#they spent quite some time workshopping solutions

[silvokrent]

Nobody asked, but here's a snippet from an Elden Ring fic that I've been working on.

On one of their return visits to Leyndell, an idea occurred to Vyke. The dragons were the first Elden Lords. It’s their power that governed this world at its inception. Perhaps the Order has forgotten their absence. Tendrils of electricity crackled at the spear tip, as he stood before the thorns. Let us reacquaint them. Only later, as Vyke perched on the dais steps, a searing pain climbing up his arm, did he have his answer. “Witless, insolent martyr,” Morgott hissed. There was a familiar comfort in the litany of insults muttered under his breath, in between snippets of incantation. “Bereft of anything approximating sense. What madness compelled thee?” “A theory,” Vyke said, because desperation didn’t capture the same air of scholarly rigor. “I didn't think it would rebuff me as it did.” Morgott chose not to dignify that with an answer, although his brow furrowed—in concentration, or annoyance. Perhaps some quantity of both. More golden motes suffused the empty chamber as he spoke them into existence, giving the Erdtree Sanctuary a luminous aura. Like stray embers, drifting from a fire, before winking out one by one. Vyke’s teeth clenched as the magic washed over him, and in spite of himself, he found it difficult to look away. Under the pulse of amber light, skin knitted itself back together along the interstice. Blisters scabbing at unnatural speeds. The fractal burns lost some of the intensity in their color, but didn’t fully fade, as the sensation ebbed. Abruptly, the grip that had been steadying his arm released him. “There. For all the good it will do thee.” His shoulders hunched as he scowled down at his handiwork. “That scar is beyond my mending. Thou willst bear it in perpetuity.” Vyke inspected the raised lines branching across his skin. The residual pain had faded to a dull ache, and he exhaled silently. “Thank you for tending to—” “Of course, it would have been avoided altogether, hadst thou a shred of reason.” Vyke jerked back as the glowering face was thrust nearly into his. The sudden proximity, and the impropriety of it, were either ignored or beyond his care at the moment. Not all that surprising, since he was preoccupied with his own self-righteousness. “The thorns repel all manner of attack in equal measure. What didst thou think would happen when thou blasted it with lightning?” “I thought I might die and be spared another one of your lectures.” It was an irreverent thing to say to a demigod, let alone a scion of the Golden Lineage. But the aftereffects of the incantation had left him feeling lightheaded. His eyes drifted to the curtain of vines overhead, cascading in verdant arabesques, so that he didn’t have to meet his ornery stare. “At least we now know it doesn’t work.” Something about the absurd matter-of-factness appeared to mollify him. That, or the dissonance of Vyke's answer, with the precipitating event, had convinced him that lecturing was pointless. Which was why it startled Vyke when a calloused hand shot forward, and roughly seized his chin—and suddenly, he was forced to meet his gaze. Under the clinical scrutiny, he felt dissected. An insect with its wings pulled off. Whatever Morgott had been searching for, he either didn’t find it, or he was disappointed by what he did. The viselike fingers didn’t relent as he turned toward the woman observing nearby, arms folded over each other with practiced indifference. “Didst thou counsel him toward this lunacy, maiden?” She peered out from beneath the ornate fillet, the lacework rendering her a portrait framed in powdered snow. “I take credit for his achievements, not his follies,” she said. The faintest amusement crept into her voice. Then, more soberly, she continued. “I neither advised nor discouraged him, my lord. With the battery of tests we’ve already run, it seemed inevitable. What harm was there in trying?” The single, golden eye turned downward, toward the fractal pattern radiating across Vyke's skin. "What harm indeed."

His momentary inattention had loosened his grip, and Vyke extricated himself from it. He reclined a little against the steps, grateful for the support of the marble. “There’s not much point in proceeding with caution,” Vyke said. Not when resurrection had already turned his body into a thanatotic constellation of scars. If Vyke wanted, he could unfasten his other vambrace and show him the countless pale lines crisscrossing his skin. The physical memory of lacerations. Or shed the hauberk under his armor—the steel ringlets a pale imitation of the Great Runes humming below his chest—and reveal the shallow pits in his abdomen left by crossbolts. It was difficult to say if there was any part of him not marred, not touched in some way, by the endless cycle. His flesh was a mosaic of death. A small wonder, that self-preservation now felt antithetical.  Vyke had hoped the pragmatism would appeal to Morgott. Reassure him, maybe. He didn’t intend for Morgott’s expression to darken. His eye closed, and he breathed out a noise like loose parchment. “Maiden, kindly fetch him some water. There’s an ewer in my study.” She didn’t contest the dismissal. With a polite bow, she departed, her robes scattering erdleaves across the hallowed floor.

The fic this was taken from, Far Beyond the Sundown, is my interpretation of Vyke after he was brought back Tarnished. I'm a huge fan of @redzombie's headcanon that Vyke and Morgott knew each other. (And that Vyke was the only Tarnished that Morgott endorsed to become Elden Lord, way back when. Their alliance was kept a secret—especially after The Incident.)

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for not having time to read my mutual's writing?

Met a mutual on here, bonded through fanfic, have been tight with them for a few years with pretty much no bumps in the relationship, just overall had a really good time hanging around them when I could. We both write a lot and share our writing, and occasionally we talk about that writing/workshop it in passing.

In the past few years I've gone through a ton of life changes. Most notably I went from a multi-person household to a single-person one, and I've been living alone in a prohibitively costly city for a while now working 40 hour weeks and barely scraping by. As soon as the transition started I spent the last of my free income on a shitty little laptop so I could still write, putting down words on my bus/train commutes in the morning and quite literally writing on my breaks at work because I feel insane when I can't create. I bring this up to really stress that I don't have the time for the hobby, I force myself to make the time and even then it never feels like enough.

The only thing I can really stand to do with my 3 hours of free time at night is hang out with my moots online. I'm an extrovert so being around people recharges me. If I don't have designated social time I get super depressed and can pretty much feel my soul withering away. I also feel like I should probably mention that I kinda have a slew of mental issues, personality disorders and PTSD and AuDHD and the works. Point being, shit is rough my dude, but I am a person who likes to work hard and face challenges head on and even though we strugglin, we doing it with a positive outlook.

But! I am an incredibly solution-oriented person and I have found what I personally believe to be a good balance. No one should have to live like this, but I do, and I have found a way to be happy. My writing and my social time is all load-bearing. It is not something I just choose to do on a whim, it's all planned and scheduled and I adhere to those routines very strictly because, I cannot stress this enough, I will go fucking bonkers if I don't.

I'm mutuals with a lot of writers obv, and I sadly don't have time to read their work anymore, unless I get some extra time on my days off or something gets cancelled or like, I end up taking a vacation. I carry a great amount of guilt for this, though, even though I logically know it's reasonable. I try to support them where I can, cheer them on when I see them writing and tell them how cool their ideas sound, hype them up even when I can't actually read & review.

One of the things I do is sometimes I leave a kudos on fic I haven't read. I'm not trying to be ingenuine, and if they asked me I'd tell them like 'Oh I didn't read it yet, just wanted to show support!' but to me it's kinda like ripping a paper tab off a poster so that other's feel inclined to do the same. Plus my pals get a little email and a hit of serotonin.

Except one of my acquaintances, the one I mentioned at the start here, saw that I left kudos on a couple pieces another mutual of mine wrote this year. They more or less blew up my DMs with a ton of accusatory (like, literally presented like a 'GOTCHA!') stuff about how I was selective in who's fic I read, more or less implying that I secretly held some sort of grudge or negative feeling toward them and was making the conscious decision not to read or interact with their writing because of. Something, I don't actually know what they were trying to say. They also told me they vented to their friends about this MULTIPLE times, but they never once approached me to let me know they were feeling paranoid or neglected, they literally just took the most bad faith reading of it possible and then presented that to me like it was something I intentionally did, while the whole time I was unaware.

I tried to explain to them the kudos thing, that I didn't do it to every story, just ones I caught/noticed in my busy schedule. And I laid all this out and asked, multiple times, what free time am I supposed to read with? They didn't answer, and doubled down, kept trying to show me 'proof' that I was shorting them and no one else. Once they started to realize how wrong they were they backed down, but they didn't really apologize, or admit they were wrong, and they tried to end our relationship and left every single server we were in together. Because of some other unrelated stuff going on in my life, I didn't really consider them to be a close friend, but they were someone I really held dear and would've walked through hell for if they'd asked.

I still feel like there is something I'm missing here, and that's why I wanted to ask if I'm TA. I'm a pretty good communicator but one of the things I told myself when talking down my disordered thoughts (guilt about this prior) was "no one in their right mind would use reading fanfic as a metric for friendship." Now that I've had that exact thing happen, I'm starting to think maybe those thoughts weren't so disordered. Maybe this IS a big deal, and I should think about it more, but I don't even know what the solution to that would be. I just. Don't have time to read something lovingly crafted and appreciate it for what it is. All the hours in my week are used up, I'd have to lose sleep for this and with my mental health the way it is that is not an option.

Feel free to be a brutal, my skin is thick. Thanks!

What are these acronyms?

[x-0ophelia0-x]

Ezra just nonstop flirting and being an absolute lovable dork around fem Reader Post reunion..

Poor reader’s desperately trying to get her work done in peace but she is struggling..

One, either because Ezra is even vaguely in the same space as her and she can’t focus because of his stupid pretty face, or his stupid voice that makes her feel all fluttery inside..

Or two, he’s not there at all but she still can’t focus because she can’t stop thinking about him! A mechanic who can’t focus is a mechanic who can’t work… and she needs to get her work done!

So the next time Ezra walks up to lay a flirty line on her she just stops.. gets up, walks over to him, grabs him by his collar and shoves him In chair.. sits on his lap, grabs his face and kisses him.. hard, like within seconds Ezra went from being all suave and flirty with his crush to his crush straight up making out with him on his lap….

Girl has her hands fiddling with his soft curly hair, and thumb rubbing across his cheek when she pulls back for air.. gently running her fingers across his bearded jaw as she slowly gets off his lap…

He his too stunned to speak…. But she’s not~

“I finish work at ten.. I know a few places that stay open late for dinner.. if you’re late THAT won’t be happening again for awhile..”

Reader Calming walks away with a satisfied grin on her face to go back to work…

Ezra: ….. OH KRIFF YEAH!!!!

the last sentence was literally me when I first read your request 😭

can’t focus? can’t work.

pairing: Mechanic!Fem!Reader x Ezra Bridger

warnings: none, kissing at the end

word count: 2K

summary: you are a well known mechanic which meant that you had plenty of work to do. There was one problem tho.. Ezra. He always managed to distract you from your work, even if he wasn’t around you. You can’t focus yourself anymore on anything and this was bad for your job. You had to find a solution to this.. which you did. Leaving him completely flustered behind.

authors note: Flirty Ezra lives rent free in my head.

Pls bare with me, flirting isn’t my speciality, if his attempts to flirt don’t make sense I‘m deeply sorry.

anywayyy

enjoyy <3

Hera asked you if you could help her with something. The Ghost made weird sounds for over a week now, she wanted you to take a look at it. 

„Are you sure? I don’t want you to overwork yourself. I know that you’re quite busy, this can wait for a few days“

She tried to reassure you, knowing that you were a well known mechanic which meant that you had tons of work to do.

Unbeknownst to her though, you had other problems. 

Ezra.

-

Some time passed now since he finally returned. He didn’t want to show it but those years which he spent alone… let’s just say that they left their mark.

You two were close before he disappeared, nobody confessed but you had your moments with him. And now? After all those years you two noticed that you had to catch up on a few things…

And since he was alone for a decade now.. he made sure that he made his affection towards you clear, not thinking twice before he opened his mouth to say something he’d maybe regret when he couldn’t sleep. 

Or not, it’s Ezra after all, he’s sure as hell proud at how he makes you feel.

You kind of enjoyed it, and you still do. But your not so official boyfriend just doesn’t know when he has to stop. 

It all leaded to your current situation. You accepted way to many comissions hoping that they’d keep you concentrated. And they did, for a few days. 

You were stressed, regretting your actions while you worked at the different shuttles or machines. 

Ezra always found his way to you, sneaking in to your workshop, spending his time with you while you fixed some broken parts. 

„Did I tell you that you’re beautiful?“

Yes he did, multiple times now and he always managed to make you blush whenever he said that.

„I guess so“

You tried to brush it off, focusing on your work as best as you could. 

„Do I see a blush?“

He smirked, walking closer to you while you continued your work. 

This boy was so full with love, love that he wanted to share with the only person he wanted. You.

And he made sure that you knew that there was ‚someone‘ who’d be always here for you.

You turned around, originally wanting to change the tools you were working with only to collide against Ezra’s chest. 

You were trying to maintain your focus so much that you didn’t even notice how he left his corner and made his way closer to you. 

And you blushed even more.

„Oh yeah that’s definetly a blush“

There was no point in hiding your face now, you just stepped closer to him, resting your head on his chest while you wrapped your arms around him.

„You’re going to be the end of me, do you know it?“

„Your ‚end‘ will at least be a handsome one“

He said, not even hesitating for a second after your statement. A proud smile made it‘s way up to his face, yes. He indeed was very handsome.

You looked up to him, straight into his eyes. They were directed at you, representing his affection. 

Words can’t explain how they made you feel.

You could stare at them for hours and never get bored of them. 

They were just so… peaceful? Loving, caring, actually a sight that comforted you. 

Blue always had this effect on you. Hera once got really worried because you were standing in the cockpit, not moving a muscle while you observed the hyperspace’s blue. 

His eyes had this magic effect on you and he soon noticed that.

„If you like my eyes that much.. why don’t we go somewhere more private where you’d have all the time you need to observe them.. or more“

He of course had to say something. 

Would it still be Ezra if he didn’t? Nope.

Why did it even surprise you.

After all, deep within his heart, he still was the 18 year old boy who loved to tease his people. 

-

„Don’t worry, I’d be more then happy to work at something I actually care for“

Even if Hera was right about you being busy, she didn’t know anything about your inner conflict. 

Ever since Ezra started to be all lovey dovey around you, flirting with you whenever he got his chance, you felt like you couldn’t get anything done anymore. 

The image of his face, his eyes, his mouth, his handsome hair or whatever. 

He was just perfect and your brain made sure that you wouldn’t forget it.

His voice was a constant element in your mind, haunting you whenever you did something.

„I‘m just worrying about you.. you seem to be stressed“

„I mean… I am but.. believe me, working on the Ghost will definetly help“

„How so?“

„I‘ll be actually working alone“

She was confused, you were already working alone, you didn’t have a coworker, or did she miss something?

„What do yo-„

„Heyy Hera! Ehem..“

Hera was cut by Sabine calling her through her comm link. 

„Sabine! What’s going on?“

There was an apologetic look on her face as she turned around.

„Could you come please? A pilot needs some good advice from you“

„Can’t you handle it..? I‘m in a conversation right now“

„With who?“

Hera gestured for you to come closer so that Sabine could see you.

„Hey there“

You said nervously.

„Oh perfect! Okay y/n tell me and be honest, would you want to repair another X-Wing this week?“

This confused you, Sabine knew about your busy schedule, why would she recommend such a thing?

„.. Sabine… why do you ask?“

This caught Heras attention too.

„Well.. if Hera doesn’t want to come to lecture our newest pilot, your mechanic skills may come in very handy by the end of the week“

You heard a sigh coming from Hera. Seems like Sabine won.

„Okay, I‘m on my way“

„Thank you, see you! And y/n, good luck with the Ghost!“

And with those words she ended the transmission. 

„Seems like she still got her spirit“

Your attempt of a joke actually managed to get a chuckle out of Hera.

„Oh yeah.. however.. thank you for prioritizing the Ghost on your list, I really appreciate this“

„No problem, you’re basically my family, the others can wait a little longer“

You said your goodbyes when Hera left to go and get this new pilot lectured about his X-Wing while you made your way to the Ghost. 

You ran some test and after a few minutes you too noticed the weird sound coming off the engine. 

You ran a mental check list of the things you’d have to get from your workshop in order to get that nasty sound fixed. 

Well.. you tried your best. The thought of a certain someone crossing your mind. 

His laugh and his eyes.. damn they where so beautiful.

He was beautiful.

Damnit! Again! You won’t be able to get any work done at this rate. How did he even manage to take control over your thoughts. 

Jedi or not, he wasn’t even in the same room as you right now. 

With all your willpower left, your tried to stay focused and get your tools to repair your friends ship. 

Everything you had to do right now was to just fix it, it shouldn’t be too difficult, right? 

Your mind always managed to drift off, memories of and with him, his attempts to flirt with you or his handsome face.

Oh my force, why did he have to be this handsome in the first place?

Drifting off while you were at work seemed to be your new speciality.

He had such a big effect on you and it started to annoy you. 

Not he as a person, nor his affection.

You were growing to be upset with yourself. 

A mechanic who can’t focus is a mechanic who can’t work. 

It is as simple as that.  

And if you can’t work, you sure as hell won’t be able to keep your deadlines.

You had to find a solution to this.

Something to stop you from getting distracted whenever you where alone.

But what?

-

You were once again working on a other shuttle. This time you only has to repair something that broke within the wings.

Yes. Wings.

Heras advice didn’t seem to help enough, that new pilot still managed to destroy it. 

For the first time in what felt like forever you managed to stay focused.

Not thinking of him and his flirting or everything.

Until now.

You heard someone’s footsteps closing in on you. 

And then, his sigh before he started to speak. 

„We’d be married by now if you decided to just spend half of the time with me that your spending with those shuttles“

He faked a hurt tone, looking down in ‚defeat‘.

„I already miss your voice.. so sweet..“

He continued, sensing through the force that even if you didn’t answer, he still managed to make you feel flustered.

„Please don’t make me bring the ‚I see the stars in your eyes‘ card, it’s too simple, your eyes don’t just resemble the stars but also the whole un-„

Ezra stopped when you just stopped whatever you where doing.

You placed the tools somewhere on a desk, getting up from your sitting position to walk over to him.

You didn’t say a thing. 

Not a damn thing. 

„y/n?“

Still no answer. 

Instead you reached out for his arm, grab him by his collar to push him onto the nearest chair. 

He was speechless and when you didn’t leave him any time to realize what was happening, you were already sitting on his lap.

Now it was Ezra who was flustered af. 

You then placed your hands on his face, holding him while you took every ounce of courage you had to finally kiss him.

Hard.

Very. Hard. 

Bro was flabbergasted to say the least. 

But he didn’t hesitate to return the kiss.

He still tried to understand what was happening right now. His flirty attitude from before seemed to be replaced. 

Right now, just for you, he was the most passionate man, putting everything he had into that kiss. 

Your hands started to work on their own. The one fiddling with his soft locks while the other did it’s work around his cheek. 

Poor boy still tried to understand how he went from trying to flirt with you to straight making out with you on his lap.

However, oxygen was something you both needed in order to survive, and you two started to run out of breath, you pulled back.

Locking your gaze with him.

You were panting, both of you. Trying to catch your breath.

This was… intense.

You ran your fingers across his bearded jaw as you stood up from his lap, not breaking the eye contact. 

Now it was him who was speechless, a blushing mess even. 

You at the other hand enjoyed this.

„I usually end my work at ten… there are some places I know that stay open late for dinner… don’t be late, otherwise this… won’t happen again anytime soon.“

You then walked off, back to where you were working. A satisfied grin on your face. Words couldn’t describe what you were feeling right now.

It was overwhelming, you just kissed him, kissed him so hard that he was still speechless.

The Ezra Bridger. Speechless. Because of you.

Ezra was still sitting on the chair. Slowly realizing that you asked him out on a date. And that you also just made out with him on his fucking lap. 

