 'rumourmongering', so most of the Wizarding community are completely unaware anything's happened, and that makes them easy targets for Death Eaters if they're using the Imperius Curse."

"But you're telling people, aren't you?" says Harry, looking around the table. "You're letting people know he's back?"

You smile humourlessly.

"Well, as everyone thinks I'm a mass murderer and the Ministry's put a ten-thousand galleon price on my head, I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?" Sirius says grimly.

"And people don't exactly find the wife of said criminal the most trustworthy either," you say bleakly, shrugging.

"I'm not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community," Remus tells. "Occupational hazard of being a werewolf."

"Tonks and Arthur would lose their jobs at the Ministry if they started shooting their mouths off," Sirius explains, "and it's very important for us to have spies inside the Ministry, because you can bet Voldemort will have them."

"We've managed to convince a few people though," Mr Weasley says optimistically. "Tonks here, for one — she's too young to have been in the Order last time, and having Aurors on our side is a huge advantage — Kingsley Shacklebolt's been a real asset too. He's in charge of the hunt for Sirius, so he's been feeding the Ministry information that Sirius is in Tibet."

"But if none of you is putting the news out that Voldemort is back — " Harry begins, but Sirius stops him.

"Who said none of us was putting the news out? Why d'you think Dumbledore is in so much trouble?"

"What do you mean?" Harry asks.

"They're trying to discredit him," Remus explains. "Didn't you see the Daily Prophet last week? They reported that he'd been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he's getting old and losing his grip, but it's not true, he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort's return. They've demoted him from Chief Warlock on the Wizengamot — that's the Wizard High Court — and they're talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too."

"But Dumbledore says he doesn't care what they do as long as they don't take him off the Chocolate Frog cards," Bill chimes in, grinning.

"It's no laughing matter," Mr Weasley says shortly. "If he carries on defying the Ministry like this, he could end up in Azkaban and the last thing we want is Dumbledore locked up. While You-Know-Who knows Dumbledore's out there and wise to what he's up to, he's going to go cautiously for a while. If Dumbledore's out of the way — well, You-Know-Who will have a clear field."

"What's he after apart from followers?" Harry asks quickly.

You exchange a glance with Sirius before he says, "Stuff he can only get by stealth."

Harry stays looking confused, and Sirius continues, "Like a weapon. Something he didn't have last time."

"When he was powerful before?"

"Yes."

"Like what kind of weapon?" Harry asks. "Something worse than the Avada Kedavra — ? "

"That's enough."

From the shadows beside the door, Mrs Weasley stands, her expression furious. "I want you in bed, now. All of you."

"You can't boss us — " Fred begins.

"Watch me," she snarls, before turning her unapproving gaze on Sirius. "You've given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straight away."

"Why not?" Harry says. "I'll join, I want to join, I want to fight — "

"No."

This time, it's not Mrs Weasley who speaks, it's Remus.

"The Order is comprised of overage wizards," he says.

"Wizards who have left school," you add quickly, seeing the twins open their mouths. You sigh, pushing your chair away from the table, patting Sirius's arm softly. "Molly's right, Sirius. We've said enough. I think it's time everyone got some rest."

He gives a half-shrug but doesn't argue, waiting as Mrs Weasley leads her children and Harry upstairs to their bedrooms.

Later, you yawn around your toothbrush, facing the mirror in the dimly-lit ensuite off Sirius's bedroom.

"She can't seriously think leaving Harry in the dark about all this is the better option," Sirius muses testily, idly fiddling with your jewellery on the nightstand as he talks. "He's not a child. He's deserves to know what's going on."

"I agree."

"And the way she brought up James — as if I can't tell the difference between my best friend and my godson," he continues in frustration. "I know he's not James, of course I know that — "

You spit into the sink, pulling the tap to rinse it out. "She didn't know James. She doesn't know how difficult it is to stop yourself from looking at Harry and seeing him. How hard it is to not look for him and Lily in everything."

"No," Sirius says after a moment. "She doesn't."

You run your hands down your face, sighing. "I can't believe she said that thing about you in Azkaban. I can't believe she would stoop that low, as if you had any fucking choice to be in there."

"She hates me," he says. "Do you see the looks she gives me?"

"She doesn't hate you," you tell him wearily, flicking off the light and closing the bathroom door behind you. You lean against the doorframe, folding your arms. "She's scared and worried about Harry, that's all. She's stressed."

"She's not the only one."

"No, she's not," you say softly, making your way over to where he sits on the bed, gently taking his face in your hands. "Look, forget about it now. What's done is done, there's no use dwelling on it now."

He sighs, leaning into your touch with a small sigh. "You really are the most amazing woman I've ever met."

"I try."

He kisses your knuckles one by one, then presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist. "And clever."

You hum, watching as his lips slowly travel up your arm, arriving at your neck, where he lingers for several moments to kiss every inch of exposed skin he can reach. "And beautiful."

He pulls you toward him so you're straddling his legs, and he grins. "So very beautiful indeed."

✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

->-> read chapter twenty-seven here!

→ all kinds of interaction appreciated

absolutely massive thank you to my taglist lovelies <3 :

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[harpval]

❈Blue Blood❈

Kaiser and F!Reader, Regency/Bridgerton AU.

synopsis: With the death of the late marquess, Kaiser finds himself falling into his father’s role. Kaiser is many things, but responsible is not one of them. He must take on this season alone. He needs an escape, a safe haven, something to tide him over so he survives the season. That would be you, unfortunately.

disclaimer/content(overall): Abuse, alcohol consumption, semi-violent, PTSD, flashbacks, suggestive

prev: X next: Pilot

Prologue

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Kaiser was born in Germany, his mother was a German heiress, who was promised a fortune once she had her first child. His father was an Englishman, traveling the world and leaving his mark on every threshold he crossed. He lingered in Germany upon meeting the heiress, he soon found himself lusting after the fortune to which she was promised.

She had his son, a permanent tie to that endless pocket of wealth. He would forever be bound to her through Michael Kaiser, the boy they raised briefly before she vanished forever. Scorned at the loss of his fortune, he returns to England with his son, to which he turns to alcohol as a means of numbing the pain of his loss.

Kaiser struggled to navigate the world outside of his mother country, his father did not bother to teach him the language. It was left up to the head housemaid to teach the boy. Kaiser spent most of his childhood speaking broken English, his thick accent making him hard to understand, which left him in isolation.

On top of his isolation and inability to communicate with others, his father began to lash out at him. It began with him smacking the boy around, causing him to stagger and eventually fall to the floor. It progressed to full-fledged beatings, his son being thrown out of the way whenever the Marquess wished to pass.

In the dead of night, Kaiser stirred awake, the feeling of hunger overbearing. He had skipped dinner, as he often does to avoid the wrath of his father. The house woman would often sneak him food and a glass of milk, but this night she did not come. Kaiser set out into the night, navigating the parts of the estate far from where his father’s bed-chamber was located.

He enters the kitchen, lit only by the moonlight that stole its way through the splits and tears in the tattered white curtains. It illuminated the large wooden table in the center, and the cobblestone walls and flooring. The light caught on a figure looming over a metal pale, fingers white-knuckling the rim. He recognized it as Anastasia, the house lady. A young Kaiser, babbling concerns in a jumble of English and German swiftly approaches her and tugs on her sleeve. She raises a hand weakly, fingers trembling as she waves the boy off. He cannot see her face.

“Go child, return to your room.”

“M’hungry,” he keeps his words short. His hand rested over his stomach to signal his hunger to her. Her face rose and he was greeted with a weak expression, a dark bruise blooming around her eye area, which had been swollen shut. There was no mistaking the origin of this wound. He began to tremble.

“I am quite fine,” She assures him weakly, the older woman gently brushing a strand of his unkempt hair back. “I’ll fix you a platter and some milk, child. Hurry back to your room before you’re seen.” She says. He nods, hurrying off as he was told.

He trips on his way up the stairs, a soft shriek escaping him as his chin hits the step, a red patch left on the skin's surface. He thought he’d be fine, that he’d be able to enjoy his platter and milk just like any night. That was until his father emerged from his bedchamber, standing in the path of his bedchamber. Kaiser’s heart clenched.