His stunned expression turned into a excited one.

He was still too stunned to speak, but his mind was everything but quiet right now.

„Holy force…“

SHE ASKED ME OUT!

OH KRIFF YEAH!!!

[ionmaybe]

Tropes Aren't Evil

You might've heard in a creative workshop class to avoid tropes like the bubonic plague, or on Tumblr, or maybe even wattpad. Some of these tropes include, but are not limited to:

The magic portal to a different world, where instead of boring old school with homework, it's funyuns awesome m a g i c school with e n c h a n t e d homework

Enemies to lovers, because Eros has an itchy trigger finger and spent an all-nighter making more than 500 arrows for his chaotic ships

Or, the classic "I've gone all this way to kill you for revenge, but I actually don't want to do that, because it's useless/I changed my mind/I forgot who you were" trope. I actually really like this one, if it makes sense.

While it is quite important to be aware of tropes, avoiding them doesn't have to be the solution; because tropes have been present all throughout the history of literature, from Star Wars to Journey to the West.

If you're panicking because there are tropes in your story or your characters, and you don't want them to be unoriginal or boring to you or your audience, find some time to write or type out on a doc on what that trope is, and how you can play with it, roll with the punches, so to speak.

Do you want to subvert it? Make it some kind of mirror or even allegory? Do you want to go all the way?!

You don't have to re-invent the wheel when it comes to tropes. And trying to scour them from your story is especially counterproductive, because think about it...

What's the last thing you can think of that's 100% tropeless?

[gtunesmiff]

How Writing Is Like Playing the Violin

Gabriela Pereira || DIYMFA

I have played the violin since I was four years old, and my son and daughter play piano and violin respectively. They both go to a Suzuki music school—the same school I attended from ages 4-18. In fact, my daughter’s violin teacher was my orchestra conductor and chamber music coach when I was a teen.

All of this means that I have a tendency to view the world through a Suzuki lens, an outlook that centers on incremental practice over progress made by leaps and bounds. This perspective is also especially useful when it comes to writing.

We all know full well that no one can write a book in a day. It takes time and continuous persistence. There’s no glamorous solution.

Rather, we just have to show up at the page on a regular basis and clock in the hours. It’s that simple.

And yet, there are a lot of sources out there that glamorize the “overnight success” approach to writing. This attitude is best summed up by an episode that happened in my traditional MFA program. One time in workshop, a writer whose story was on deck for critique said to the class: “I wanted to apologize in advance for any typos. I just threw this piece together on my phone, while standing in line at a movie theater last weekend.”

I’ll be honest, the possibility of typos was not the thing that concerned me about this writer’s statement. What bothered me most was the attitude, as though this writer was bragging about how little time they had spent on their submission. It was as if their goal wasn’t to write something good, but rather to write something with as little effort as possible.

This kind of attitude is dangerous because it lulls us into believing that writing should be “easy,” and if it’s not, then there must be something wrong with us. Let me make one thing very clear: the problem is not with us.

Now, don’t confuse writing fast with writing easily. Personally, I happen to be a naturally fast writer. Once I get an idea of what I want to say, it tends to pour out of me fairly quickly. Similar to other writers, I know many individuals who are like this with their fiction and can crank out multiple books a year at a furious pace.

Build speed and stamina through practice.

The speed at which we write has nothing to do with the ease with which we write. Just because I tend to write fast doesn’t mean that the process is “easy” for me. People who see me crank out words so quickly might think that all writing should be a snap.

What they don’t see are the years of practice that got me to the point where I write at this pace, the countless hours before I put pen to page, or when the ideas needed to incubate and take shape in my mind.

Speed and ease are two very different things. The speed at which we write and the quality of the words we produce, these things come with practice. Ease, on the other hand, is a fickle beast. Some days it might feel like words just flow out of you, while on other days, each syllable can be a slog.

This is where persistent, incremental practice can be a game changer. We have to train ourselves to produce words—whether we “feel like it” or not. We have to practice showing up to the page, regardless of whether the writing comes easily.

This reminds me of something I learned practicing the violin with my daughter. I’m not going to lie, the past five years of violin have been brutal. Lady Bug is a strong-willed girl and when she decides she’s not going to practice, no amount of cajoling, begging, arguing, or even threatening will get her to do it. If she weren’t so darn talented, we probably would have let her quit ages ago, but when she picks up the instrument, it’s like it was made for her.

The trick, of course, is getting her to pick up the instrument in the first place.

In the beginning, when she would blatantly refuse to practice, the teacher suggested a strategy. “Just have her open the box. Don’t make her pick up the violin or the bow. Just open the box and leave it there on the floor.” The idea was not to attach any expectations to the practice, but to get her used to the idea of opening the box. Eventually, curiosity would win out and she would pick up the violin and try to practice. (I wish I could say this strategy worked every time. It didn’t. But it worked enough that we kept at it.)

Normalize the practice.

We can use a similar strategy with our writing, especially when the writing feels like a challenge. Boot up the computer or pull out the notebook and pen, then just sit and wait. Don’t attach any expectations as to whether it will be a productive writing day or not.

Just show up and see what happens.

When we practice showing up, we lower the barrier to entry. We normalize the process and the practice. For example, at this stage, my kids practice their instruments because it’s just something we do in our family. Everyone plays an instrument.

Everyone practices. It’s our version of normal. As writers, we need to do the same thing: we need to normalize the practice of writing, and make it “just something we do” rather than turning it into a big deal.

Right now, many writers are gearing up for National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), a challenge where you try to write 50,000 words of a novel in the month of November. What I love about this challenge is that it forces you to show up and write, whether you feel like it or not. With such a tight timeline, there’s no room for dawdling or taking the day off. You have to pour those words onto the page one way or another. For many writers, this challenge is the spark that lights the fire under their backsides and gets them to write that book once and for all.

My one small concern with challenges like this is that there is no room for granting ourselves grace and showing up without expectation. Yes, you have to show up with these challenges, but you also have to produce something and sometimes that’s not in the cards. Just like some days you open the box and don’t pick up the violin, sometimes the writing is just plain hard and no matter what you try, nothing comes out. This is why I myself have never done this challenge in earnest. The few times I tried, I buckled under the pressure to produce and gave up within a few days.

If you are diving into the challenge, I tip my hat to you. While I myself have never gotten past the first few days, I have tremendous admiration for folks who are able to get to the finish line. It is an impressive feat, to be sure.

If you aren’t doing the challenge, I want to propose a low-impact alternative. For the month of November, practice opening the box. Show up at the computer and give yourself ten minutes. If no words come, then consider your time clocked in and go about the rest of your day. Chances are, though, after a few days of showing up, the words will eventually start to flow.

Remember, practice is not about rote repetition.

When I think of practice, I think of a meditation practice or a yoga practice, where 90% of the work is showing up and being present. Let’s make this November the month where we show up for ourselves and for our writing.

[ladyswillmart]

Serpent Isle Companion #7: Boydon Base Stats:

Strength: 30

Dexterity: 12

Intelligence: 12

Combat: 8

Default Combat Style: Random

Carrying (03/60 Stones): Backpack x1 (Empty); Leather Leggings x1; Black Boots x1

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧✤☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙

Life.

Rummy old thing, that.

Boydon’s master Erstam was obsessed with it, such that he could trace the words of the old wizard’s inexorable torment, engraved into the core of his own strange existence: What is the answer to the question of Life and Death?

Old Erstam spent decades of his life, possibly centuries pursuing it. The endeavor was not a cheap one, costing him many years, many eggs, many chickens, and many more research assistants after he ran out of eggs and chickens to lay them. More than that, the man—once considered the most powerful mage on the Isle—sacrificed his dignity and probably most of his sanity, for what ultimately amounted to an inane little stump of rhetorical algebra:

Life minus Death equals Immortality.

But when at last he put this hypothesis to the test, Erstam was quite satisfied with the conclusion, with the irrefutable proof he produced. So much in fact, that he went on to say that one can trivialize nearly any other problem of philosophical algebra by simply lopping off some integral part of it, e.g., One could avoid the whole chicken or egg issue by killing all the chickens on the premises. No chickens, no eggs, no ontological quandaries, Q.E.D., and so on.

On the other hand, Boydon was not so sure that he appreciated being described as proof—and as a storied veteran of having integral parts lopped off he didn’t find his master’s concluding argument very satisfying at all. He would never dare admit this to the master lest he break his rotten old heart (or worse, invoke his rotten old wrath), but Boydon knew, intimately and absolutely, that Erstam had it all wrong. He was no solution but a complication.

He was not immortal and he was neither alive nor dead, but something else.

But Boydon didn’t know what that something else was, not anymore. And he certainly didn’t know what to think about any of that rummy Life and Death business so he decided he would simply avoid considering it altogether. Thankfully, his travels with Giselle and her friends saw them dealing exclusively with well-defined entities that were either alive or dead, or sometimes alive then made dead via the intervention of Giselle and her friends.

Her work was often brutal and unhappy, but Boydon, who for many years existed as a severed head and a collection of limbs scattered about Erstam’s workshop, was no stranger to violence. Unlike the old mage, he could accept Death as a reality of Life.

Hell, it was probably the most real thing about Life. Rummy old thing, that.

He would remain a steadfast companion of Giselle’s, only deciding to part ways after she proposed launching another expedition into the forsaken frozen northerlies of the Isle, this time to do something terribly important with some of the old ruined temples up there. It all sounded a bit too meaningful and meditative so Boydon elected to stay behind and assist some local warrior-type they had just met—an innkeeper’s son, apparently. Poor chap lost his mother and brother in the attacks that claimed so many others in this place.

This place. What a mess. The Sleeping Bull Inn was once a popular roadside joint once teeming with merriment, life, the occasional cockroach. Alas, one of those Banes (Kindly do NOT ask me what a Bane is, says Boydon) came along and lopped off the Life half of its equation, turning it into a derelict vestige of itself, littered with entities in various states of definition and decomposition.

Except the cockroaches, they were fine. They tended to be impervious to things like mass death and metaphysics.

Boydon took pity on the knight—Sir Wilfred, his name—and volunteered his considerable strength towards cleaning up the place. Such a thing was not easy to think about, but not as difficult to think about as other things. Likewise, Boydon knew he was no philosopher. He had no answers to any of Wilfred’s questions, especially to those about Life or Death. But he knew how to use a shovel.

They worked, digging graves for a fortnight and a week. Well. Boydon worked for a fortnight and a week. Maybe longer. Really, he tried not to think about it too much.

Then, just yesterday, when Giselle and her party at last returned from their mission, she brought something back—someone. He appeared to be an ordinary young man in nearly every respect, but he had a peculiar look about his eyes. Without a single word in re his ontological status, she introduced him as “Sethys”, an Ophidian (Kindly do NOT ask me what an Ophidian is, says Boydon), but there was no need for this because Boydon already recognized him.

That is to say, he knew what the lad was at a single glance: Neither alive nor dead. He was a something else.

While everyone else gathered in the inn’s former dining room and tucked into Petra’s home-cooked supper—splendid, as always—Boydon invited this Sethys to a chat at the bar counter. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, belying his uneasy appearance. Sethys even apologized for seeming high-strung, explaining, as offhandedly as one might speak of one’s knitting hobby or pet terrier, that he was an acolyte of Chaos and a war prisoner who’d just spent the last several centuries or so imprisoned in a rat-infested cell in a basement, awaiting an execution that apparently never came.

Well.

Well, how does one follow an introduction like that...? Boydon deftly changed the subject to something within his own domain of interest: Recreational clam digging. Sethys was unfamiliar with the practice but he seemed most grateful for the diversion.

(As a complete aside, whether or not he actually noticed it, this Sethys chap did not comment on the smell at all, not a single jape or even a pointed wrinkle of the nostrils; Boydon was most grateful for this in turn.)

They spoke for a long time and covered a range of topics from the importance of dried kelp in Ophidian society, to the much more recent practice of “noodling” to harvest flathead catfish. After a little more such idle chit-chat, Boydon seized an opening and sprung the Big One: What say you, then, about the answer to the question of Life and Death?

Life and Death...? This Sethys thought about it for a long time. Finally, he shook his head, his smile faint but amiable. I know not what thou meanest. Life and Death are not questions. Thou wouldst be wasting thy time seeking answers, my friend. Thou’rt here, now, today! So thou shouldst try to enjoy it. That’s what I think.

And even though the today in question was about to become a yesterday, Boydon thought it was a lot nicer to think about than Immortality, anyway.

Anyway, here, now, today—today was brilliant! It was the kind of day that really made one glad to be alive or even a something else. Blue skies as far as one could see, a spectacular canvas for the few cottony wisps of clouds and the crisp autumn breeze that painted them to and fro. While Giselle departed that morning (for Monitor, for some woman whose name Boydon did not recognize and could not recall now), the others got to work on tidying up the inn’s small barnyard.

Giselle left the older woman in charge, but Gwenno's idea of taskmastering was to bustle and potter around the yard wearing an overlarge, floppy straw hat stuffed to the brim with flowers, like something one might see gracing the crown of a retired mule. Occasionally she would hover over someone’s shoulder and offer some kind remark or question regarding their progress, but as she was given no orders nor the authority to delegate them, she mostly served as a source of morale.

“Stefano,” she called on the man idling in the middle of the corral and instantly regretted it—dressed most impractically in a lemon-colored shadbelly and robin’s egg breeches, it was clear the man set out that day to keep his own role purely decorative.

“Yes, old Duck?”

Gwenno felt some unsavory something lurch up the back of her throat every time she looked at him. “Please tell me you’ve seen Sir Wilfred about.”

“Hah! Alas, lackaday and good luck trying to find him,” Stefano snorted. “I reckon somebody must’ve mentioned the words yard and work over this morning’s vittles because brave Sir Wilfred took off in a flash before he could even take a crack at his eggs.”

“Boydon, have you seen him?”

“No, ma’am,” he replied, leaning on his pitchfork, wiping his brow with his sleeve. Due to the nature of his construction, Boydon did not perspire so much as he percolated. “Stefano there has the right of it. I saw him shortly after Petra served breakfast, sort of whizzing through the front door like a bee smelling honey. He seemed to be following Miss Gizzard.”

“Brilliant.”

“Why? Is something the matter?”

“I need to get into that barn but the bloody doors are locked!” Gwenno lamented. “I assume he might have the key, or at least know where to find one.”

“Oh, rats to him and his key. I wouldn’t bother with that blowhard. Just take a little prowl through the inn, rifle around a bit,” said Stefano, gleefully sly. “Case the cupboards and whatnot, I’m sure it’ll pop up sooner or later.”

“Indeed. That’s your solution to everything—break into someone’s house and meddle around until you get what you want.” Mortegro’s stentorian baritone cut through the air from the fence where he stooped. Appropriately the mage himself appeared a silhouette on the sun, clad in funereal black, carefully meting out quantities of a stringy red reagent from one purse to another. However there was no disdain in his voice; he grinned too. “Why not volunteer your expertise?”

“Volunteer!” Stefano bristled. “You know jolly well I don’t work for free. Not even for—Hello!”

As one says when one is confronted, tête-à-tête, with the beady, penetrating eyes of a phenomenally meaty specimen of poultry.

The buff bird clucked testily, giving his scarlet wattle a good wattling.

“Uh, hello,” added the owner of the shoulder upon which the rooster perched, uneasily—that is to say, an uneasy owner made for an uneasy perch, and there were few perches on Serpent Isle uneasier than Sethys. He came from behind, from where the hen house was located and from where he had been tasked with locating said hens. With uncompromising anxiety he took great care to approach the group in a way that would not startle anyone (least of all himself or his cargo) but it would seem the rooster did not share his foibles.

“Buck bu-gerrrrrk!” he crowed, imperiously, impossibly loud.

Sethys yelped and clutched his heart. It had been a long millennium.

“Hello to you too, Buck-Buck!” Stefano dubbed the bird immediately.

“Well, I see you’ve found one of our missing chooks, at least. Any others?” wondered Gwenno.

“I am sorry, miss,” said Sethys. “I did look hither and yon for the other hens, but this fellow seems to be all what remains of the lot.”

“Buck buck!”

“Hither and yon, you said?” Stefano raised an eyebrow, amused. “Well, did you try looking athwart or somewither?”

“Stefano...” Boydon warned; he disliked teasing, especially when the recipient seemed so totally unaware of it.

“Yes! Hither and yon and everywhere in between, I reckon. And...” Sethys’s voice softened to a near-whisper as he squinted incredulously, as if he didn’t want the rooster to notice his doubt. “I swear, I swear it, I swear this cockerel was creating his own food!”

“What, did he cut off his own leg and broil it?”

“Not as such, he—art thou making fun of me?”

“Buck buck! Bu-gerrrrrk!”

Stefano recoiled and shut his mouth; he had to admit, the lad did appear significantly more intimidating while he wielded that wicked rooster on his shoulder.

“Pay the dandyprat no mind, dear. What do you mean by creating his own food?” asked Gwenno, concern evident.

“I know it doth make me sound the gudgeon, but I would swear on all that is holy that I saw this chicken—I heard him say In Mani Ailem,” Sethys told her. “Dost thou know of that spell? 'tis quite an old one, for sure.”

“Create Food, you mean? One of the very few Stefano knows how to cast, for sure, if that was not immediately evident,” said Mortegro as he ambled forward, closing the distance between himself and the others. “But I must warn you, your story does sound comprehensively preposterous. Hard to imagine a rooster saying anything amounting to anything more than cock-a-doodle-doo.”

“Well, it did sound a bit like that,” Sethys admitted. “But when he said it, I could feel a shift in the surrounding ether, as if he had really cast a spell. And when he finished there was a tidy little pile of chicken feed, right there at his own feet!”

“Buh-guck. Buck buck.”

Mortegro shook his head. “Impossible. Moreover, meseems one would have to be going around the twist, to so readily accept the existence of spellcasting chickens.”

“No! No, I-I’m not!” Sethys said, flustered. “Besides, what would I know? It hath been one thousand years since I last saw a chicken, at least. A lot could happen to a chicken over a thousand years.”

Buck-Buck clucked in the affirmative.

“He's got you there, Morty,” said Stefano, suddenly realizing. “Wait, what do you mean, immediately evident...?”

“—Oi!”

A squealing hail from the other side of the barnyard impelled Boydon to turn his head, straining at the seams as he did. From that distance, and to Boydon’s diminished eyesight, the newcomer appeared little more than a blob in shining armor, struggling to maintain his domineering bearing as he loped through the muddy morass.

“Bunch of slugabeds!” Sir Wilfred continued his halting castigation. “The Lady Giselle did not hire the likes of me simply to loaf around with a bunch of sloths and old women and... and mages...!”

Stefano muttered, well beneath his breath. “Speaking of cocks...”

“Bu-gerk?”

“Poor thing.” Sethys was giving the rooster a pitiable look and an ill-advised riffle to the neck feathers. “All of thy hens have flown the coop. He must be quite lonely.”

“I'm sure he is, dear. I bet he’s parched, too,” said Gwenno. “Why don’t you take him around the side, to the water pump? Let him have a nice drink? Cool off a little?”

“That old pump is a stubborn cuss,” noted Boydon. “Allow me.”

Gwenno nodded her agreement but kept her eyes focused on the encroaching Wilfred, seemingly nursing a similarly encroaching headache. “Yes, that would be quite helpful of you,” she said, grimacing. “But really, I think we’re all going to need a nice drink shortly.”

“Hopefully something nicer than water,” Stefano added, dryly.

“Indeed,” agreed Mortegro. However, he was more keen on watching Boydon shuffle off in the opposite direction, with Sethys and the rooster following at an awkward clip. “What a strange thing. Rummy old thing, that. Life. Bah.”