There was a brief memory of parents who worried for him, who would’ve protected him at the drop of a hat. As his father’s large body crushes him, chubby fingers digging into either side of his neck, he wonders what his life could’ve been if he were still in Germany, if his mother hadn’t fled so soon. His eyes begin to water and he tastes as if a white foam is pooling in the back of his throat, a feeling akin to static. He couldn’t breathe, airy choked sobs falling from his lips. His vocal cords are restricted by the pressure.

He wishes he’d fall unconscious so he wouldn’t have to see his father’s eyes, blown wide. The whites of his eyes overpowering, face fat causing his cheeks to look puffy as he spits curses at his son. He’ll never forget it, though.

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a/n: Thank you for reading!

His back story came out more duke coded than I thought it would, oops. But it won’t be a poor rip off of “The Duke and I.”

I’ve never really published my writings before so this is fully out of my comfort zone 🙂‍↕️

More info around the story will be provided soon.

[vintagerpg]

Another pair of surprising swerves to be found in They Grow Up So Fast (2023). This one is a more conventionally structured campaign told in four linear, event-driven chapters. There are still mysteries, but they play second fiddle to the primary problem: an alien/extradimensional pet. More on that in a second.

Swerves. For one, this book introduces a new Loop landscape, in England, which I suspect is a product of writer Oz Mills’ use of the hometown hack from Our Friends the Machines. The Loop fits in nicely with the established British psychogeography, I think; it isn’t really all that far from all the goings on at Belbury in C.S. Lewis’ That Hideous Strength.

The other surprise is two-fold: A. This is the Loop book with the most color art by people who are not Simon Stalenhag and B. I honestly have trouble telling whose work is whose. The cover is by Jaroslaw Kubicki, and another artist, Martyna Starczewska, is listed in the credits, but I have no idea who does what. It’s surprising because I think it all still works together pretty well!

The campaign clearly draws on films like E.T. and Gremlins — the critter in question is a sort of empathic goopy puppy/rabbit thing that eats electricity. The first chapter is set during a camping trip during which the kids discover the egg in a portion of the Loop. Chapter two sees the egg hatch and the kids figuring out how to help the creature survive while avoiding the attention of a meddling science teacher. By chapter three, the creature is too large to hide, so a new habitat needs to be found, and the local UFO club is in the way. Chapter four is the inevitable climax, with the creature being found and captured by scientists and the kids rescuing it so it can gate itself home.

It’s good stuff, though a bit more linear than I’d normally want. But that makes room for emergent problems at the table — the relationship between the kids and the creature is the focal point, not the the usual snooping and trouble. It isn’t nearly so off the rails as Out of Time, though, which is a little bit of a bummer.

[xxvalkyriesxx]

A Snowy Punishment

Read on AO3 or Below!

Summary: Cassian doesn't want Nesta out on the roads due to the snow. Nesta decides to test his patience.

CW: Explicit consensual sex scenes, D/S, Light BDSM, Improper use of snow

For @sjmromanceweek for Favorite Tropes Day!

AN: I have no notes other than the fact this is for SJM Romance Week, falling the favorite trope day! What tropes were used? Nesta being brat. That's a trope. Inspired by the snow and slightly by the Losers duet by Harley Laroux.

Enjoy.

“Nesta, don’t be ridiculous.” Cassian said, washing the pot from dinner. 

Suds covered his hands, steam filled the sink from the faucet. It always astonished Nesta how unaffected Cassian was by the hot water as it dripped down his fingers and wrists. Her gaze lingered on his hands, the veins and muscles running strong. His brown skin was slightly lighter due to the winter weather, but even still, he was beautiful. Nesta was enthralled with it all when soap bubbles were flicked in her direction.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a second, the small bubbles hitting her pale cheeks before they flushed. Her eyes narrowed at him. “I’ll be fine, Cassian. A little snow won’t kill me.” The muscles in his back tensed, giving her insight that he fully disagreed with her. He wore a shirt unfortunately, but that didn’t stop Nesta from memorizing the hard lines of his body. The water stopped before Cassian turned to her, his brow furrowed.

“You didn’t even hear a word I said, did you?” He accused, all the while with his glasses on and hair slipping from its tie. Nesta knew he said something, but was it really that important? Probably, but oh well. 

When he caught her gaze making their rounds, her cheeks felt very warm. With a brow raised, he asked. “Well, Nes?” At the challenge in his voice, Nesta rolled her eyes. “Trust me, there wasn’t much on my mind, so I had no choice but to listen to you.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, he grinned. “Okay, what did I say about the snow, Nesta?”