Gwenno glanced at him. “What about it?”

“Oh, nothing. Nothing, madame.” Mortegro inhaled, closing his eyes. “Nothing important. Just that...”

“Oi!” Wilfred hollered again. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Just that... The very premise is absurd, but I cannot shake the feeling that I know that rooster...”

❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧❧✤☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙☙ 

Side Notes: This screenshot is an absolute fabrication! Obviously not possible in the actual game... The things I do for a good story! LOL

There is one of these little stories left and I’m a bit sad. I enjoyed writing these a lot. But then, I guess there’s nothing stopping me from writing more, huh?

Previous Stories:

#1: Gwenno

#2: Petra

#3: Wilfred

#4: Selina

#5: Mortegro

#6: Stefano

[freckledboss]

She anticipated the workshop and lab as an additional aspect to their design. Where would Tony be without somewhere to tinker? But whether built from scratch or renovated, there are a few other building ideas she'd like to see come to fruition. If they're to embrace a more rustic lifestyle, then why not try their hand at gardening? Pepper would love a greenhouse or even just cropping plots. Yes, she may not seem the type to be on her hands and knees in the dirt, but the whole concept of growing their own food appeals to her, and it might save them an occasional trip to the city. Besides, with the import of supplies becoming slower, and grocery stores unable to maintain fully stocked shelves, this appears to be the most logical solution. And she doesn't mind getting a little dirty.

She'll playfully roll her eyes at his comment. "I don't think pregnancy cravings are necessarily a choice and only foods that I normally like... just that there's a high possibility I will want it. Along with the other strange stuff I'll probably end up having a taste for." When her hormones are heightened, perhaps her taste buds will be alleviated as well. "And for the record... pickles and ice cream doesn't sound so bad. It could be worse." She's, of course, teasing.

They're welcomed inside the bar and she's greeted with memories--particularly more recent ones--of their time spent here. She's grateful for the booth tucked away from the main area, allowing a bit of privacy. She accepts a menu just as he riddles off their drinks to the waiter. The redhead takes this moment to glance over her options, considering autumn root vegetables, veal milanese or honeynut squash tortellini. Her stomach grumbles.

We'd just been cake tasting.

Those words sink in, and her gaze lifts from the menu instantaneously.

The subject now presented is one she wasn't sure he'd be willing to discuss. It's true, Pepper has been patiently waiting for him to bring the topic up. She felt it would be received better if he approached the matter of their wedding rather than springing it on him. Giving him some sense of control, and really, she wanted Tony to want to talk about it, not feel obligated or forced. It's a sensitive issue for them both, and she's quite conflicted.

"That's right... we couldn't decide on whether the traditional white vanilla with buttercream frosting tasted better than the coconut cake with cream cheese and coconut flakes..." A warm smile, it's a bitter-sweet recollection.

"Tony, I know we didn't get to have a chance for our wedding. I understand if you... if you've changed your mind..." there's a slight pang of anxiety. Is it too soon to speak on? "We wouldn't be able to have what we wanted... and honestly, I don't know if I'd want that anymore." a pause. "I mean the whole ceremony and reception... I do still want to marry you, that's never been up for debate." she swiftly clarifies because that could have been misinterpreted very badly. "I love you, I want you... I just don't know where we go from here? Our options are slim, and I'm not expecting a grand wedding. It's either a small gathering--" small is an overstatement. "--Or eloping... and well... I want your opinion." She may be content with either, but it still hurts not to be able to celebrate their marriage as they'd intended. Though, there is a third option... don't get married, and out of the three, that one she's struggling with the most.

@mr-tony-stark

He nodded his head. "We'll work on it together. Maybe get a designer. But let's not get ahead of ourselves yet. We have to see what's out there. I'll most likely add a workshop and lab to it too. So it's never going to be a case of finding the perfect house. We'll either build the perfect one or we'll renovate one," he said and nudged her a little. "But don't worry, you'll have your glass front fridge. And we'll make sure our baby's nursery is magical."

He laughed at the list of foods from around the world that Pepper thought she would crave. "Sounds like we're due another holiday," he said. International travel was very strange right now. People weren't as concerned about borders, but there weren't as many flights going, even taking into account there were half as many people. Tony thought it was just the trauma of seeing all those planes drop out of the sky. Tony did have his private jet though, so he could still up and leave anytime he wanted. He just had to track down a pilot, and that was never very hard for him to do. "I do love that you think you can choose what you'll crave and that it's not a physiological response to a need for specific vitamins and minerals. Does that mean all the people who have had cravings for pickles and ice cream just really love them normally?" he teased playfully.

They arrived at the Polo Bar and as soon as they stepped through the doors they were greeted very enthusiastically by the maître d'. It felt like it had been a whole lifetime ago since Tony had taken Pepper here. It really hadn't. Back when they were planning the wedding they had been going out a lot. Tony had needed a lot of distracting at that point of his life. He'd thought he'd lost everything. God, he had no idea what losing everyone really felt like.

They were led to a corner booth. The table was a little big for just the two of them, but Tony had appreciated the staff's consideration. The Polo Bar was cramped and you ended up almost sitting with the people in the tables on either side of you. This gave them a little room to breathe. He took the menu, and before he even opened it, he'd ordered two vodka martinis, both extra dry, both extra olives and his extra dirty, as well as a bottle of the Krug.

He sat back, eyes flicking over the menu as his fingers drummed on the back. "It was a week before the -" he clicked his fingers, shifting in the chair. "I took you out so we could talk about menu options. We'd just been cake tasting."

He felt awkward even bringing it up. The whole wedding thing had died along with all those billions and billions of people. It felt like bad taste to do a wedding with all the loss in the world. And besides, their celebrant, half the band, and the person designing Pepper's dress had all been turned to dust. They'd never have been able to replace them in time. Not that they'd spoken about it. It just... fizzled out. This had been the first time either of them had either mentioned it, and Tony had this gnawing feeling that Pepper had been waiting for him to bring it up so as not to push him about it.

@freckledboss

[random-writer-4884]

Bandage Wrap and some Sugar Chicken (Tony Stark X Depressed Reader)

Bandage Wrap and some Sugar Chicken

Tony Stark x Depressed Reader

By: @random-writer-4884

Description: After taking care of Tony and his mental health, your own mental health starts to collapse. You continuously push aside your own feelings until Tony and the team are away on a mission. While they're gone the temptation of the knife becomes a bit too much. (This fic is cannon divergent)

Content Warnings: Self Harm, Blood, cutting, descriptions of cutting, death, temporary death.

Nothing was wrong, per-say, you were just tired. It had been long. Long days, long weeks, long months. It had simply been long.

The fight against Loki had caused so many damages. The structural damage was glaringly obvious, although the repairs were happening quickly. I had watched as Stark Tower quickly became Avengers Tower. There have been a lot of changes to your home. You didn’t necessarily mind, it wasn’t too bad having more people to hang out with if you so chose to. Besides, you and Tony had a large handful of floors all to yourself. A few of those were only for you. And any floor you wanted to be out of reach for the avengers were entirely out of reach. Locked and kept strictly to you (and Tony). 

Loki was under strict monitoring and was secluded to his own floor within the tower. With some help from the asgardians and shield, they were able to fashion some fancy, yet comfy, bracelets to keep him from using magic. 

That was absolutely fantastic! Thor was very enthusiastic that his brother wouldn’t have to be locked in an asgardian prison (although it was rumored to be quite a nice place). 

And while it was quite a well planned out solution, there was one thing that wasn’t taken into account.

Tony

The man who consistently pushes away his own thoughts and feelings for others. It's true that to the public eye he appears to be some spoiled rich man without a care in the world, no one has quite realized the impact becoming Iron-Man had made on him.

You had spent countless nights holding him while he suffered from Afghanistan, and how much trauma he had. Finally things had started to look up for him. He started doing some things for himself, smiling. How his smile lit up the room. Maybe it didn’t for others, but damn did it make you happy. 

What no one had expected was for Tony to die. Granted he wasn’t dead now, but JARVIS had reported that once he fell from the wormhole and he was back online that Tony’s heart had stopped. It was a miracle he was alive, and while it was an amazing thing it left him with even more trauma.

More sleepless nights, he stopped smiling for himself again, and you did everything you could to be there for him. And after many more months of taking care of him you finally saw some progress. Smiles started returning, he was eating without having to be reminded. There were always bad days but it was so much better than before.

Of course nothing was exactly easy anymore. While you had been taking care of him, your own mental health had suffered. You wouldn’t call yourself suicidal, or even wanting to hurt yourself, but the knife was tempting. 

Okay, maybe something was wrong, but you certainly weren’t going to admit that. Besides, Tony already had enough going on. With Loki living in the same building, it was hard to avoid the anxiety attacks.

Tony and the rest of the team were on a mission, you had a few hours left before they would return. Besides, once they did everyone would be exhausted, Tony would either lock himself into his workshop or he would go straight to bed. You had plenty of time all to yourself.

You went to your floor, and coded to lock Tony out. Although it really wouldn’t matter. No one would walk in on you. 

“JARVIS, Turn off the cameras and audio surveillance in this room.”  

“Miss, are you sure about that?” The AI pipped in relatively quickly

You sighed “Turn them off JARVIS.”

“Yes Miss.” Was the simple reply. 

You sat down on the bed and pulled out your knife. You had made sure razors blades had been removed after Loki’s invasion, if for no other reason than because trauma can fuck with someones brain. 

You took a deep breath and put the knife to your thigh.

Just one cut.

That turned into two

Into three.

Four…

Five…

Six… 

You had forgotten how hard it could be once you started. The blood was addicting. Just a couple of droplets at first, then more. You had kept up with wiping it up, if for no other reason to avoid the question of blood on the sheets. 

You sat for a few minutes, just wiping the blood as it fell. Not quite giving it the chance to stop.  The pain stung, and it was somehow calming. 

It was nice… until there was a loud knock at the door. 

“JARVIS! I thought I locked down this floor!”

“You did Miss, but it has been overridden.” JARVIS calmly replied. 

You quickly stuffed the knife and dirty towel under the sheets, ruffled your hair, and quickly hid underneath the covers. “Who is it?” 

“It's me darling, open up please.” 

It was Tony… and he wasn’t supposed to see this. You didn’t reply right away, and you heard his call to JARVIS.

“JARVIS, override the door lock and let me the hell in.” 

Yeah that was expected. You heard a click and the door whirred open and closed as he walked in. You closed your eyes quickly, and slowly opened them when you felt his weight dip onto the bed.

“Good morning, sleepy head” he said as he placed his hand on your hair, gently brushing it aside. You faked a yawn and leaned into his hand.

“Morning. What time is it? You aren’t supposed to be back yet.” You said, trying to make it sound as sleepy and realistic as possible.

“It's late enough,” Tony said, “that you shouldn’t be in bed anymore.” He moved his hand so his thumb was right under your eye and gently rubbed in up and down. “And I’m home, because the mission didn’t need me anymore. Besides, I wanted to spend some time with you.”

“Tones that’s so sweet.” You feigned a stretch and another yawn. “I’ll get dressed and I’ll meet you in the living room in a few minutes and we can watch something or order some food.”

He nodded. Good, it would give you time to wrap this up and get dressed before he could figure it out. “Actually, I think I’d like to just stay here. Perhaps just some snuggles. I am a bit tired.” 

“How about we get dinner! I’m sure you're absolutely starving! We could get some of the Shawarma you've been begging me to try?” You struggled trying to find anything to deter him from the bed.

He started to pick up the covers, and you quickly shuffled to try to pull them down. 

“Darling” he started, before he even revealed your thighs “I know something is very wrong, and I need you to tell me. Otherwise I’ll find out myself. Alright?” You froze. There was no way you were getting out of this. 

You weren’t speaking. Just staring at him in fear. What if he got angry? What if he threw you out? 

He sighed as he continued lifting up the covers, revealing your thighs next to a bloody knife and towel. Tony looked from your thighs back into your eyes. You were shaking, and tears began to form in your eyes. 

You closed your eyes and turned away, expecting some sort of outlash. Instead you were met with the towel gently pressing onto your thigh. You opened your eyes to watch him sit down next to you and gently dab at the wounds. 

When he saw you staring he took one hand away to place on your face and gave a gentle kiss to your forehead. “It's alright sweetheart, I’ll be right back. I just need to grab something, alright?” You looked at him and nodded.

He got up from the bed and walked out the door, before it closed behind him you heard him call out to JARVIS. From there you couldn’t understand the conversation. So you simply sat there and waited for his return. 

When you looked down at what you had done, you immediately felt terrible. Angry red lines glared back at you and you couldn’t stop the tears. With all you did to help Tony and not be a burden, here you are… being a burden to him.

He came back into the room a few minutes later, and sat down on the bed. He had a box in his hand that he set down so he could hold your face. “It's alright princess, cry all you need to. I’m right here for you.” With that he pulled you into his chest and held you as you cried, gently letting his fingers comb through your hair. 

Once the sobs subsided, and you were left with some hiccups, Tony gently pulled you away from his chest. “I’m going to need to clean these now, is that alright darling?” You nodded as he opened the box he had set down. You didn’t watch as he cleaned it, but you felt as he gently wrapped it with a bangaging wrap. 

When he was done, he slowly leaned over and gave you a gentle kiss on the forehead. He pulled away with a gentle smile. 

“C’mon now sweetheart. Dinner should be here any time now. I had JARVIS order that sugar chicken stuff you like from, ugh what was it?”

“Panda Express, sir” Jarvis piped in 

“Yeah! That! I had him get whatever you tend to get, I can never remember between Panda and the family run place a few blocks away.” He smiled as he got up from the bed and grabbed one of his seriously oversized shirts and handed it to you. 

“This should be nice and comfortable. Be gentle on that leg. Try not to sleep on it or do anything strenuous. It shouldn’t be needing stitches, but if they get torn open I’ll have to send you to get some. For now they’re good though.” 

Once you finished fumbling with the shirt he handed you, you looked back up at him. “Tony?” Your voice was barely more than a whisper. He hummed in response. “How did you know what to do? And why weren’t you angry? And-” 

Tony gently puts a finger to your mouth to cut you off. “I’m not angry because no one should get angry over this. Clearly you're hurting, and it wouldn’t help to get angry.” He sat back down next to you before continuing. “I’ve had my struggles too sweetheart, I didn’t want to risk you getting an infection. I got one once and ooh it was a struggle to deal with on my own. I didn’t need the press to get involved.” 

He pulled you into a hug when JARVIS spoke through the speakers. “While I am very sorry to interrupt you both, your dinner has arrived and Mr. Hogan is getting very impatient since he cannot leave the elevator.”

Tony chuckled as he stood up. You went to follow but he reached an arm under your shoulder blades and the other under your knees and picked you up. You started to protest but Tony simply ignored you as he sat you down on the couch.

As Tony strutted to the elevator you realized you never actually found out why he was back so early. “Tony! Why are you actually back so early?”

He turned back to look at you “Oh! Yeah! JARVIS told me that you had locked the floor, turned off the video and audio. I sorta figured something wasn’t right so I dipped out on the mission. They were fine without me.” He quickly turned on his heels and went to the elevator.

You looked up at the ceiling before shouting,

“JARVIS YOU TRAITOR!”

[fireflykaizoku]

Hey!! I'm obsessed with your soulmates swap aus, really i love them they're so good i can't even explain 😭

Could i ask you one with kid but no one can really see they exchanged bodies 'cause they are literally the same? Like y/n has the same character as kid so they seems literally the same as always and it's quite a problem.

Thank you if you do, have a nice day 💕

helloo anon my love! ❤ i'm so so glad you like them! i'm sorry i took long, by the way! but here it is, and i hope you like it! have a nice day ❤

— What are you looking at? — you snapped at someone at the bar. That person was looking at you for you don’t even know how long.

— (Y/N), calm down. It’s your birthday, don’t stress trying to fight again. — one of your friends asked, holding your arm. — Just leave it.

You sighed, taking a sip of your drink. It was easy for you to get irritated and start a fight, you had quite a temper, and honestly, you don’t know how your friends put up with you. The only reason why you didn’t get into more fights, it was because of them.

— I swear, your soulmate better be someone calm. — another friend giggled. — Imagine if they have that temper.

— It’d be a chaos. — you laughed, forgetting about the fight you almost started before. — But I guess the world couldn’t handle a couple like that. I hope they’re level headed.

It was late when you went back home, and you fell asleep right after, hoping you wouldn’t have a hangover the next morning.

Your peaceful slumber got interrupted with a loud bang on the door. Since when your roommate got so aggressive? You barely had time to open your eyes, and realize you were sitting on a chair, in front of a desk, in a room that wasn’t yours. It smelled like oil and metal. What an awful time to switch bodies with your soulmate.

You knew it’d happen eventually, but it wasn’t something you looked forward to, unlike your friends who acted as if it was such an event.

— Kid, the ship just docked. — someone said. — We’ll go get some supplies and head to a bar.

— Go away! — you screamed, still in shock while looking at that body which obviously wasn’t yours.

The man had scars on his chest and right arm, while apparently he didn’t have his left arm, replaced with a heavy mechanical one. You looked at the long coat over your shoulder, the vest and his pants and couldn’t help laughing at his fashion taste. How tacky.

— What a clown. — you whispered to yourself, still laughing. — Out of all people, this is my soulmate? How lucky…

You got up and headed to a bathroom, maybe when you washed your face and actually felt awake, you could find a solution to switch back and go home. Looking at the broken and dirty mirror, your soulmate was very attractive. He had red hair, no eyebrows, a scar on the left side of his face, and goggles. He’s someone you’d look at if you saw him at a bar.

— Now, how do I find him? — you asked yourself. — Well, if he’s in my body, I’ll call my house. I’m sure there’s a den den mushi here somewhere.

When you left the bathroom, you tried to find the transponder snail. It took a while, walking from room to room, but you finally spotted one in what seemed to be the captain’s bedroom. You started calling your house, hoping that your soulmate would answer.

— What?! — the man answered. — If you’re the person who is in my body, you better find a way to switch back.

— Look, I’m not happy with this situation either. I want to go back to my body, so what do we do now?

He sighed, obviously as annoyed as you were.

— I’m the captain of this ship, so you tell my crew to come here to your island so we can switch back. Don’t let people know what’s going on, I don’t want anyone to know about that. I have a damn reputation.

— Are you even that relevant? — you laughed.

— Watch it, just because you’re my soulmate it doesn’t mean you can talk to me like that.

You rolled your eyes, hanging up before replying. First, you went to the kitchen, feeling thirsty. Luckily they had some beer. You took one, and soon enough, you found one of the crew members that stayed on the ship. You demanded to go to your island quick.

— We need to go there. It’s important, and don’t ask any questions, I’ll be working on something or whatever.

You went back to Kid’s workshop, slamming the door behind you. Being in another body was annoying. You didn't know who this person was, you were far from home, and his mechanical arm was so heavy it was bothering you.

When a tall blonde man wearing a mask knocked on the door, opening it right after, you just told him to go away, threatening to throw something at him if he didn’t leave. After that, everyone left you alone.

The only time when anyone knocked on the door after that, was the next morning, when someone said they arrived at the destination.

Finally!

— I’ll be back soon. I don’t want neither of you following me around, got it? — you asked and the crew nodded.

You left the ship, going towards your house. And when the door opened you saw your figure, which was very weird.

— Took you long enough! — he said with a frown. — How do we switch back now?

— I should’ve know you don’t understand about soulmates. — you sighed. — We need to kiss.

— Is that all? — he seemed surprised, thinking it was too easy to be true. — Then let’s kiss now!

— It’s not a simple kiss, you fool. It’s a kiss when we’re in love, which it’s probably not going to happen, so we need to figure something out.

Kid yelled, complained, cussed, and finally accepted how things really were. You two tried to talk without bickering on each other, trying to think of another solution. And after a long discussion, with you yelling at him, both decided that you needed to stay with him on the Victoria Punk until you could switch back.

The crew kept whispering, curious about who was that small person that their Captain just brought to the ship. Maybe an affair? A new member or an ally? No one dared to ask him directly, though, especially since he was in a bad mood.

Kid still didn’t want the crew to know, even though Killer was smart enough and could probably help. You spent many times together at his workshop, seeing him work while you complained you were bored. At night, you two agreed that sleeping in his room would be the best. The red haired man let you keep the bed, saying he didn’t want his body to be sick or in pain, apparently. Whenever his mechanical arm got too heavy, he tried to ease the weight or help you take it off.

Eventually, you had longer conversations with him, seeing you two had a lot in common, surprisingly.

The showers were a little weird, especially during the first few times, when he kept saying your body was very hot, making you feel flustered for the first time in your life. But after a while, it just felt normal.

It has been almost a month since you two met. The ship had docked and everyone was at a bar. A man was flirting with you, or well, with Kid, while thinking it was you. Indeed, you used to draw attention from people when you went out, and you forgot about that until a man was approaching Eustass, complimenting his beautiful looks.

Feeling annoyed, and perhaps even a little jealous thinking that other men wanted you, he got up from his sit and pulled you into a kiss. Of course, the crew had their eyes open. Who knew the mysterious person Kid brought was that straightforward, and who knew their captain would let someone steal a kiss from him.

The kiss wasn’t romantic or cute. It was full of passion and desire, it was unexpected and possessive, as if he was saying “you’re mine”. He bit your lip, and it felt like he was claiming you. Honestly, it was a good feeling, as if you’ve been waiting, without even knowing, for him to make this first move.

You felt butterflies, something you’ve never felt before.

When you opened your eyes, you saw his figure towering over you, and a grin that wouldn’t leave his face so soon. He pulled you closer, making it clear that you were his. He didn’t even ask, but your answer would be “yes” anyway.

— I can’t believe we finally switched back. — he laughed, flexing his arm. — I missed my body.

The crew gasped.

— Switch back? — Heat asked. — Wait, you were in (Y/N)’s body this whole time? And (Y/N) was in your body?

— I must say, I’m surprised. I couldn’t notice any difference. — Killer said. — You two are very alike.

At first, you two seemed offended until realizing the masked man was actually right. You two has the same personality, and it wasn’t what you expected your soulmate to be. Someone peaceful and quiet would be fun, but someone who could raise a little hell with you could be even better.

— You’re annoying sometimes, but I want you to sail with me anyway. — he said gently lifting your chin with his index finger, still with his signature smirk on his face.

[cosplayinamerica]

I had the opportunity to send some questions to Andrew Liptak about his new book Cosplay: A History so I asked him about his cosplaying days first.

1) What was your first cosplay and what are you working on currently?

My first “real” costume after Halloween costumes was an Imperial Stormtrooper. It was a costume that I’d coveted ever since seeing A New Hope in theaters in 1997, and I’d spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to make one. In my final year of high school, my high school band played music from Star Wars (I played trumpet), and we were able to get a member of the 501st Legion to come and join us.

His costume blew me away, and that summer, he sold me an FX kit (the then-standard Stormtrooper costume that was out there), which I then assembled and wore for a little over a decade before I replaced it with a more accurate version. I still have it: it’s on a mannequin in my basement.

I’ve got a couple of random projects in the works now that are in pretty early stages. I have a Shoretrooper kit from 850 Armor Works that I’ve been piecing together. I’d originally bought it for my wife, but she sort of lost interest, so I’m planning on doing it up as a Captain variant of that particular costume. I also have a First Order stormtrooper kit that I want to put together to replace my existing FOTK (this new kit is plastic, so it’s much, much lighter than my current fiberglass costume.) And finally, I have a 212th Airborne Clone from Revenge of the Sith that is done: I just need to get it to fit me.

2) Has cosplay impacted your life personally?

Cosplay has impacted my life considerably: it provided a community at a time when I most needed it in the years after college. After graduating, I had disposable money and a car, so I was frequently out and about throughout New England trooping with my local 501st garrison. I’ve made some of my best friends in the world through the group, and it’s still a big part of my life.

But it’s also imparted an element of what I call “practical creativity”. I grew up in a household that had a workshop and I learned from my dad how to do things like cut wood, construct things out of it, change my own oil in my car, and generally do things on my own: working with my hands. Cosplay reinforced that: it’s helped me realize that with time, patience, and a little research, you can do a lot of things on your own: I’ve painted houses, redid my bathroom, fixed leaks/cracks/carpet/siding, etc at my house, and found creative solutions that I might not have arrived at if I hadn’t spent time building costumes. I know more about glue, paint, cutting materials, and whatnot, because of that experience.

3) What trends have you seen in cosplay from when you first started till today?

There are so many things that have changed! I think the first is just how popular science fiction and fantasy franchises have come since I started back in 2003: Star Wars has always been a mainstream thing, but the act of cosplaying has come a long way along with that growing popularity. Those films and genres have always been popular for good reasons: they’re exciting and interesting, and it’s good to see people reacting to it more and more, and with less shame than they might have before.

There are two other big trends that come to mind: the advances in how we use materials to build costumes has changed quite a bit. Materials like EVA foam and Worbla weren’t nearly as popular when I started, so the adoption of those materials makes it easier for cosplayers to start in on this hobby. Things like 3D printing and YouTube tutorials also really help.

The other is logistics, helped along by big online platforms like Amazon or Etsy: it’s easier than ever to buy a costume or the components. When I bought my first set of armor back in 2003, I had to know a guy who know a guy. Now, you can just click a couple of buttons.

4)  What's the process like in writing this book?

Long. The pitch for me to write it first came in 2016: the earlier version would have been entirely about the 501st Legion. But as I researched, I realized that I couldn’t just tell the story of the group: I had to expand it out beyond its borders to talk about the context of where it came from, which is what this ultimately became.

From there, it was a matter of coming up with an outline, which guided what I had to research: there was a lot of work in finding early examples of cosplay, looking through documents and records from older conventions and fan groups to try and get a clear story for how this hobby evolved over the decades.

The other component of that was interviews: I attended a whole bunch of cons in 2019 before the pandemic, and interviewed a whole bunch of folks about their experiences and history as cosplayers, and photographing them at cons. It was a lot of fun. It was also the tip of the iceberg: there are so many people in the cosplay field, with so many stories, and while I got a good cross-section of folks, there were so many rocks that I’d tip over to find a whole new thread of stories and people to talk to. But, the reality of the book is that there are deadlines and a finite number of pages, so you take what you can get and work with it.

5)  Has the book changed from the original conception to how it is today?

Very much so. As I noted a moment ago, I had originally set out to put together a book about the history of the 501st Legion. That didn’t end up happening for a variety of reasons, but I repackaged and repitched it as a history of cosplay as a whole. (The original title was Knights in Plastic Armor). I’m happy that I did that, because the larger story of cosplay is rich and fascinating.

But even while writing the book, we made some significant changes. I had originally outlined the book in three parts: When We Cosplay, Why We Cosplay, and House We Cosplay, which has been reorganized a bit for this final version (it’s much stronger now). There were also some interesting topics that I came across while researching: a picture of a reenactment in the 1800s led me down the path of living history and military reenactments, which I included. A chance encounter with a book about Jules Verne led me to track down details about a costume party he threw, and things like that: every new revelation brought with it new details to uncover, and every new interviewee brought me new fidelity to the history.

A good example here is a woman named Astrid Bear, who was heavily involved in the science fiction fan community. She was party to a lot of those early developments from an early age, and she outlined something really interesting to me in my interview with her: Star Trek had a huge impact on the cosplay community, because the costumes were relatively comfortable. When the show arrived, costuming at cons was largely restricted to designated times for specific events. When Star Trek arrived, it brought in new fans, but also new attitudes: fans started wearing the costumes in the halls (there was some friction from long-term con goers about this!) and that change in culture helped to bring about the con environment that we see these days.

6)  Were there topics cut from the book that you hope to revisit one day?

Not so much things that were cut: we made some cuts for length and clarity where I got a little too into the weeds, but there were some things that I’d hoped to have gotten to that I didn’t end up covering that much: I wanted to do a chapter about Furries, but just didn’t get to that. I also wanted to put together a chapter about the KKK and how they used masks to convey their horrible views, and the repercussions that came with that: masking laws and whatnot that still are on the books today. Author Arthur Conan Doyle liked to dress up as his character Professor Challenger, which I learned too late to include as another early example.

I’m hoping though, to actually write those chapters (and some others — I have a short list) up, and release them to my newsletter, Transfer Orbit as a series that I’m thinking I’ll call the “Lost Chapters”, which should be fun to do in the coming months.

7) Advice for first time cosplayers?

I think the best advice that I have is to make characters that you love: don’t pay attention to the cycle that we’ve found ourselves in where everyone rushes to make the most popular character of the moment (and by extension, don’t get sucked into the world of social media likes and churn). Make that obscure character that you’ve always wanted to do, take the time to make the costumes that you want to make, rather than rushing to meet a self-imposed deadline or to stay relevant.

Also, make sure you use proper ventilation when you’re using chemicals / sanding / painting, etc., wear safety equipment, and so forth. Safety first!

[st-just]

A Setting: The City of Sethennai

Because I’ve spent long enough tinkering on this that I might as well share it with a population of more than a half-dozen potential players. Also it could almost certainly use an editing pass, and I don’t want to lose it all next time my computer dies.

So, a collection of densely packed plot hooks in the shape of a city

City History

The City of Sethennai is quite possibly the oldest city in the world, or at least the oldest still inhabited. When the first Dwarfs and Goliaths fled the Titans for the coast, they found ziggurats already rising from the water and tunnels dug beneath their feet, ruined by some already ancient cataclysm. Supported by fertile soil and full waters, they built their own city over it, and welcomed their own gods to it, a center of resistance to the Titanomarchy that became an empire in its own right.

Centuries passed and power drifted inland, to the mountain palaces of the Titans’ Giant heirs and the divinely appointed heroes who sometimes overthrew them. The City was rich, but peaceful, its soldiers only raised when one princess or another took it as a capital during a civil war. Such was the case when the first ships appeared from the East.

The adventurers from the League of Free Cities had been spurred across the sea by visions of fortune and glory, overwhelming the defenders with armies of goblin slaves and the ability to evoke demons far beyond what they could deal with. Their leader Sethennai proclaimed himself Emperor and renamed the city in his honour, taking it as his capital. After his assassination some years later the ‘empire’ fell into an anarchy it has never quite recovered from, but the name has stuck, and for the two hundred years since wonders and riches have flowed across the eastern ocean while mercenaries and adventurers have poured west in ever greater numbers.

The city’s ruler for the last fifteen years has been Prince Cael, an adventurer universally believed to be supported by the League’s political rivals back East. If so, they got what they paid for – experts and financiers have been imported and sponsored, and trade opened to anyone capable of paying the reasonable import duties.

Until two years ago, he had been the picture of brutal decadence, rousing himself from luxurious hedonism only to brutally deal with any threats to his power. Recently though, he changed – sponsoring vast expeditions into the ancient palaces of the interior and the ruins buried on the city’s outskirts, and installing a self-proclaimed Hierophant whose heresies had earned her a death warrant back East in the city’s grandest temples (violently banishing the cults which had held them since the Conquest in the process).

One week ago, at exactly noon, the sun vanished from the sky for one minute, and the entire city was filled with a deafening scream. Since then, the Prince’s grand palace has been sealed tight, with ingeniously horrifying magical defences ensuring that anyone who tries to force a door or window isn’t around to try again. Everything’s very rapidly falling apart, and the city’s traditional power brokers are reacting like so many rabid weasels in too small a cage.

It is, then, a perfect opportunity for people with the will to seize it.

Districts

The Palantine

If Sethennai is the oldest continually inhabited city in the world, the vast palace complex which crowns its central hill is probably likewise the oldest building still in use. Its foundation is burrowed deep into the hill on which it stands, to the point that some delvers and historians have theorized that it was once a truly massive pyramid now mostly buried by the ages. Rising out of it are two great peaks - impressive ziggurats in their own right - of obvious dwarven make, fashioned to house their ancient Ancestors-Kings and gods in suitable splendor, and since renovated and built over to house the city’s rulers and most favored priesthoods. Surrounding them are a dozen smaller peaks, each the estate of one of the city’s foremost patrician families, teeming with retainers and servants. The land around them is pristine and perfectly manicured, full of wondrous botanical gardens and menageries for the amusement of Sethennai’s greatest citizens.

Location of Interest: The Throne 

A palace built on the ruins of a palace built on the ruins of a palace. The grand ziggurat which the city’s rulers have called home since time immemorial is built into and sits at the peak of its highest hill, the highest point in the sky for dozens of miles in every direction. Its labyrinthine apartments, kitchens, vaults, galleries and corridors house the Prince and his family, dozens of favorites and notables, and hundreds of guards, servants, retainers and entertainers. 

Or, well, housed. 

One week ago, the sun vanished from the sky, and a scream echoed through the city. Since then, the palace complex has proven impenetrable. Every door and window is closed, and attempts to open them by force have fared...poorly. In a ‘never going to walk again’ sort of way. Scrying and other means of magical surveillance so far attempted have simply failed. No one has tried to escape, and no noises have been heard - the whole complex is simply silent. 

Of course, that means that all its secrets and riches are there for the taking. Or that’s the growing consensus - at least three separate groups have camped out near various gates and major entrances, each preparing their own scheme to break in and seize everything within. There’s no fighting between them. Yet. 

Faction of Note: The Hierophant 

    Yri Cenred is many things. A self-proclaimed ‘experimental theologian’. One of shockingly few mortal humans to piss off the Illyrin clergy enough to be specifically declared Anathema. A member of the Commonwealth’s very exclusive list of ‘Enemies of Reason’. Empirically immune to thunderbolts from cloudless skies and most other signs of divine disfavor. Easily one of the most powerful mages in the city. And, for most of the last two years, its High Priestess and Hierophant. 

    No one knows quite how her first meeting with Prince Cael went, and whether she was responsible for her change in personality or if he sought her out because of it. All anyone knows is that shortly after she arrived in the city a few days ahead of Imperial Witch-Hunters looking for her head on a pike, Cael forcibly expelled the Khasali cults which had occupied the Palantine’s grand temples since the Conquest, and installed her in their place with the newly minted title of Hierophant for the city. Since then she and her growing coterie of acolytes (bright-eyed, motivated and young, though you can flip a coin as to whether their hands are stained with ink or blood) have been extremely busy, though no one can say exactly what with. Certainly they haven’t held any public rituals or services. Despite the costs - both political and monetary - in protecting and sponsoring her, Cael never seemed to question whether it was worthwhile. 

    The general opinion on the streets is that she’s probably to blame for anything and everything worth complaining about. The only real divide is between those who think she bewitched the Prince and turned him into her puppet, those who think she’s the one who killed him, and the moderates who think the correct answer is probably ‘both’.

Foundrytown

The New World is absolutely full of exotic reagents, fuel sources, and materials to craft and invent with. It is also absolutely full of people who will pay in your currency of choice for finished goods, armor, weaponry, and whatever nasty alchemical tricks you can keep from blowing up in their face until they want them to. Foundrytown is the sprawling mass of smokestacks, workshops, factories and markets that has spilled to the north of Sethennai’s walls, exploiting both opportunities to the fullest while limiting the chance that some idiot will burn half the city down (again). Robber barons, militant workers, loose fraternities of tinkerers and half-trainer artificers, and the occasional rogue clockwork or alchemical monstrosity all jostle for space and control of the beating heart of Sethennai’s economy. 

Faction of Note: The Grand Bazaar 

    Official Imperial theology accords true dragons a place of honour - the Princes of the Earth, entrusted by Heaven with containing the fury of the elements within themselves so as to render the world peaceful enough for cultivation by the younger races - and forbids very few things to wyrms willing to play the part. (Principally, do not become undead, a god in your own right, or an archdemon of the elements. Though some justification can usually be found for how any sufficiently problematic dragon is actually doing one of those). 

    And Tyramara the Magnificent, the Fire of the Deeps has not technically done any of those things. Still, the ancient wyrm has little interest in allowing the wasting disease which has crippled her continue to spread, and her solution is unorthodox enough that she thought it prudent to abandon her palace-lair in Imir and relocate to the New World, six treasure galleons worth of her hoard in tow. 

    One of the city’s wealthiest residents from the moment she landed, she has bought a plaza in Foundrytown and offered her sponsorship to nearly every tinker and engineer who cares to set up shop there, provided they help sustain and improve the mechanical and hydraulic prosthetics that supplement and replace her dying organs. She has promised a full half of her hoard to any who can permanently deal with her condition, a fortune men have killed for in the past, and certainly will again. 

Faction of Note: The Hellworks 

They’re not officially called the Hellworks - there are, in fact, absolutely no devils involved. Still, between the billowing clouds of soot and steam pouring from their chimneys at all hours of the day, the severe architecture, and the bound spirits who keep the looms running at all hours of the day and eagerly take any opportunity to leave anyone who gets too close crippled or maimed to vent their anger - well, the name stuck. 

One of the most obvious consequences of Prince Cael’s turn towards the esoteric these last years, the ' ‘Royal Sethennai Weaver’s Trust” is the brainchild and absolute domain of the Lady Binder Katerine sol Dalme sol Telrin ir’Paimon. An Illyrin magister with heterodox opinions on the proper uses of magic, popular opinion is divided on whether it’s more accurate to say Cael invited her to reside in the city, or just offered her asylum before her elders had a chance to properly condemn her. 

Regardless, after six months of operation she - and her half-dozen strictly bound and extremely unhappy ifrit, and several hundred eminently replaceable more mundane workers - are already well on their way to supplying all the clothing and textiles Sethennai’s teeming masses require single-handedly, produced at a scale and speed far beyond what any traditional artisans guild could hope to compete with. 

Crossroads

Dominating the Old City - synonymous with it, really - that the district is called the ‘Crossroads’ is often considered something of a cruel joke by new arrivals. The ‘Labyrinth’ is usually offered instead. Ancient stone tenements and storehouses are basic facts of geography, surviving through conquest and fire, and over and around and through them are generations of newer building - mansions of imported oak and marble, shantytowns of cannibalized carts and derelict ships built on rooftops, and nondescript inns and stores conveniently built on top of trap doors and tunnels leading to much more exciting locales. Natives of a neighborhood who know all the secret passages and blind alleys can quickly get to anywhere they like. New arrivals are strongly advised to pay well for a reliable guide. 

Faction of Note: The Dreamers 

    There’s something under the harbor. There always has been. There probably always will be. Most people can go their whole lives without noticing it, but a certain few find living in the Old City a haunting experience, their nights spent dreaming of drowned palaces and impossible angles, their days spent lost in alleys and markets that have never existed. Inevitably, they come out of a daze and find themselves perched on the waters edge, staring into the filthy, polluted depths with an intense sense of longing. 

    Called the Dreamers, they’re an eclectic and informal fraternity, living in makeshift houseboats or the cheapest tenements that press against the water. Quite a few simply sleep on the streets. They’re something like a religion, and something like a guild - the most personable and talkative are merchants, selling the fish that others catch, the strange relics and minor treasures that their divers retrieve from the harbor, and the often beautiful - if always uncanny - art they produce. They take care of each other and, though no one has ever seen a dreamer raise a hand in anger, every attempt by syndicates or rival cults to extort or expel them has ended with their opponents going mad, screaming and clawing at their flesh in the middle of the night, or found poised in some elaborate and improbable suicide. After the third time, everyone more or less got the idea. 