“That you’re worried for little old me to be driving in the snow.” A fake pout on her lips as her hands rested on his biceps.

“Half-assed answers from the English major, not surprised.” Cassian responded before he leaned closer. “I don’t want you on the road tomorrow. They’re calling for ice and snow all day tomorrow and with your hour-long commute, I don’t trust the roads to be done properly.”

“Cassian, I’m from New England. We deal with more snow there than the DMV does yearly. I’ve made similar trips before, and nothing has gone astride.” Nesta countered. “New England plans for the snow. You want to know what Maryland does? We freak out until it’s too late, not all the roads aren’t done well, and before we know it, we’re in a state of emergency.” Cassian argued.

Right as she began to argue back, his hand grabbed her chin, tilting her head upwards at him. In his gaze she caught a glimpse of worry, but something ran deeper in those hazel eyes. Something primal, it made her toes curl in her socks. “I don’t want you on the road tomorrow, Nesta.” His voice filled with grit. “If I hear your car keys jingle tomorrow morning, you’ll be sorry.”

Biting her lip, Nesta cocked her head. “Is that so?”

With his other hand, Cassian grabbed her ass, pulling her in closer. A tiny gasp left her lips as her thighs rubbed together through her pajama shorts, trying to soothe the ache. 

“Am I clear, Nesta?” Cassian asked.

His lips hovered over hers, the space between them almost non-existent. Up on her toes, Nesta tried to kiss Cassian, but a strong grip in her hair made her freeze. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip, suppressing the small moan caused by Cassian’s grip tightening. 

“Do I have to repeat myself?” The warning deep in his voice. “I know you like hearing yourself talk, so you might as well.” Nesta taunted, dialing the brat meter to 150%. She pushed herself up against him, her round breasts on him knowing full well they were his weakness. Her stomach flipped in anticipation, waiting for his strong grip to throw her over his shoulder. For his growl to be in her ears and his hands to be romaing. Her body hummed and glowed waiting for take off.

However, Cassian only shrugged before pulling away from their embrace. “If you want to be an idiot, be my guess.”

He slipped past her, heading to their shared office. Flabbergasted at the rejection, Nesta’s face burned in embarrassment, watching him enter the next room. Huffing, she made her way to the stairs to their bedroom when her car keys reflected the light from the nearby lamp as it hung on a hook.

Her gaze traveled between the office, her keys, and the door. I’m not actually going anywhere, but no one ever said fucking with your man isn’t worth it. Nesta stepped quietly over to the hook, grabbing her keys. Grasping them in her fist, she quickly moved to the door, grabbing her uggs that were in the shoe rack. With no jacket on, and only matching polar bear pj set on, Nesta took a tiny breath, praying for her sanity and that Cassian would fuck her into next Tuesday.

The keys jingled in her hands before she ripped the door open, running outside in the snow. There was already several inches on the ground, with more falling from the clouded sky. Her breath became small clouds leaving her lips, shivering slightly. I don’t think this is enough, maybe I should go to the car, perhaps even turn it on–

An arm appeared from behind her, the hand gripping her neck. Nesta gasped, feeling Cassian’s presence behind her, the heat from their home barely touching the back of her legs before he shut the door. His mouth leaned into her ear, his hot breath giving her goosebumps. “What’s your safeword?” His voice was clear, direct. Cassian had done this every time before they lost themselves in their desires, wanting clear consent from Nesta.

His grip was loose, not adding any pressure. A grin grew on her lips. “Silver.” Nesta glanced back at Cassian who nodded. “If you want to stop any time, say it.” A message he repeated to her time and time again. It made the butterflies flutter in her belly, hearing his instructions to keep them both safe. “Yes, General.”

Cassian growled, his grip on her throat tightened. “You’re so bad, Sweetheart. You want to be in the snow so bad.” Pulling away from her head, his hand left her throat only to tangle into her hair. The pressure rooted deeply as he pulled her along the small path to the driveway. Quiet yelps fell on deaf ears with the tall trees that surrounded them, being near the mountains. Their closest neighbor was at least three miles down the road.