    No one knows who leads them - if anyone does. Insofar as they have a public face, Zoe Alvane is it - a street urchin who ‘found the sea’ before she had hit puberty, for the last few years she has been the one who spends seemingly every hour of the day ensuring her ‘aunts’ and ‘uncles’ have food and shelter, and looking after the other beggars and poor in the neighborhood while she can as well. She’s also the one outsiders deal with when they come looking to buy information - it’s a disquieting fact of life in Sethennai that the Dreamers’ know almost everything there is to know about almost everyone. They are generally content to be left alone, and Zoe is very sympathetic and willing to offer personal advice and play the part of fortune teller to anyone desperate and willing to trade or do a favor - but it’s generally agreed that trying to force information from them is a bad idea. 

Faction of Note: Ironfang Mercenary Company 

    When Prince Cael seized the throne, he didn’t do so single handedly. He needed trained, disciplined soldiers to seize the Palantine and coastal forts, ensure no one escaped the palace, and keep order on the streets while the messy business of extinguishing the previous dynasty was carried out. For all this and more, he relied on the professional expertise of the Ironfang Company. 

    Formed around a core of hardened hobgoblin veterans of various border wars and colonial filibusters in the Free Cities, the Company has for the last fifteen years been the Prince’s favorite tool for securing his interests, keeping order, and bloodily making examples of any threats to his rule. For their trouble, they’ve grown fat and happy - a steady paycheck and yearly bonuses have left every officer with a townhouse, and most common soldiers with coin for families and apartments for them to live in. 

    Despite the lack of real combat - and the need to take on locals as new recruits, as more and more soldiers retire or die over the years - Captain Azaersi is a leathery old warehouse who has never let her troops grow soft. Even week the grand parade ground in Crossroads echoes with screaming drill sergeants and the crack of muskets, and it’s an open secret that the Prince paid to import stocks of grenades and munitions from Quepta for her arsenal. No one knows quite how she plans to deal with the sudden disappearance of her patron and employer, but for the moment the Ironfang seem content to keep order in the corner of Crossroads around the arsenal and parade ground that they call home. 

The Ruins

The ruins are not, legally, part of Sethanni, and absolutely no one with anything resembling sense would ever actually choose to live there. No one actually knows where the eponymous ruins come from - or at least, no one can agree which section is from where. Shantytowns of the most despised and desperate and built on top of their predecessors, which are built on top of battered and broken pre-Conquest ziggurats and homes, which are built on top of - well, some of it is just a natural cave system, and no one is sure about the rest. Or ever found just how deep it goes. Aside from the casualties of the Prince’s attempts to map it, the Ruins are inhabited exclusively by those that would be strung up or burned alive if they tried to live anywhere else, or those sufficiently dedicated to their greed or ambition that they’re absolutely certain they alone can unlock the secrets and find whatever wonders are buried beneath all the traps and monsters. Not great company, either way. 

Faction of Note: The Weavers’ Masquerade 

    Sethennai never really followed its ‘sister cities’ in the League in religion, with a sort of tolerant anarchy of different gods and sects almost always predominating over the gleefully blasphemously sublime demon-cults that the conquerors originally brought with them. But the small cultists that did exist at least enjoyed a luxurious, privileged irrelevance, with sanctums in the city’s grand temple. That finally changed when Cael seized the temples for his new Hierophant - and every relic and sacred text in them, as bloodily as necessary. Which with demon worshippers meant a massacre - letting one escape and beseech their patron for aid in crafting some horrible vengeance being generally agreed to be a terrible idea. 

    Not that that actually worked, of course. One acolyte managed to escape - no one’s quite sure how, but then, probably best not to ask unless you’ve got a particularly strong stomach. Well, that’s one of her stories, anyway - she goes by Maia Dayal, Beloved of the Architect, Wearer of Ten Thousand Faces, and sometimes she prefers to say she’s a recently arrived priestess from Celmy, or a street urchin who found enlightenment entirely on her own. As might be expected by the self-proclaimed title, she also changes her face (and build, age, species…) about as often as everyone else bathes. 

    While she has shown no interest in actually taking bloody revenge on the Prince, Dayal has done plenty to earn the price on her head. The Masquerade that has grown around her is a carnival of wonders and horrors, where all manner of temptations are offered to the truly desperate, debauched and vile. Skinweavers and facetakers always need raw material, and secrets and deaths can both be easily bought for the right price - though in keeping with their patron, the Masquerade is hardly a safe or stable place to do business, and offending the wrong cultist can easily lead to a shift from ‘visitor’ to ‘canvas for artistic expression’. 

Faction of Note: The Keendream Expedition

    Over the last two centuries, the actual facts about the pre-Conquest city has (with few exceptions) been buried under the weight of legends, rumors and (when necessary) several tons of rock. Despite this (or because of it) whenever things get bad (...worse) for the original population of goliaths and dwarves who can trace their lineage back to that time, stories about some hidden savior or buried relic that will free them spread like wildfire. This is just such a time. 

Ilidak Keendream Kathu-Viano is an explorer from a family with some grounds for its claim of being pre-conquest nobility. For the last year he has worked on commission for the Prince, leading a large and incredibly well-armed expedition into the ruins across the water from the Old City, digging into them in search of..something. No one who knows the goal has been willing to talk, but certainly it has involved hiring every historian and scholar with anything like knowledge of the city before it was Sethennai (not to mention half the charlatans and rumor mongers who might know something). 

Once news of the Prince’s disappearance reached Kathu-Viano, work shifted from its previous sedate pace to something much more determined. Certain paranoid minds have said it’s almost like he was waiting for this. Other, moderately less paranoid ones have pointed out it’s a bit odd that the government-sponsored expedition is so short on patricians and city notables and so high on mercenaries form the interior and goliath clans with far more reason to listen to Kathu-Viano than the Prince, should some conflict break out. 

The Stacks

Museums, exhibitions, satellite campuses, mystical archives, storehouses of eldritch knowledge, and one actual wizard tower - if the faint taste of ozone in the air doesn’t warn you what you’re getting in for leaving the city’s eastern gates, then the architecture certainly will. Wedged between variously reputable bookstores and inquisitives, different formalized and longstanding campuses are dedicated to the arts of conjuration, enchantment, sparkcraft, and practical cosmology. Competition for new discoveries and to fully unlock ancient secrets are good natured and nonviolent - at least, that’s all you can get out of anyone left standing once the smoke clears. 

Faction of Note: The Bookhounds 

    The Bookhounds aren’t any sort of formal organization - and at least half of them would roll their eyes at the name - but rather a loose network of gutter mages, disreputable academics, private inquisitives and researchers for hire, and people with a little talent or cash to burn and far too much curiosity for their own good. They act as a sort of volunteer police force in the Stacks, passing each other clues and leads and doing each other favors to track down stolen (or escaped) relics and curses, stop idiots from unleashing anything really dramatic, and generally help people and save the day. Not to mention accumulate really impressive bags of tricks and rare books themselves in the process. 

    While they don’t have anything like a real leader, the group’s beating heart is Nikos Roth, an Esheri academic who arrived in the city as a fresh-faced student on a three month expedition a decade back and who never intends to leave. Running a small, incredibly ramshackle-looking secondhand book store wedged between two tenements, he nonetheless has one of the more impressive collections of occult lore in the city, and is more than happy to trade for more of it, or connect anyone in need with a specialist who can help them. As more than one would-be thief has discovered, he’s also a fairly talented mage, and for all that being entirely self-taught has left him with some obvious holes in his training, it’s also left him with some tricks that basically no one comes prepared to counter. 

Redgate

Once, Redgate Prison stood alone, a fearsome warning of the Prince’s power to anyone looking south from the city center. Eighty-some years of steady urban sprawl later, most of its inmates would probably just need a running start from the prison walls to land back home. Filled mostly with those whose dreams of a new world fell flat, but with too little cash or too many enemies to get home, the slums of Redgate are a natural habitat for street gangs, drug peddlers, flesh traders, and everyone else looking to take advantage of the desperate and vulnerable. The prison itself - and its infamous and heavily armed wardens - has stumbled into being the center of law writ large, dealing out summary justice for criminals that are (correctly) assumed to be beneath the Prince’s notice. 

Faction of Note: Regate Prison 

    Sitting on a steep hill across the water from the Old City, Redgate prison was at one point a fortress, but for generations has been put to use housing the city’s worst, most dangerous, and most profitable criminals. Given the sprawling, crime-ridden slums that now surround it, its wardens also work as a sort of brutal police force, keeping the pretence of order on the street and preserving the Prince’s Peace. Usually. 

    The problems with discipline start at the top, really. The Prison’s infamously brutal First Warden is also its oldest and most dangerous prisoner. Before the Conquest, Vrocdruk was one of the city’s lesser gods, enthroned in one of the Palantine’s grand temples. When Sethennai - the man - defeated him, he chose to pull his demons away before they could tear the god into so much bloody aether. Instead he was crippled, lessened, and bound to a new home in the fortress and a new purpose; defending the city and its rulers. Later, less skillful, princes altered the binding, making him responsible for most crime and punishment and hoping that his sacred nature would make the native dwarves and goliaths more obedient. 

    Vrocdruk is still crippled, still bound to the prison, still forced to obey the orders of the city’s acclaimed ruler, and still extremely unhappy about it. He takes any excuse to work out his unhappiness on criminals or troublemakers with the incredible bad luck to catch his direct attention. His wardens largely follow his example, often acting less like agents of justice and more like a particularly well armed gang - to the point of semi-officially collecting fees for ‘security’ from nearby businesses, supplementing the cash extorted from prisoners and their families for both necessities and luxuries while incarcerated.

Sootcliff

Trailing south of Foundrytown, on and under the steep slope beneath the city’s western walls, the densely packed tenements of Sootcliff are certainly stained grey enough to earn the name. Existing primarily as a source of blood and sweat to feed into the ever-hungry foundries and assembly lines to the north, The buildings are cheap, massive, and constructed at the lowest possible cost, with all the consequences you would expect from that. With easy access to weapons and alchemical supplies from Foundrytown and (literally) beneath the notice of the Old City, Sootcliff is famous as the home of militant bands, revolutionary conspiracies, disgraced artificers, and generally anyone who has a dream for a new world and a plan that will require a lot of explosions to get there. 

Faction of Note: The Painted Doctors

    Less a single organization and more an extraordinarily loose confederation of - often feuding - crimelords, the Painted Doctors are a fraternity of (largely half- or self-) taught alchemists who have over the last year grown to be the dominant criminal guild in Sootcliff. The name sometimes refers to the incredibly distinctive tattoos each ‘Doctor’ has covering much of their body, universally agreed to be somehow enchanted or cursed. Otherwise it refers to the incredibly alien and vibrant skin tones that their test subjects and muscle develop after repeatedly ingesting their ‘miraculous’ potions and tonics. 

    While possessing remarkably little actual magical talent among them, the Doctors have perfected the recipes for several extremely useful potions - several incredibly addictive drugs, a half dozen forms of acids and grenades, and a dizzying variety of enhancing tonics to improve themselves and distribute to their thugs - and have managed to keep both the recipes and their sources for the necessary reagents entirely secret. This has left them in the enviable position of being able to promise anyone signing on with them that they’ll be able to more or less become a regenerating ogre for an hour whenever they need to fight, while their opposition has had to settle with advising their men to stock up on fire and acid. 

    The leading light of the Doctors is one ‘Dr’ Fadre - almost certainly not his real name - an alchemical savant whose ‘miracle cures’ are bought and resold across the city. A flashy and well dressed sort whose patronage has turned several of Sootcliff’s most prominent dens of vice into something close to palaces for those who can afford it, he’s said to be far less interested in the nuts and bolts of running a criminal empire than enjoying its fruits and indulging his passion for the Sciences. It doesn’t hurt his reputation that he doesn’t look a day over thirty, and has for as long as anyone has known him. 

Chance

Facing Oldport from across the river’s mouth, the docks of Chance are significantly new, cheaper, and altogether more ramshackle. Not really a part of any conscious design, Chance grew organically as the city sprawled beyond its original walls, essentially smuggling docks so successful it was easier to legitimize and start taxing them than it was to hang everyone involved. They now provide the city with a constant infusion of nerdowells and fortune seekers, and the district around them takes great pride in fleecing new arrivals of every penny to their name by the end of their first night on land. Hostels and boarding houses are usually safe, traditional vice dealers less so, and anyone selling treasure maps or magical amulets not at all. Still, they’re probably more harmless than the various mercenary recruiters and ‘exiled princes’ promising to give new arrivals exactly the thrill and fortune they came searching for. 

Faction of Note: The Red Ocean Trading Company

    What is now the Red Ocean Trading Company has gone through several dramatic changes over it’s eighty years of existence. First a privateer fleet hired by the Free City of Celmy during the First Armada War. Then eventually growing strong enough to seize several islands as an independent pirate state, before being crushed by the Esheri Navy during the Second Armada War. It’s remnants learned a bit of humility from that, and it is now seemingly content with its existence as either (depending on who you ask) a obscenely profitable shipping firm, or one of the most widespread criminal syndicates in the world. 

The Company’s significant interests in Sethennai - nearly half the docks in Chance, guides and guards for anyone heading into the Interior, and fingers in quite a few less legitimate pies as well - are ably represented by Captain Arun Prem, a(n in)famous adventurer and scoundrel in his own right, apparently enjoying his semi-retirement behind a desk by getting outrageously drunk with his favorite mercenaries and criminals every night and swapping incredible (and implausible) old war stories. 

There’s plenty of rumors, of course - that he’s here in de facto exile after angering the Company’s mysterious senior leadership. That he’s a thousand-year-old vampire and is the Company’s mysterious senior leadership. That he ate a kraken’s heart, and is immortal as long as he doesn’t lose sight of the water. That he’s biding his time to prepare an army before heading inland to carve a new kingdom for himself. That he’s only in the city for as long as it takes to carry out some truly spectacular heist. That he killed Prince Cael in a secret duel and trapped his soul in the pocketwatch he wears at all times. And so on. Of course, other rumours say that he started all of those himself to preserve his mystique as he grows fat in his old age.

Oldport

Facing out to the harbour but safely ensconced within the city walls, Oldpot is, as the name implies, one of the oldest ports in the new world - and certainly one of the busiest. Fully loaded merchant ships arrive daily, their cargoes emptied and replaced with the plunder of the New World almost overnight so they can return home on the next turn of the wind. Beyond the grand ports themselves, this district is home to all the most respectable shipping companies, merchant banks, hotels, and townhouses and apartments, as well as all the official consulates and embassies that Sethennai plays host to. 

Faction of Note: First Bank of Sethennai

    Despite only being as old as Prince Cael’s reign, the Bank already feels like an eternal and irreplaceable part of Sethennai. This isn’t something people are necessarily happy about, but its leadership had done a truly amazing job at keeping dissent to grumbling and resentment of the inevitable, and not actual resistance. They’re good at that sort of thing, even when they used Prince Cael’s (and, thus, the City’s) massive debts to his foreign benefactors as justification for taking control of the city’s tariffs and tolls, and began rigorously enforcing them, possibly for the first time ever. 

    Combined with a legal monopoly on the ability to mint coins, this has of course made the Bank incredibly wealthy. But not to the degree that might be assumed - the riches collected are to a large degree shipped back east to foreign creditors. Of the remaining, quite a bit is invested with as much an eye for politics as strict profit. 

    Executive Director Salman Ticaret, like most of his staff, is a Sethennai native who sought education in the Commonwealth (like most, he took a new name on gaining citizenship). Along with modern accounting and investing techniques, he came home with a firm grasp of political economy - and so for the last decade and a half has been more than happy to offer favorable rates to well positioned patrician and merchant houses, in exchange for their own favors and consideration in turn. The result is that the bank’s marble halls and adamant vaults house information as much as money. And Ticaret is perfectly willing to invest both, if the opportunity is promising enough. 

Foreign Interests

The League of Free Cities

The League of Free Cities is not so much a single power as a collection of fiercely independent deomcratic city-states held together by the intertwined private empires of their leading citizens, deep and interdependent trading relationships, and a common religion that the rest of the world calls demon-worship - they view this as deeply offensive. Also they’ve been doing it for hundreds of years and they’re not all dead yet, so clearly everyone else is just doing demonology wrong. Politics are a mess of knives in the dark and openly bribing the voting populace with feasts and spectacles, with glory and riches to anyone who can hold the mob’s favor for long. 

Demonic evocation - and the arts learned as a result of it, like fleshweaving, orienomarchy , breaking reality down into elemental chaos and shaping it to your whims, and so on - are in the rest of the world generally met with very thorough execution, making the freethinkers of the League the world’s bleeding edge in magical innovation. The entire culture of the League is also nearly custom-made to produce bold idiots willing to do what it takes to get rich or die trying, and the various Free City’s Adventurers Guilds are (in)famous the world over. 

Until recently, the Free Cities considered Sethennai, if not one of them, then at least a younger sibling or benevolent dependency. Prince Cael’s coup has been taken as something of a wound, and the merchant interests who have lost out as he opened trade have made sure that in the decades since his name has become synonymous with bloody-handed tyranny. The first broadsheets celebrating his death will sell out in moments, and the acclaimed merchant adventurer Vyas Asraya, said to be en route to the city, is said to be very optimistic about future trading opportunities. 

Holy Illyric Empire

Technically speaking a vast and sprawling feudal state unified only in the person of the Sovereign (Empress of Illyrin, Queen of Belthaya, Defender of the Hierophant of Imir, Grand Duchess of Abhari, etc, and so on, and so forth), the Empire dominates the better part of two continents, and in terms of size and prestige is unquestionably the foremost state on the globe. It is also a bureaucrat’s nightmare, its aristocracy distracted from their internal feuds only when they need to defend their ancestral rights from central overreach. 

Ancient controls and long established relationships make Imperial binders the most fearsome conjurers and thaumaturges in the known world, a process not at all hurt by the wholesale incorporation of any powerful spirits or terrestrial god who will sign on the dotted line into the official pantheon. Illyrin Paladins are also easily the most storied heavy cavalry the world has ever seen, and Abharic necromancers are generally held to be the heirs (or direct pupils) of the inventors of the craft. 

Illyric interests have prospered under Prince Cael’s reign, but the last years have seen Sethennai become a haven for heretical priests and radical binders, something Ambassador Konrad Reingard has been rumored to be increasingly frustrated with, though no one heard a word from his Oldport estate since the chaos began.

The Sublime Esheri Commonwealth

A thoroughly modern and enlightened state, the Commonwealth is history’s gift to the cartographer, an empire with firmly delineated borders and clear, rationally determined administrative divisions. Governed by a Janissary Corps educated and conditioned from childhood to put principle above self interest and the good of the Commonwealth above friends or (nonexistent) family, the Esheri control far less land than the Illyrin Empire, but has been able to fight it to a standstill and even force it to abandon certain far flung dependencies over a series of wars across the last century. 

Beyond a ruthlessly efficient system for taxation and conscription, the Commonwealth’s military might is credited to two sources - on the one hand, its marines are the finest and most disciplined line infantry anyone is likely to ever see, experts in the use of gas and artillery and famously cool under fire. One the other, their heavy automata are an answer to any conjured devil or bound beast, enlightened clockwork providing enough force to cleave through scales and enchanted plate without missing a beat. But the Janissaries are as happy as their enemies to admit that they prefer unfair fights - though they credit their infamous spy network to the fruits of their scientific studies of society and history, while their enemies instead blame the corrupting effects of gold, blackmail, and a complete indifference to the morals of those they work with. 

While the Commonwealth does have an embassy in the city, it mostly exists as an appendage of the First Sethennai Bank, the private institution responsible for printing and guarding the solvency of the city’s currency, its entire upper rung staffed by experts trained in the Commonwealth and generally considered Prince Cael’s way of paying back their support for his coup. More recently, it has been rumored that the Secretariat has taken an interest in the struggles in the interior. Coincidentally, an ‘Academic’ has been seen floating around various less than reputable bars in Chance, ostensibly as part of a project to record the city’s myths and folklore. 

The Warlord States

For the last two hundred years, the interior has been an evershifting patchwork of successor kingdoms, native revolts, monstrous empires, released horrors, and stranger things besides, the unending tide of weapons and adventurers ensuring that no single player was ever able to secure dominance (and the various rulers of Sethennai have certainly played their part in keeping things that way). At the moment the foremost powers are a giantblooded kingdom led by a messaniac priest-king claiming to be the reincarnation of a Titan, a personal union enforced at sword point between a Khasli pirate queen and a goliath ‘emperor’, a red dragon who has claimed an old giant palace and forced the dwarves living in the mountains around it to provide tribute and worship, and several dozen more minor principalities. It should go without saying that war is the natural state of being, and soldiers are sucked up like ships in a whirlpool.

Adventurers are the lifeblood of Sethennai, and they don’t only flow one way. A constant stream of veterans - either enriched or embittered - skulk, limp or run back once they’ve had their fill of the wonders of the new world, usually missing something important or carrying something priceless - sometimes both. The courts and inner circles of every powerful warlord are composed exclusively of this sort of hard, tricky and generally insufferable type of rogue, and they’re often the only agents trusted enough to be dispatched on delicate missions. The line between warlord and criminal kingpin or pirate magnate is also extremely thin - sometimes nonexistent - as smuggling, sabotage and assassinations are simply basic tools of statecraft in the ruthless arena of the interior. More than once, an ambitious Prince of Sethennai has attempted to recreate their ancestor’s short lived empire, only to be found butchered in their bed but the agents of one warlord or another.

The Warlord States view Sethennai as a vital artery for supplies and funding, and for manpower to refill their armies with disposable bodies for their constant border wars. On a grander scale, those with ambition view it as either a crown jewel and future capital, or a bleeding ulcer on the land which needs to be razed to its foundations. In either case, few are interested in a strong, stable government for it. Regardless of their opinions, sending emissaries and embassies to the city is the first (and often only) diplomatic initiative of every new warlord state - though in truth their role is often closer to mercenary recruiter and fundraiser.

[punkyflesh]

Are you willing to do Miss nettle x reader x cedric dating headcannons? Like a love triangle thingy. I love them both so much and there's never even miss nettle x reader anywhere ones I've requested myself 😭😭

ohmygod, i can certainly try! i can't say i've ever wrote anything polygamy of sorts, but i can definitely write up some headcanons for you <3

cedric x reader x miss nettle: headcanons

i imagine that you and cedric would be in a relationship before anything else

you and that man had an amazing bond, and he'd cherish you like anything else. the two of you would have a stable relationship that had lasted just over a year now

you had never expected to fall for anyone else until you saw her — her gleaming grin, soft ginger hair and charming personality was what really got you. better yet, she seemed to be interested in you too?

at first you'd start ridiculing yourself, pushing the thought away. you loved cedric, right? so why did you feel this strongly for this woman and...and him? you'd try to ignore it for the first few weeks

until those weeks began to increase and you couldn't get her off your mind

cedric instantly knew something was up with you, he had known you long enough to recognise any signs of distress

it dawned on you that this was something that needed to be discussed with cedric, as it wasn't just going to vanish

cedric was...not too happy with the conversation. obviously, he wasn't mad, but more disappointed. from the years he had been taunted and bullied, it had left him with quite an insecure state of mind

was it him? have you fallen out of love with him? had he done something?

you'd soon burst into tears with the stress and overwhelming nature of the situation, causing cedric to immediately go to comforting you, sliding his slender arms around your shoulders and pulling you into the soothing scent of smoke and books on his robe

through your sniffles and watery words, you had managed to tell cedric that you still adored him and that you were so pent up about these feelings

he'd encourage you to open up more about who exactly it was — he had grown up into the kingdom and castle and was bound to know the person who had captured your eye

but he was surprised to learn that it was miss nettle

he himself had recognised her beauty and enchanted aura to her sarcastic tone of language the first time he had been a substitute at royal prep, she was the enchanted gardener teacher

cedric could see where you were coming from and gulped slightly, working around the situation

"Well...we could perhaps seek a solution to this situation, my dear?"

you were surprised at cedric's suggestion of a polygamy relationship involving the three of them — you didn't think that it would be something he'd be happy in participating in, but would eagerly nod your head and entrap him in a loving hug

the first few days of the relationship were mainly you guys figuring out the ropes

i picture miss nettle as someone who has had experience in relationships like this, with both girl and boy, so would naturally become the ringleader

she'd never expect herself to be romantically interested in the royal sorcerer, but the awkward way he presented himself was adorable to her

don't even get her started on you — you were the most beautiful being in enchancia, she couldn't believe how lucky she was to have both you and cedric

cedric was admittingly a bit jealous within the weeks the relationship had begun, and needed quite a lot of reassurance from you

he surprisingly found a lot of comfort in miss nettle, who understood the difficulties of the transition and helped him to adjust as much as possible

it's safe to say that the jealousy issue soon disappeared

miss nettle would for sure bring you and cedric beautiful bouquets of flowers — and cedric would put them in little vases around his workshop

cuddles as a group would be the BEST — cedric, being the tall and lanky man he is, would adore all the attention from his girls. your favourite position was curled around his arm and snuggled into his shoulder as he laid his head onto yours. miss nettle, as she is rather short, would find ways to snuggle in the middle of you two, creating a comforting and comfortable huddle

she'd also love to stroke yours and cedric's hair: she'd be fascinated by the textures and love how relaxing it would be for you two

this would mean that a lot of days spent where cedric would have to complete duties for the king or brew important potions would equal a lot of snuggles with you and miss nettle

your bodies would intertwine like an ivy plant as she'd talk about various types of magical plant to you, you'd listen passionately

you appreciated the company— when cedric was busy, it often got lonely in the tower, and cedric adored coming back and seeing you both all nestled up

when he's had a bad day, cedric's favourite thing would be to come back to you and miss nettle and just let himself be showered in appreciation and praise

overall, your relationship would be very strong between everyone involved and share a lot of love <3

[stefciastark]

Heir to Stark Industries ~Webpril Day 28

A/N: Tony thinks long and hard about the future of Stark Industries. He didn't think the answer would be standing right in front of him. I had to write this one a bit more quickly than the last ones because life loves to get in the way. I hope you enjoy this one :) x Only two more left to go!

~Read it on AO3

~Read it on FFN

“Could you please pass me the spanner, Mr Stark?”

Not moments after Peter asked for it, Tony let it fall into Peter’s open hand with a thwap.

“Thanks.”

“No problem, kiddo.”

“Almost...done….” Peter’s words were punctuated by harsh twists of the tool in his hands, securing the last of the nuts and bolts in place.

“Let’s do a quick power test, shall we?” Tony called from over by the interface beside the project.

Peter scampered over to where Tony stood and tried to wipe the grin off of his face and keep his excitement at bay. The last eight attempts had failed to even power it on without something short-circuiting, so even if movement wasn’t on the cards, something was better than nothing.

“Your call, boss.” Tony took a step back, giving Peter access to the button that would mark their ninth trial.

“Here goes nothing.” Peter tapped the button rimmed in electric blue and watched as the laboratory lights dimmed. At first, Peter had thought that it was to conserve power, but it was later revealed to be for dramatic effect - of course it was.

The sound of a soft jet engine slowly crescendoed as the electricity travelled through a thick tubed wire that ran into the hip joint of the contraption. Just over thirty seconds after the trial began, it ended in a shower of sparks and Tony leaping for the button that said ‘OFF’ in large capital letters. Peter sighed, glad that he took his own advice and hadn’t gotten his hopes up.

Resisting the urge to swear in a way that would make Tony proud or kick the nearby stool across the room like a child, he leaned over the workshop table, and puffed air out through his cheeks before burying his head in his hands.

“How do you even do stuff like this, Mr Stark?”

Tony clapped a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I kinda grew up with the whole ‘tech genius’ thing. I had my dad pummelling mathematics and robotics into me before I even knew how to walk. I’m pretty sure I knew advanced calculus before I knew how to wipe.” Tony chuckled humourlessly. “Other than that, he was cold and shrewd. Then came MIT - much like you - and then lots of trial and error.”

Peter looked over at the table where his droid of sorts lay lifeless and cold. Not like it wouldn’t be lifeless and cold once it was able to hold power for more than half a minute, but there was something about watching a creative endeavour come to life and become an entity of its own that made it seem so...alive. Peter was beginning to understand how Tony must have felt when he first designed the Iron Man suits.

After his first year at M.I.T had drawn to a close, Peter had travelled back down to New York during the summer break. He had a pet project he’d wanted to pursue for years but only recently manifested the courage and redeemable points with Tony to ask for his mentor’s help.

Years of watching footage and seeing the Iron Legion in action inspired Peter to want to have one of his own flying amongst them. While the second iteration of the Iron Legion were destroyed after Ultron, Tony had begun reconstructing the battalion of sorts in Peter’s last year of highs school. So, it was with a surprising amount of enthusiasm - Peter expected approval under sufferance - that Tony happily agreed to help Peter make his mark amongst the androids.

Peter also made the decision - he hadn’t decided whether or not that was a mistake - to refuse any solutions from Tony. Peter spent some time studying the Legion and the complexity of them daunted him. Which is why, with stubbornness Peter was sure he picked up from Tony, he wanted to figure it out on his and be able to say: “This was all me.” Well...it wouldn’t be all him...maybe ninety percent him.

When Peter didn’t respond, Tony probed, “Sure you don’t want me to make a few tweaks?”

“No!” Peter responded with a volume he didn’t intend. “Sorry, no...I’m just,” Peter groaned, a frustrated sound that Tony knew all too well, although he had learned to confine the screaming to a small locked box deep inside his brain. Peter didn’t quite finish his sentence, lost for words while his mind raced to come up with an alternative solution to the power problem his droid was facing.

The eyes that stared back at Peter were dark, and it felt strange to him to look at something that looked just like him in those moments when he stopped being Peter Parker and became Spiderman.

“I get it,” Tony said, an almost wistful smile playing at the corners of his lips. There was no question that Tony loved tinkering in the labs and creating and just being Tony. But, and Tony hated thinking about the ‘but’, it was coming time for him to think about retirement. He couldn’t be Iron Man forever, nor could he be the head of Stark Industries forever.

Tony had thought long and hard about the future of Stark Industries. Pepper had said she wanted to retire when he did, and no matter how much they’d bickered and argued over it, Tony ceded. And, after some thought, Tony understood why; Tony was the paintbrush and canvas and Pepper was the splashes of bright and beautiful colour. They needed each other to make art, even if that was retiring in a lakeside cabin.

Then he’d thought about Morgan, but she was far too young, even by the time they took a backseat from it all.

“Oh my god, wait a sec!” Tony jumped slightly, caught off guard when Peter all but leaped off the ground, passion oozing out of him in waves.

Sprinting over to the droid once more, Peter worked quickly, loosening the fasteners and rerouting various wires that sat at its core. Tony watched as Peter sprinted towards a stack of crates at the back of the room that housed the latest batch of miniature arc reactors.

“Can I?” Peter gestured towards the box at the front. Tony nodded and Peter grinned.

Already three out of the fifteen reactors had been taken out, Tony having used them to power some of Peter’s latest upgrades to his suit.

Darting back to his work, Peter crafted and developed a home for the small reactor right where the droid’s heart would be, had it been capable of having one.

Tony had long since taken a seat on the lounges behind the work stations, sipping out of a mug that read ‘#1 Dad’ in large print and reading through the latest industry headlines on his tablet.

“Ready for attempt ten, Mr Stark?” Peter was basically vibrating where he stood. He had a good feeling about this one.

“Fire away, kid.”

Tony watched as Peter pressed the power button once more, and saw the faint glow that lit up Peter’s smile. The kid had done it.

As the android progressively lit up from top to bottom, a soft hum filling the room, Tony kicked himself mentally for not thinking of it before. He almost saw Peter for the first time; not just as a brilliant kid who was going to go places, not just as one of the greatest heroes of his age.

The heir to Stark Industries.

[pepsi-beat]

chapter 1. the prey

pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

series title: The Way

word count: 2,8K

warnings: angst maybe?, The Mandalorian s2 finale spoilers, canon typical violence, blood and injuries, 3rd person pov, Din Djarin pov, lack of “Y/N”, reader is called “Girl”, amnesia, reader's species is unknown, a little ooc Din Djarin

summary: Greef Karga assured him it was an easy job. Find a woman. Get her to the husband she ran away from. And that's it. But... not exactly.

a/n: Hello there! I’m pretty new when it comes to writing and publishing here. I hope you like what I have for you. I write it so I could get away from my uni responsibilities. I don’t know if I can finish this, but I really liked idea. So we will see.

Chapter 1

THE PREY

Naboo. A sparsely populated planet located in the Mid Rim in the Chommell sector of the Naboo system. Occupied the third position in the system, provides a standard gravity and breathable atmosphere. It had three moons.

Naboo was known for its natural and cultural values. The inhabitants were famous for their beautiful, perfectly refined products that made an impression throughout the galaxy. People did well here, the place has always seemed completely cut off from the rest of the Galaxy. Slow, free, peaceful.

Din wasn’t used to chasing his victims in places like Naboo. Usually he had to wade through the Outer Rim Territories. Through inhospitable and harsh planets, where survival required quite a bit of cunning or a deep pocket stuffed with credits.

He landed a Dragonfly on a meadow covered with lush green grass and colorful flowers. He turned off the engines, put the computer to it hibernate mode, then he turned with a soft sigh to the co-pilot's seat. His heart tightened with fear as he found it empty. But before he could jump up from his seat and start searching, he painfully remembered that it didn't make sense. His throat tightened with regret, and he walked briskly through the cockpit and then through the hull to the stern, where he made his way out.

Two months have passed since the events on the Imperial cruiser. Two extremely long and surprisingly lonely months.

As the Jedi departed, taking Grogu with him, Din had to deal with the issue of the Darksaber. Bo-Katan refused to take it and Din refused to keep it. Finally, they decided to duel. Bo-Katan chose a time and place – some deserted rocky planet. Din knew that if he had given up the fight, the Mandalorian woman would have been offended and wouldn’t have taken that damned saber. On the other hand, he was reluctant to fight the woman, but he quickly realized that all his fears were baseless.

Bo-Katan was highly trained warrior, so the fight was levelised. It took a long time, but in the end the woman fairly won, becoming the new ruler of Mandalore. Before they finally departed, she asked him one more time to join her.

Din refused, but promised that if she needed his help, he would come back. Then Boba Fett left him and Cara on Nevarro, where the marshal kept her word. She called for New Republic, who took Moff Gideon and Din received his prize. Credits. Lots of credits. Suddenly, he became so rich that he could easilly to buy a ship, weapons, and substitute the equipment he had lost with the Razor Crest. And he still has some left.

The Dragonfly was a good ship. Pre-Empire, but was still newer than Razor Crest. After many modifications and modernizations, it could easily compete with newer models. Unlike the Crest, it was much more slender and more agile. The Dragonfly was oblong with a tiny but comfortable kitchenette, refresher, workshop, small armory, several bunks, couches, and a lot of space. The Dragonfly had so much space that Din was uncomfortable. However, he bought this ship, because of all the trouble Cara had gone to find it.

Then, he went back to work as a bounty hunter. He felt that he had to fill the void in his heart with something and returning to hunting seemed to be the best solution in his situation.

Of course, Din visited his tribe's old hideout, but found only useless equipment. The Armorer had left Nevarro some time ago and Din had no idea where she might have gone. So he promised to himself, he would find another Mandalorian’s hideout, but it was easier said than done. Especially after the long time he spent on the run with Grogu.

Din put the beskar spear in its place and returned to the hull. He reached for the control panel, the durasteel door swung open and the platform touched the ground.

Naboo was… different. Brighter, happier, more vivid than any other planet he had ever seen. The colors were more intense, the sun was warmer, the wind was kinder and gentler and the animals were fearless as if they never met a human before and never been hurt by their hands. Naboo was so different that he wanted to take off his helmet and take a deep breath. Get some fresh air, not the air he was breathing through the filters.

Din checked the tracker, the last coordinates of his target and compared it with his current position.

It didn't take long. An hour, maybe two. During this time, he managed to find the X-Wing with which his target had undoubtedly arrived. It was good news. The bad news was that there was another ship in the meadow besides the X-Wing. Din didn't recognize it, but he knew who it belongs anyway. To another bounty hunter. And that was bad news.

He analyzed the footprints. Those belonging to the target were a bit older, unlike those belonging to the bounty hunter.

Blaster shots. Female screams. Din's body reacted instinctively. In one quick move he pulled the blaster from his belt, then ran where the sounds were coming from. The direction coincided with the footprints.

He ran between the trees. The shots stopped, but the closer he got, the better he could hear the conversation. He distinguished between the frightened woman speaking in the basic and the squawk of a Rodian. Finally Din ran into a small clearing. He froze with a blaster aimed at the Rodian when the bounty hunter spotted him and shouted in Rodese.

"Calm down" said Din. ”I'm in the Guild.”

Suca Chodasso, the target by which Din had ventured as far as Naboo, knelt weeping among flowers. She was holding another woman's body in her arms, pressing her face against the hollow of her own neck. The target threaded herfingers into the deceased's disheveled hair. After each sentence she spoke, her mouth touched the top of the girl’s head.

The Rodian said something in Rodese again, but this time he was addressing Suca Chodasso. But he was so nervous that Din found it hard to understand him.

"I have nothing! I didn't steal anything! " Suca called back. Her voice was trembling and her hands were shaking.

It was uncomfortable situation. He tracked down his target, used a lot of fuel to reach Naboo and yet he wasn't the first. There were such situations, but he was still upset that someone else had received the puck.

As the Rodian addressed him urgently, Din sighed so softly that the vocoder couldn’t register it. He nodded, but his eyes went to the crying Suca. She must have felt his gaze as she tore her eyes away from her companion's face and turned her head toward him. Her eyes seemed to be begging him to do something, but Din's hands were tied.

He turned on his heel as there was a soft moan. Din stopped and looked over his shoulder. The girl he had considered to be dead before, moved slightly. She slowly raised one of her limp hands and touched her temples with her fingers. Suca Chodasso looked at her in horror. She leaned in slightly, possibly saying something in her companion's ear, but Din's attention was absorbed by the Radian's next words.

"Leave her! She has nothing to do with it! " Suca sobbed. She bent over the girl, covering her with her body as the Rodian was about to shoot.

Din's blaster smoked slightly as the Rodian's body fell onto the grass. The Mandalorian turned to the huddled women, but he already knew he was late.

Due to Suca's position, when she shielded her companion, the laser pierced the top of her head, passed through her neck and spine. Her body lay pitifully with a smoky, nasty wound that made even Din grimace.

Quick, shallow breaths, which the Mandalorian recognized as signs of an impending panic attack, brought him back. He walked over to Suca Chodasso's body and pushed her unceremoniously aside.

"Easy now," he said. "Take it easy, girl."

The girl didn't even look at him. Her wide eyes stared at the sky. She was gasping for air through her mouth in gusts like someone who was choking. Her face and chest were stained with red blood stains.

Din frowned at the large gash on the girl's temple and the bullet hole on her arm. Right above the heart. The blood that flowed from the wounds was very thick, silver and pearly.