Once they stood in front of her BMW, Cassian took the keyfob from Nesta’s grip, turning on the car. Headlights awakened, exhaust swirled into the night. His grip pulled at her head, making Nesta look up at him. “Strip, your boots can stay on.”

Nesta sunk her teeth into her bottom lip. “But it’s cold.” 

“Maybe you should have thought of that before testing my patience.”

As she went to say something, his grip yanked her hair harder making Nesta yelp again. “I’m not asking again.” He let go of her hair, watching her strip off her pjs. The clothes landed in the fallen snow, building around them. “Good e-enough for you?” Nesta asked, her lips shivering.

“Not quite.” 

Then Cassian spun her around, before pushing her onto the hood of her car. The snow sunk into her skin, making her cry out from the cold. The sudden change made her mind still just for a moment, but the feeling of Cassian’s hands holding her own behind her back kept her anchored. Her cries were drowned out by the car’s engine. She knew that if she said her safeword they would stop and go back inside. But his authority and the position he put her in aroused her so deeply she should be offended.

“What? I thought a New England woman like you could handle some snow.” Cassian taunted, trailing hot kisses down her spine. Nesta gasped, fighting his hold, spreading her legs. She felt his cock at her backside, the hard and thick length making her mouth water.

He chuckled, pulling away from her back, making Nesta whimper. “Watching you shiver and squirm is a sight I want to burn into my mind. Your sounds have never sounded sweeter.” Her body was slowly getting used to the cold when she heard a thump behind her. She tried to turn, but the same hot breath that was in her ear moments ago was now near her cunt.

“I don’t think I’ve seen a pussy shiver like this before, Sweetheart. Need something inside to keep you warm?” Cassian teased, his fingers barely touching her skin. Nesta shuttered at his words, her toes curling deep in the uggs. “F-fuck you, Cassian.”

Slap.

Nesta cried out, feeling her cunt pulse from the spanking. Cassian tsked before his fingers lingered back between her lips. “You’ve been a brat all night, Sweetheart. I’m not sure if you even deserve to have my cock, let alone come.” Her breaths were hot, the snow on her lips and tongue failing to cool her off. 

“Maybe I should tie you up like this, leave you to the brutality of nature. See how well you handle the snow then.” His words flew from his lips, making Nesta squirm as her thighs tried to rub out the friction of the image that bled into her mind. “Not a chance, Sweetheart.” He spread her legs further apart, the ache driving her mad.

“Ca-Cassian please.” Nesta begged.

“What are you doing tomorrow morning?”

If it weren’t for the snow, Nesta would have dragged out the brat agenda longer, but it was slowly getting to her. She needed him now. “I’m staying inside, with you. All day, all night.” 

“That’s right, Sweetheart. I think you’ve been punished enough, however…” His voice trailed off. “I’m hungry for shaved ice.” Before she could question him, a sudden cold engulfed her cunt making her cry out. But then his tongue was there, licking and tasting her covered in the snow. Nesta babbled into the snow on the hood, words falling off her lips.

Two fingers were inside her, curling and stretching her walls. Nesta arched her back, feeling the wave about to crash. “I’m going to come, Cassian. Please.” Tears dripped down her face, the heavy need dripping down his fingers.

“Let go, Sweetheart. I got you.” Cassian encouraged, his voice sweet. 

Nesta’s orgasm crashed into her, crawling at the snow and car, her screams making bats flutter away in the night. She kept going as his fingers continued until Nesta tried to drag herself away from him. Her world was silent before feeling his strong arms pick her up, cradling her to his chest. She rested her head on his shoulder, his lips feeling her with praise and light touches. The sound of the car shut off as Cassian walked back inside.

Nesta wasn’t too sure what was going until she felt the sudden warmth of her home on her bare skin. She moaned and nestled into Cassian’s chest at the change of temperature.

“Come on, we’ll take a bath and then put on a show. Sound good, Nes?”

“Sounds good.” Nesta mumbled before hearing the rushing of water moments after. Her uggs were gone and so were his clothes as Cassian placed them both in the large tub. They both sighed at the comfort of the water, not even the heat bothering Nesta.

“I love you, Nesta.” He said gently.

“I love you more, General.” Her eyes drooped, feeling Cassian begin to shampoo her hair.

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