"You’re safe now."

The girl stopped breathing. She froze in an unnatural stillness that worried Din, but as soon as his hand touched her shoulder, she moved again. The girl closed her mouth and eyes and began to breathe calmly. Very calmly. Way too slow.

"Girl?"

"Who are you?"

She looked at him… weirdly. Din couldn't tell what it was, but something was clearly wrong with her. She had pretty eyes, but at the same time they were cold, as if they belonged to a dead man.

The Mandalorian stepped back a bit. He helped the girl get to a sitting position, but he didn't say a word as she looked around. Din flexed all his muscles in preparation for what was to come. He expected screams, crying, and accusations. He had expected the girl to panic, attack him, but she… was calm.

She looked at the dead Suca Chodasso for a long time. She touched her face, then ran her fingers over her own temple as if looking for something there. But she found nothing. Even her wound was on the other side of her face.

"Girl?"

She looked reluctantly at Din. The bounty hunter held out three fingers.

"How many fingers do you see?"

"Three."

He repeated the test two more times and the girl answered well each time.

"What's your name?"

Girl opened her mouth, but said nothing. Only then did panic spread across her face.

She looked at something over Din's shoulder, but before the Mandalorian could say anything, he was thrown to the ground. He heard the sound of a blaster laser hitting a durasteel, so he rolled over, picked up his gun and aimed it. He aimed blindly at first, but as another shot bounced off his chestplate, he knew where to shoot. After a moment, he heard a heavy body fall to the ground, so he rose to his feet.

The girl groaned in pain or surprise. Din looked at her and saw her hand tighten on her arm, more of this weird thick silver blood leaking from between her fingers.

"Wait here," he said. Before the girl could reply, Din was already on his way to the shooting direction.

It was another bounty hunter. Din found the tracker in his pocket. Useless because the target was already dead. But still. The tracker.

The Mandalorian frowned. It was also suspicious. Greef Karga assured him it was an easy job. Find a woman. Get her to the husband she ran away from. And that's it. Even the prize offered for her screamed an easy going.

Din wasn’t interested in why Suca Chodasso was escaping at all, and he never thought about it. Only looking at his target holding this girl in her arms made begin to wonder if it was some kind of scandalous romance. He was willing to believe it.

If it werent for the Rodian's allegations or for the third bounty hunter. Another puck. Another tracker.

He had seen it once before. When he had pledged to track down Grog some time ago and then had bounty hunters on his tail. When he got involved in the affairs of the Jedi and the Empire. He was done. He didn't want to play it again, so a part of him was even glad that the target was no longer alive.

He trow the tracker away, then returned to the girl. She sat curled up where he had left her. Her face in her hands. She sobbed, shook. Hearing his footsteps, she sobbed a little softer, as if she was holding back. Then she wiped the tears with her hands, but that only smeared her silver blood over her skin. She watched as Din knelt beside her and reached a hand to her injured arm.

She must have been hit when she threw Din to the ground. She saved him even though she didn't have to.

"You're hurt…”

"I don't know who I am," she whispered at the same moment. There were even more tears in her eyes. Wide with fear. "I-I don't know. I don’t know. Who am I? My mind is blank.”

She gasped like a wounded animal and hid her face in her hands again. Din could only watch her silently and wonder.

Was she lying to protect herself? Did she know something about the Rodian's allegations, even though Suca Chodasso had clearly stated in her last words that it had nothing to do with her? So why was she protecting him from the shot, then? Wouldn't it have been better for her if Din had died?

Or maybe she really didn't remember? She had been hurt in the head, but it was just a scratch. Not life threatening and certainly not the cause of memory loss. On the other hand, Din knew that people fell ill. He was aware that some of the weak psyche displace more painful events from their memories. But…

He could only watch, bewildered, until he painfully realized the gravity of the situation he was in.

If there were three trackers, there could be more. More bounty hunters might be on the way.

He sighed heavily. He reached for the cape and touched with it the wound on the girl’s head. She jumped back and Din held his hands out in front of him as a sign of peace.

"You're hurt. I want to wipe your blood and see if it's serious.”

But the girl wouldn't let him. She grabbed his hands and squeezed tight. Din wouldn't expect such strength from her.

"Tell me ... W-Who am I? Who is she? Why is she d-dead? Who are you? A-Are you okay? Does anything hurt you? You were shot! Stars! Why were you being shot at?”

Din blinked quickly. He knew his face showed shock and disbelief, which was why he was so grateful for the helmet he had to wear.

"They didn't shoot at me," he said finally, when the girl's insistent gaze became unbearable. "You were.”

"M-Me?” She whispered, her voice breaking.

She released Din's hands and began to back away until she found Suca Chodasso's body. She started to breathe spasmodically, but Din didn't have time for that. He got up. He glanced at Suca Chodasso, thought for a moment what he should do and then walked toward his ship.

"Wait!" The panicked girl exclaimed. "Don’t leave me! Please!”

"I'm done with babysitting.”

"Please!”

Something in her voice made Din suddenly believe her. He stopped. Turned slowly until he came face her. She seemed lost, scared… As if she really didn't know what was going on.

Maybe she was just a victim? Maybe she was an ordinary inhabitant of Naboo and Suca Chodasso met her by chance? Maybe she asked for help and this poor girl agreed to help, not knowing what she write on? Maybe she really didn't know who she was? She was shocked. Suddenly she found herself in the middle of a shootout between three bounty hunters. Din could believe it was too much for her.

He made a decision.

He walked over to the girl and held out his hand. She stared at him with terrified eyes, but didn't hesitate. Din helped her up from the grass, then walked over to Suca Chodasso's body, which he slung over his shoulder. Then he began to head towards the ship again.

"Why… Why are you taking her?” The girl asked with panic in her voice.

Din suppressed a sigh.

"She's wanted. Alive or dead, you will receive a reward for her head.”

"Me?”

This time Din sighed loudly. He wasn't happy with the fact that he had to explain himself.

"I don't know what you remember about what happened. But I didn't get her. The bounty hunter who tracked her down is dead. You probably know her, so you will get money as compensation.”

It was cruel. Din knew this, but he had no idea what else to do. So far, this seemed to be the best solution.

He really couldn't take the money for Suca Chodasso. It wouldn't be fair, so he might as well give it to the girl who was definitely the first to deal with the target. And if she ever remembers that she knew her… well. Din hoped to be very far away from the girl then.

The girl fell silent. She really didn't make any sounds. She moved noiselessly, causing Din to keep checking to see if she was following him. But she was there. She walked, wrapping her arms around herself, staring at the toes of her shoes. She was dirty, beaten, wounded. She looked pathetic.

And to think that he should have learned long time ago to not take seemingly easy jobs. They are the most problematic ones.

[boop-le-snoot]

PARTY FAVOURS | THE EMPEROR INTERLUDE

First time reader click here

A look on the relationship from Tony Stark's eyes. Should give you an insight as to how his character growth was plotted - that's hard to see through a first person POV so I came and delivered the "whys" behind his behaviour.

He felt the restless thrumming of the arc reactor between his ribs.

It was the first thing that drew focus of his mind as the situation at hand began to make sense. He was a clever man - the genius in him wasn't just for the academics; sure, he'd revolutionised the world once or twice or three times over the past ten years, but when it came to the rather delicate matters of the heart, he was as clueless as when he was a teenager.

The difference between then and now was only that he knew when to keep his mouth shut. It didn't matter how many poisonous articles the media sharks spewed out, he didn't hesitate to silence and shut every single one of them without a word to the one that started it all.

She lived blissfully by his side. The papers took their worst: without a direct statement, they speculated and called him a cradle robber, a moralless skirt chaser, every name in the book. She wasn't spared too: despite her young age, her social standing and vulture of a mother, the occasional "opportunistic gold-digger" comment made it's way into the NYC socialite column. She never uttered a peep, never shed a tear or even complained and he was utterly fascinated by it.

The world she was living in was much different that the one he was used to. The younger generation used to confuse him but now it was just terrifying; amongst her peers, only the most bitter, jaded ones expressed their disdain towards the press speculations. He'd taken to scrolling through the comments of her social media to make sure she knew what she was getting into by having a relationship with him; the outcome was bizarre - he didn't expect a positive response whatsoever but there they were, people born in the beginning of a new millennia, excited for her, showing their support for the girl who already had made a name for herself in the scientific community.

Another surprise - she was full of them, each day was like opening presents on christmas morning. Banner had nearly turned green when he found out that the "papichulosatan" he was corresponding with on an invite-only biological sciences themed forum was actually a teenager - she had been 16 at the time. Apparently, the inhabitants of the entire planet Earth except for the residents of his tower knew that she was something... Something else.

Not a child, not quite a woman. She hadn't acquired that bittersweetness that Tony associated with women his own age, like Pepper and many more he'd tried to form a relationship with. His girl was pure of heart, clear of soul, but in a way that complimented her maturity. Ever since that fateful night he spent two hours running around the NYC's trendiest clubs just to find her sitting alone with a sense of pride rivaling his own, he couldn't stop thinking about her. She was always on his mind and it was terrifying.

It wasn't like she suddenly made his life entirely something else; rather than changing him, she quietly complimented him in a way that suited them both. They didn't really fight because there wasn't anything to fight about. Sure, they disagreed on things all the time, but the unspoken rule to not force something on one another stood. He learned that with Pepper and she- she seemed to be emotionally mature on her own.

That's what his therapist had said, anyway, surprising herself and him. It was evident that the woman thought, to some extent, that he had made her up. But the honeymoon period passed - and Bruce had joined them - and shit happened, but she still stood quietly by his side, not intruding into his personal space but offering him a shoulder to lean on whenever he needed it. Ever since that, Tony began to feel truly invincible. Not a single event in his life had made him feel this powerful.

She went and made friends with Loki, the unlikeliest of people, and she stood by him, too, seemingly a neverending readiness to tear anyone, who dared to make a negative remark about him, limb from limb. Knowingly or not, she had patched the hole in the team - a gaping, bleeding one, of mistrust and unnecessary cautiousness, and continued to do so every single day without a care in the world. Not just him, Tony Stark, but all of the Avengers were invincible with a back-up like that.

Realistically, Tony knew they still had ways to go. They were begrudging friends at first but now the bonds strengthened; even as his disregard for Rogers lessened, the man himself was taking steps to control his impulsivity and temper. Tony hated that it had to be a teenager cowering in fear in front of Steve for the man to realise his good intentions didn't always get the best results. Tony was grateful to Loki he'd stepped in that time. While he didn't think Rogers would actually strike a woman, two hundred pounds of genetically engineered bulk of muscle towering and yelling over you was no less terrifying.

At least it started to turn gears in that steroid brain of his.

Everything after that seemed like a dream. Quiet and witty until provoked, his girl was insatiable for him in a way that matched his own hunger for her. It was never just sex with her, somehow, each time he was inside her it felt like revelations. They'd sit for hours, her in his lap, his half-hard cock buried deep inside her welcoming heat, sometimes working and sometimes just listening to each other's gentle breathing. All the love songs started to make sense.

Seeing Bruce, his second best friend and partner in crime, handle her like he did provoked an opposite reaction of what he was expecting of himself. Tony had been terrified of her leaving him, every single day, no matter how many times his ugly, rotten inside showed itself and she still accepted him; with time, the ache dulled, but it never fully went away.

Bruce put a gentle band-aid on it, unknowingly of course - the scientist was too busy taming his own demons to look out for Tony's - but he went to Tony and laid his cards out on the table. Not backing down and not being sorry for himself either, so neutral it made Tony's heart hurt. They both had come to an agreement, of course, but she went and shredded it and showed them fair and square that they both - all three of them - could get what they wanted only if they worked on themselves a little bit.

For the first time in their lives, the men were truly motivated. There was none of that manipulative undertone that Pepper liked to use on Tony - "you're an adult man, you should be doing and feeling this or that or I'll have to leave you" - there were just gentle hands and even gentler words and no expectations. One day at a time, every single one of them was learning, happily so.

And it wasn't until Natasha had ambushed him in his workshop that he realised, another one of many firsts, that this was what healthy love was supposed to be. There were no obligations, no covert contracts, not one thing that made the whole 'committment' shiding so toxic and terrifying.

Somehow, Natasha knew. "If you hurt her, that's on you. She won't run the first time, and the second time, it's going to be the straw that broke the camel's back... And I would pity you if that happens. Because people like her... They are dangerous when they are hurt. She would gut you like a pig."

Tony's ears were ringing; he wanted to laugh at the absurd thought of this understanding, kind human being acting maliciously. But all he could focus on was Natasha's choice of words: "If... If..." If, not when. Did the spy really think the three of them stood a chance?

Natasha had unceremoniously picked up and chugged his long-cold coffee, gracefully hopping up on the table. "You two are more alike than you think. Figured you'd be self-absorbed enough to choose a carbon copy of yourself," With that, the Russian left, leaving a gaping Tony to stare into the nearest wall. His brain registered it was a joke way too late, the fury that crawled up to burn his throat was cooled by disbelief. If Romanoff thought he was even half as kind and thoughtful as his girl, was it really an insult? Damn those puzzling Russian spies.

Bruce had come not much later, shaken and pale but not green, so deep in thought that he ran into lab equipment twice before ending up in the same place that was occupied by Romanoff minutes earlier. He muttered something about Loki and a pep-talk; things that sounded more like a discussion with his green side, so Tony left him alone.

The shift in Bruce's and Hulk's dynamic was visible to the naked eye ever since that long night in the lab where they both watched Peter and her working on something personal, perfect symbiosis, well-oiled scientific research machine, unlike themselves. Both of them choking on jealousy and acrid, ravenous envy, feelings too inappropriate but too obvious to conceal. Peter's crush on her was just as obvious and her disinterest was just as transparent. But the what-ifs had eaten at them both until they had to spew them out, and the Hulk had been the pushing force for them to begin to act like adults.

Hulk had proposed, in his limited vocabulary and much too passionate tone, to protect the puny Princess at all costs. Bruce didn't resist much and Tony jumped on the bandwagon as soon as he could. It was the only logical solution.

That's why Tony threw the party; he could not care less about Barnes' desire to see Rogers in something trashy and slutty on all Hallows Eve. He couldn't give any less fucks about the press that was raving for another Stark party. He did care a little about Strange's wounded ego: the man fascinated him, like any other strong-willed, independent character, but nothing more. Tony wanted to know what would make the sorcerer tick.

Tony wanted to give his baby girl the world.

And then, he failed.

Tony felt as if someone had poured a bucket of waste right over his head when his- their baby girl had come in, shaking and hiding behind a furious Loki and announced in a monotone voice that she'd been drugged. Something inside of him broke, snapped just like the pencil that Strange was holding next to him.

Bruce hulked out and Tony felt as if he himself would burst any second. His Princess was fearless, he knew it, yet couldn't help his heart from skipping a beat when she approached the green beast with the same kindness she treated all of her closest people. Tony didn't hesitate to follow the Hulk's orders, eager to channel the murderous rage and regretful anguish somewhere; it just spiraled out of hand. Once again, his head was underwater as his life spiraled further and further into lightless abyss and he was alone-

And then all of a sudden, he was warm. Not on the outside, but on the inside - the arms around his shoulders were comforting like an old, worn out sweater, familiar. Missing s couple of threads and spouting a couple of holes - imperfect, but utterly his. Her breathing steady but a little bit shaky, hands holding on just a little too tight.

You two are too much alike, he remembered Natasha's words. That was probably her way of showing just how scared she was. She could be as terrified of his reaction as of the person who did... That... To her. In his house. Tony wasn't stupid; he could put two and two together. That wasn't the time to mope or wallow in self-pity, it was the time to remove the foreseeable threat.

The team stood in silent agreement. A rare moment of absolute unity, all interpersonal issues pushed aside and locked away. Coulson's side-eye was of cosmic magnitude but nobody paid it any mind. It was very unlikely that even the agent himself would be able to stop Natasha and Clint from dealing with the guy; as more and more details came forward, the clouds in the room thickened.

Nobody batted an eye when Baby was, yet once again, the voice of reason and the operation Baby Thief began progressing forward smoothly. Tony reasoned what himself that letting her go with Strange was the best option - even the billionaire himself could not get a better combo than a sorcerer and a doctor that very day.

The box was retrieved; the mere presence ff it and the terse atmosphere it brought into the room reminded all of them too much of the Tesseract and it's effects. Loki was, perhaps, the worst of them all: pacing like an agitated animal, the god growled under his breath at his brother who was clouded with grief and worry. Tony found himself asking "what would Baby do" and came to a conclusion - nothing that wouldn't require him to step over his pride.

In the end, he conceded. A simple "Walk with me", but it was an obvious olive branch extended to Loki and the Asgardian knew it. He wasn't stupid enough to refuse a truce offering in a situation like that. They walked laps around the SHIELD base in neutral silence, slow steps, each lost in their respective thoughts but being finally able to breathe with a full chest. Thankfully, nobody made a remark that they both returned as soon as the box was secured and placed in temporary containment for Strange to pick it up.

For the second time in those 24 hours, Tony's arc reactor all but buzzed in response to his skyrocketing heart rate. She'd called - Loki's phone - and she sounded broken. All of them froze at the exhaustion in her voice; there was nothing but emptiness in the whispers. Nothing that made her, her.

The scene in front of them was something straight out of a B-rated horror movie. Tony thought Loki had reached the apex of his anger earlier; evidently, the engineer had been very wrong and godspeed to the people who managed to piss off the moody Asgardian. It appeared as his magic exploded out of him, all but knocking the people behind him into the walls of the Sanctum.

Their Baby, laying on the floor and the people who swore to protect her beside her, it set Tony's blood ablaze. It boiled, tipping the heat if his temper dangerously close to it's boiling point. She spoke to them, voice shaky and her own fire - it was burning at least as strong as his blood, something had happened and something had hurt her...

Belatedly, he realised Natasha had been right. She was dangerous. There was nothing of the sad, scared girl that came to Bruce whenever she had been upset; there was no desperation for validation, the very same she'd thought she hid well but it seeped through the cracks of her self-deprecating jokes.

Something... Or someone... Had threatened something vital to her. And she was going to make sure they never, ever get the chance to do that again.

I got a comment on AO3, where I also posted this, complimenting my world building. I took a moment to think about it and I understood that to make the story more saturated I had to include some of the other's POVs. So y'all can count on more of these. And if you feel like the x doctor Strange pairing isn't being fully explored - I am aware of that, it's going to be explored more. After all, it took us 10 chapters for Bruce and Tony respectively, and Stephen is a slightly more complicated man. That said, we'll have some more interactions with him shortly. Thank you for your continuous support, guys. I may not remember every single one of your nicknames my heart but I see the likes and I definitely notice whenever a new person binges on this fic. What originally started as an excuse to write hot boomer porn has now grown into something that's a whole damn book and that's because of you guys being so amazing. I love you all 3000.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit ​ @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby @cutenessloading @romeo-the-cactus @jelly-fishy-babie @mikariell95

[lov3nerdstuff]

Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 3.1}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student (however no underage romance), blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 4.9k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

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To be honest, Robin had been quite glad once her second year at Hogwarts had come to an end. After the workshop, things had been odd for the remaining month of the school year, as almost everyone knew of Robin's duel with Professor Morgan, however almost nobody knew that it was her who had won in the end. Thus, it's needless to say that Robin had fallen victim to even more mocking comments, doubtful glances and evading behaviors. Morgan may have lost the fight, but he surely had succeeded in his overall mission to get revenge on Robin for his own embarrassment, even if not entirely in the way he had planned to. All Robin could really hope was that people would forget over summer, like they usually tended to forget mostly everything that had happened the previous school year. Education included.

Summer, once more, was the essence of dreadful with a subtle touch of heat induced madness. While England surely wasn't the hottest place during the summer months, it already sufficed to almost drive Robin insane and make her daydream about her lovely cold dungeons back at Hogwarts. In an attempt to do something not completely useless, she spent most of the summer in the local university's library, or taking day trips by herself to other cities or even the coast. Her parents, unsurprisingly, were more than happy to supply Robin with however much money she needed for these solo-activities of hers, as long as she promised to be back before dinner and not to take things from strangers.

Sure, it was perfectly normal to let your 13-year-old travel the country by herself… but Robin only would've cut into her own flesh if she'd mentioned any of those thoughts. They probably were just glad that she kept herself busy in the first place and thus didn't force them to find ways to entertain her, leave alone take vacation from work.

During one of those day trips, in the middle of summer and long before school would resume, Robin visited Diagon Alley to browse the stores for interesting books and other things she could make use of. While her book hunt resulted in the spending of her leftover Christmas money (which she had received only upon her return home for the summer, seeing as she hadn't been home for Christmas itself and her parents were strictly against sending money in the 'post'), Robin also tried one of the candies that were for sale in some of the stores. It tasted quite horrible, but led to the idea to bring some proper candy to Hogwarts for the next term, not only the weird magical stuff they sold on the train. They recently had made Twirl chocolate into twin bars, and Robin still felt excited about it. So that idea was born, and a month and a half later also executed when Robin packed about a third of her trunk with clothes, then almost two thirds of it with books and other necessities, and the remaining space with Twirl bars. Maybe if she showed them to the house elves in the kitchens, they might be able to find something similar for her in the future.

… … … 

Term started the very same way it had the last two years as well, with lots of assignments and a therefore overcrowded library.

To her great relief Robin had been right, people had mostly forgotten about last year's incidents, but that still didn't make her feel any less uncomfortable being around the other students. Every time she turned around, she felt like eyes were quickly averted; every time she left a room, she was sure to hear her name whispered in quiet words of judgement; every time she answered a question in class, she knew that at least one person rolled their eyes. At last she believed she'd simply gone mad, or paranoid, while the truth more than likely was that she simply had gotten so used to being alone over the summer that being around so many people at once now, literally all the time, just came equal to a constant internal petrification. 

Somehow, Robin had expected it to simply sort itself out eventually. But every night she sat in the Slytherin common room, in the most desolate corner possible, and first years were running all over the place on one end and upperclassmen snogging off in some corners elsewhere, she felt just impossibly close to bursting. Her skin would start crawling uncomfortably, she wouldn't be able to focus on anything but the loud voices of people laughing and talking, and her heart would start beating faster and faster until she felt so hot even in the dungeons at night that she could feel cold sweat running down her back in return. The first week that had passed like this, Robin had blamed it on not being used to being around people anymore and thus simply forced herself to re-accustom herself to it. The second week, when nothing had changed, she had gone straight to her bedroom, even though it had been near impossible to study or read there either, even with fewer people she despised around her. 

It was only in the third week that she finally had enough of the existential dread that would haunt her once it got closer to the evenings, and thus she decided that if her mind refused to readapt, she would have to adapt her behavior in return. That is why on a Tuesday night, after dinner, Robin took all of her necessary books and assignments and sat down in one of the darkest corners of the most desolate hallways to do her work. She didn't want to be questioned why she was sitting here on the dirty ground to do her work, nor about why she was doing it now instead of when the library opened back up in the morning… she simply didn't feel like answering any of the questions that surely would be thrown at her if she was found. But here, in a desolate hallway, her heart at least beat at a normal pace and she could focus without being distracted every two seconds. It was calm, and quiet, and not filled with idiots, and Robin couldn't think of another (open) room in the castle that fulfilled these three basic requirements at the moment. So she sat there and scribbled away in her notebooks, using a mere lumos as a light source for her work. Once she was done, at roughly around midnight, she retrieved her spread out supplies and, as quietly as she could, made her way back to her dorm. That had really been the first productive night of the term.

While Robin was aware of the fact that she still had that staying-out-past-curfew permission from Snape, she actually wasn't all too sure that it still counted for this year as well, seeing as a new term usually meant a clean start in almost all regards. And she simply didn't want to risk anything, especially not getting robbed of her newly found workspace. For the rest of the week, Robin went into that hallway to study every single evening, and didn't once meet anyone who would question her about it. 

Only on the Sunday night that marked the end of the third week, she decided to try staying in the common room once more, seeing as all she planned to do was reading in her newest borrowed book. And she couldn't hide away in the hallway to do her work forever after all, it was only meant to be a short-term solution to her focus issue. Surely she could just work on not being so easily annoyed by everyone and everything, or get her neutrality game on again to make the anxious feeling go away. But seriously, why on earth was the stupid common room so freaking small if literally all students of the entire Slytherin house were expected to hang around here every single night after dinner?!

Robin kept her eyes on the page, a deep frown creasing her forehead as she was still determined to focus. Some first year bumped against her arm and Robin dropped her book as a result of that, which lead her to angrily glare at the child while she picked the book back up. She had to read the same sentence again. Someone was eating an apple somewhere close by… the sound was annoying. She read the sentence again. A fit of laughter. She had to read the sentence again. Was it getting warmer in here? Robin couldn't even hear her own thoughts. Everyone seemed so happy… why couldn't she feel happy like that? Her chest felt tight at the drowned thought, and a desperate wish to shout at everyone in the room at the top of her lungs stirred somewhere within her mind.

She flipped the book shut, probably too loudly going by the looks she was getting from a few nearby people now, and walked out of the room so determinedly that only the pace rendered it a walk instead of a run. She didn't slow down once she'd left the common room behind. She didn't slow down either as she crossed the dark dungeon hallways and jogged up the spiral staircase. She didn't care if anyone saw her. She just had to get out.

At last, in the safety of the nightly courtyard, she slowed down to a stop and closed her eyes. Well, what a dramatic overreaction that had been… she had surely made a fool out of herself. People would think her even more weird and crazy now. But… she also shuddered at the mere thought of going back and pretending like she had merely gone to the bathroom for a moment. It was only half past nine, and that meant she would have to wait a whole lot longer until the common room would clear up even a little. Great.

Her heart was still beating a little too hard for comfort, and thus she slowly walked around the courtyard, into the arcades, down some hallways, up some hallways, and before she knew, she was back in her study spot of the previous week. Well, why change a working system, right?

With a sigh she sat down, crossed her legs and leaned against the wall as she opened her book once more. This was way better… and yet she had the feeling that this had gone far too well for far too long. Someone had to find her here, eventually, and somehow she knew that this moment would be today. And yet, somehow, she didn't care. Couldn't care, rather, as there literally wasn't any other place she could hide right now that didn't drive her nuts entirely. And it turned out she was very much right, unfortunately, only very much wrong about who would find her.

"Miss Mitchell. I'm not at all surprised." Professor Morgan was the unfortunate intruder to Robin's little calm space. "Get up."

Robin didn't complain, didn't even fight his command, but simply rose to her feet and followed him as he walked ahead and motioned for her to follow. However, as uncharacteristic as it seemed, he made no efforts to talk, or put on a facade, or even get her into any kind of trouble. He simply led her down into the dungeons, through the darkness and only stopped once he stood in front of a room Robin had never been in before. Yet she very well knew what lay behind the closed door, and thus it surprised her even more that Morgan had led her here. He knocked, and a few seconds later the door flew open to reveal a rather annoyed looking Professor Snape. 

"What?!" He snapped at Morgan rather indignantly, and only after a few heartbeats he seemed to see that Robin was standing behind the defense against the dark arts professor. His expression went through a hailstorm of barely-even-there emotions for but a second, then it hardened ineffably. "What did he do?" He asked with an inquiring look at Robin, while completely ignoring the other man in between them.

"Nothing." Robin replied almost calmly, giving Morgan a quick look just in time to see him rolling his eyes.

"I found your student lurking around the hallways." Morgan said then, rising his eyebrows at Snape in the kind of condescending manner that seemed to be a bad imitation of the other man's speciality.

"And?" Snape still seemed utterly unimpressed, and Robin almost would've snorted had she not bitten the insides of her cheeks.

"Well, since it seems to have escaped your notice, it's two hours past curfew!" Morgan snapped right back.

"And it appears to have escaped your notice that Miss Mitchell has been excepted from that rule for over a year now. So if you kindly could refrain from making such a fuss…" Snape muttered, then looked at Robin once more and motioned for her to get into the room, which she complied to immediately, a second before the door was thrown shut behind her, right into Morgan's face. While Snape moved right past her and basically ignored her presence from then on, Robin took a moment to study her surroundings.

The room actually was a lot smaller than she had imagined it to be. 'The Potion Master's private laboratory' somehow sounded like more than merely a small space less than the size of her dorm room. Still, it had shelves on all four walls –which were stacked entirely with even more odd ingredients–, a fireplace, then two longish tables in the middle of the room and a lonely stool. Well, and a stack of books that didn't really look like they belonged here though. That was it.

"What, exactly, was your business in the hallways at this time?" Snape inquired then, and Robin's eyes moved from the preserved and bottled animal parts to her professor.

"I thought you said I had your permission to be out of bed at this time…" Robin frowned in irritation, but also a little fascination as she watched him move around the limited space. Granted, there was more than enough room for her to stand at double an appropriate distance, but she still felt like she was invading his space.

"Yes, and if you would like to keep it, you better start telling me what you were doing that made it possible for Morgan to find you." He kept working as he spoke, and Robin had no choice but to keep watching him as she replied.

"I was reading your book." She started, holding up the black tome in her hand for a moment for him to see. "I did nothing wrong, only sat in an empty hallway in the darkness and read. Quietly."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Not particularly."

"I insist."

"Alright…" She sighed and resisted the to urge to roll her eyes. He really never settled for anything less than the entire truth, and she would grant him that. But only the parts she understood herself. "I have been working in that one dark corner in the first floor east corridor for the past week. After… the library and studyhalls were closed."

"Why not do your work during the day like everyone else?"

"I have enough work to last me the entire day."

"And why is that?"

"Why are you asking so many questions, sir?"

"Answer. The. Question."

"I just… find more work once I'm done with the simple stuff. It's not like I've got anything else to do." Robin shrugged. "I read your books and do my assignments. Then I take notes and study for tests. And then I read more books."

"And why would you prefer to study at night?"

"It's easier to think at night. Calmer… easier to focus. I can work way better."

"How… curious."

"You think? Every time I happen to run into you after curfew, you happen to be working, too." Robin mused and averted her eyes at last to inspect the ingredients once more. Oh, how she'd love to walk around and have a closer look… she'd read about so many of them. But she stayed at the door, respectfully waiting to be told what to do next, while not quite so respectfully watching him work once again.

It was curious, really, that it had never appeared to her before how good he actually was at his work. Not the teaching, not really, but potion making. Sure, he was the potions professor and supposed to know something about his trait if he taught it to others, but if one only looked at Morgan, it was clear that being a professor for a subject didn't necessarily promise proficiency as a requirement for the job. Still, Robin had definitely expected Snape to be quite extraordinary at this, judging by his comments in class, his books, his knowledge… but she had never actually seen him making a potion before. Watching him working now, Robin felt reminded of watching an intricate dance, or listening to a piece of music. It really was curious, how she simply couldn't look away.

"You say Professor Morgan brought you to me without any further incidents?" Snape asked after a moment, seemingly ignoring Robin's previous comment, but she hadn't exactly expected anything else after such a long moment of silence.

"Yes… he barely said a word, actually."

"Good. Do you still possess the permit I gave to you last term?"

"Yup." She held up her locket in return, as if that would prove anything, and only upon his frown did she realize that her gesture likely didn't mean anything to him. That… was embarrassing. She quickly dropped her hand to her side again and stared at the empty table a bit further into the room. "I mean… yes, I still have it."

"In that case, I would ask you to make use of it the next time you venture around the castle at night. Preferably before another colleague of mine comes knocking on my door and distracts me from my work."

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry."

"Tell me, do you intend to continue studying in the hallways at night?" Now that question was most certainly more born from curiosity than forged by disapproval.

"Uhm, I… actually, I don't. I mean, I didn't really… intend to study there in the first place, but… it just ended up happening. I… no, I won't study in the hallway again." She said before she really could think it through. Where else would she go? Staying in the common room seemed like an odd lot of trouble to go through just to once again not disappoint Snape. But as always, she would still try for exactly that sake.

"Then I believe we are done here." He sounded almost calm, content even, which was unusual but not at all unwelcome. "You are free to go."

Maybe it was yet again the time of night that made Robin stupid, or the fact that she at last felt calm again after the strange anxiety she had experienced in the common room, but the words left her mouth before she could swallow them down again. "May I… stay, for another moment?" In an instant Snape looked up from his cauldron and right at Robin, with the most surprised expression Robin had ever seen on him. Before he could scold her for her indignant request, she quickly added, "I mean… I have read so much about some of these ingredients you keep in here and… and the plants and animals, and… I have never gotten the chance to see any of them for real. I'm just… curious. May I stay? Please?"

"Don't touch anything." He said before he thought, or at least that's what it looked like to Robin, for he seemed just as surprised at his own words as she was herself. After a second of sending a mutually shocked look at each other, he turned back to his work at hand and Robin moved to inspect the shelves on the walls. Her face felt way too hot… luckily he couldn't see it currently.

Really, this place was even better than his office. While he stored some potions and books there, and some of the more common ingredients that may need quick replacement in class, this private lab was on an entirely different scale of fascinating. Thus Robin really took her time looking around, indeed not touching anything like she had been asked to, and tried to remember as much of it as she could. She didn't know how much time passed like that, in silence, and she also didn't particularly care. The entire laboratory in its perfectly neat overcrowdedness and with its one small, moonflooded window was absolutely serene. Calm like the softest cushion to a sore mind.

Only once Robin reached the last of the shelves, her inspection was momentarily interrupted. "Since you are still here and distracting me, you might as well hand me the valerian."

A small smile played on Robin's lips in an instant. "I thought I wasn't to touch anything."

"Do not sass me, Miss Mitchell." He warned, but it sounded too shallow to actually be serious. "Valerian. Now."

"Springs or root?" Robin inquired as she scanned the rows and rows of bottles until her eyes fell onto both of the mentioned parts.

"I am in the process of making a sleeping draught…"

"Springs it is, then." Robin breathed more to herself than to him even before he had actually answered her question, and carefully, very carefully even, she moved the large jar out of its place, then turned around and took the few steps towards his workspace. Snape looked almost impressed (for his standards at least) as she placed the jar next to the cauldron on the table, and then took a respectful step backwards again to give him his space. 

"I believe we did not cover this particular potion in class." He said then, as he moved on with the recipe and added the needed valerian springs.

"It was in the textbook." Robin replied with an almost humored smile. "You didn't expect me to read all of your books and not study my own textbook first, did you, professor?"

He rolled his eyes and merely glared at Robin for a moment, upon which she only had to grin more. However a moment later he finally replied. "If you are so well versed in basic potions, I am certain you can tell me what I have to do next to finish this particular one?"

Robin thought for a moment, just to make sure she really knew what she was going to say. "Nothing. The draught should be done, actually."

There it was again, that not-smirk. "Precisely. Put the jar back when you return to the shelf."

"Of course, sir." Robin was still smiling, and a small spark of giddy excitement ran through her as she returned the valerian to its rightful place. This was nothing, really… just the most minor act of assisting him in finishing a potion. Something a spell could've done. And yet, to Robin, it was everything. She had been helpful for once, and he had actually allowed her to help! The night had just taken a drastic turn from panic and dread to calm and joy.

While Professor Snape went on to bottle the finished potion, Robin studied the remainder of the shelf in silence again. Half of the stuff that was stored here seemed as foreign to her as it could, making her wonder what it was and what its use might be… but she also didn't want to bother him any more by asking. It already had been a small miracle that she'd been allowed to stay for a little while longer, and by now the common room surely must've cleared up almost entirely. However once Robin was done with her curious inspection of even the last bottle and the last jar, she still remained standing in the corner of the room and almost involuntarily went back to watching the potions professor finishing up his work.

"Are you done with your tour of my laboratory?" He asked without looking up from the surely not all too difficult task of counting the labels on the table. Considering it was quite a lot of them though, the task seemed quite annoying.

"Yes… and thank you, for letting me 'tour' your lab. I've really enjoyed the look around, but yeah… I'm done."

"Then why are you still here?" His question didn't sound like the reproach or complaint Robin was used to, which was what made her frown ever so slightly as she replied.

"Well, you haven't asked me to leave yet…"

"Let me rephrase that: Why would you choose to dwell here, while you are free to leave? Certainly there are less dreadful… places to be." His question, or rather the way he asked it, obviously sincerely incredulous of her behavior, put a sudden and heavy veil on Robin's happiness that made her just a little too sad for her heart to bear in good conscience. Was it so hard to believe for him that people wouldn't dread his company? Or at least would choose to stay for the sake of an amazing laboratory like this?

"I'm in good company." She finally decided to say, in an easy tone, but with a hint of worry making itself known in her mind just a few seconds later. This was Snape she was talking to! The very professor who made an effort to pretend that kindness repelled him like a disease! But he still deserved kindness… maybe more than anyone else. Perhaps he would be less put off by the statement if she wrapped it in a veil of humor! "You know… To be surrounded by at least five hundred different species, even if in parts, surely isn't a company I would want to miss."

He rolled his eyes at that, as an asset to an almost perfect mask of indifference that was merely spoilt by another badly hidden not-smirk. "Don't be ridiculous. There are well over five thousand different species in this room."

Robin's jaw dropped, but then she couldn't stop the wide grin on her face that stemmed from both the excitement at the diversity of species and the relief that he hadn't gotten all defensive at her comment. "Really?! Wow, that's… incredible. Now I truly feel privileged to be here."

"Being stared at by the cut off heads of dead creatures surely does not seem to bother you all that much. How… peculiar."

"Well, I'm stared at every day by living creatures with very much the same absence of understanding, but who are of far less use to anyone. I'd say I'm used to far worse than any of this…" Robin pointed to one particularly outlandish example in a jar to her right, feeling a little bit proud of her reply as well as a little too smug for her own good. However she also wondered if Snape was really surprised by the fact that she didn't mind the laboratory, or rather by the fact that she didn't seem to mind his company.

"In that case I'm certain you would have no objection to labeling these bottles for me. From what I know, your handwriting should be more legible to the staff in the hospital wing than what they are used to." He said as he stepped away from the bottles himself and instead went to look over one of the books on the other table.

"I think your handwriting is legible… mostly." Robin commented nonchalantly with a small shrug, but quickly shut her mouth once Snape rose a warning eyebrow at her. Right… they weren't on that level of conversing. Not usually, at least. 

Instead of dwelling on it for longer than necessary, she moved to the now free table and picked up the one label he had already written. It contained the name of the potion, the date, and the number 1/245. Well… this would take a while.

"You should sit down. If… you really should want to do this." He spoke up just as Robin picked up the quill in slight awe at its neat ornamentation.

"Uh, yes. Thank you. I do want to… yes." She replied a little awkwardly as she moved to sit down on the only stool in the room. Honestly, she'd do pretty much anything to be allowed to stay in this calm lab for now, and even more to actually help Snape for once. Even if it was by writing two hundred and forty five bloody labels. Well, forty four, actually. 

With a silent sigh, Robin looked over her shoulder once more to watch him writing something on a piece of parchment with an almost content expression. Maybe she wasn't the only one who was enjoying her presence here, after all… Well, at least he seemed to tolerate her. With a content smile she turned back towards her own table, and began to work as well.

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