#use and surprisingly yes it had a consonant i could use and so now the word is 'tipsy'

[rubberbandballqueen]

finally got around to downloading some of those old friendship is witchcraft songs and editing the slurs out for my own mp3 collection

[thewhitewitch-bitch]

In Astris Supra (Chapter 2: Ignem, Aquam, Terram et Aerem Colligite Sorores)

Agatha Harkness x F!OC

Read it on AO3

Quick note:

Ugh, my high school Latin skills are THRIVING with the pronunciation of spells in this show! Proper, classical, Latin, the way the Romans spoke it is very different from the Latin spoken by the Catholic church today. So, here's my 30-second Duolingo lesson for you:

V is pronounced like W J is replaced with an I and pronounced as a Y C is a hard consonant, pronounced like a K

"The key to self-control is knowing what tethers you to this world, more specifically, to this dimension. You must center yourself and locate this tether in order to anchor yourself and make your magic more malleable. Does that make any sense?" 

Agatha observed me carefully as I paced back and forth across from her. This was the second time she had sought me out, the first time we would begin to scratch the surface of controlling whatever dark magic she possessed. I would not allow her to cast within the confines of my compound. The runes of a protection spell surrounded us cutting off the magic of anyone other than myself until Agatha was able to better control herself. 

"I suppose it does." she replied, nodding slowly, "But what would a tether be exactly? Is it a person, a place?" 

"It can be anything. A person close to you, a place of importance to you, even an object that holds meaning for you. But whatever it is, it must be important to you and you alone." I stopped pacing to face her directly, the flickering flames of the campfire at my feet casting shadows across my form, "Do you have anything like that?" 

She faltered, wracking her brain for something, anything that could have been substantial enough to keep anchored in the material world. But the look she gave me, the sadness upon the realization that there was nothing, twisted my gut worse than any wound. Stepping around the fire, I knelt before her and set a hand upon her knee. 

"That's alright, darling. For now, I will act as your temporary anchor. Once you find something more substantial, we'll transition you over to it." 

Reaching up with my free hand, I set it upon her cheek and locked eyes with her. The coolness of her skin in the biting autumn air was surprisingly soothing against my calloused hand and she seemed to relish in the contact. My guess was that she had not been touched often by anyone, not even her mother. 

"Close your eyes." I instructed her softly. She did as I asked, letting her eyes flutter shut as she leaned gently into my palm. "Focus only upon my voice. Breathe with me." 

I inhaled through my nose and she mirrored me, before exhaling slowly from the mouth. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. 

"Now, I want you to picture in your mind, your power in a concrete form. All magic is fluid, all magic can be shaped to suit its user. But when you concentrate on it, your own magic will take a unique form. What form does your power take, darling?"

Her brow furrowed as she tried to picture it in her mind, after a moment her jaw clenched. I gave her knee a squeeze. "Don't be frightened by the magnitude. I know it can be a lot, but you can push through it. Now, tell me, Agatha, what do you see?" 

"A vortex," she replied through gritted teeth, "a violent, vortex of energy, swallowing everything it can." 

"It will not consume you. Remind yourself of that." I told her, my grip on her tightening ever so slightly, "It is your power. It does not control you, you control it."

"I- I can't! It's too strong!" Her hand set itself on top of mine and gripped it strongly, her nails digging into my skin. 

I kept my voice calm and even, despite the death grip she had on me. "Yes, you can, Agatha, you just need to focus." 

"No, no, I can't!" Her eyes flew open as she let out a startling gasp. Beneath the hand upon her face, I felt her pulse racing, her face had become clammy and coated in a sheen layer of sweat. 

"It's alright." I assured, running my thumb across her cheek, "You're alright, love. Take a deep breath."

Slowly, regretfully, I pulled away, reaching for the pitcher of water I had collected from the nearby stream and poured her a cup. Moving to sit beside her, I set a hand upon her back, watching closely as she took the cup with shaky hands. 

"Drink. It'll help." I instructed gently. She took a small sip and let out a sigh of relief, letting her eyes close once more as though she were trying to erase what had just happened in her mind. "You did well for a first attempt. Like I said, it will take time. Most witches and sorcerers are unable to define their magic without centuries of dedication and training." 

"I... I can't..." Agatha's voice trailed away as her gaze became detached and distant. Her hands curled tightly into fists in her lap. I sighed and set myself back against my palms, looking up at the sky as it transitioned from dusk to night. The faint spattering of stars was brighter out here than it was in Salem proper, but not as bright as it could have been, as it should have been. 

"You can." I said, "But it won't be easy. Ultimately, you will have to make a choice: control what does not want to be controlled or be consumed by it."

"Seems like an easy choice to make." 

"Until it isn't." My eyes fell away from the sky above and landed on the earth below. "It is never an easy choice. But it is one we all as witches must make."

A silence fell over us, comfortable yet strained, before Agatha cleared her throat and glanced back at me, "Can I ask you something?"

I nodded, my gaze still fixated on the ground. 

"Why did you come here? Truly?"

I lifted my gaze slowly toward the forest ahead of me, seeing memories flash before me as if they were concurrent with the ticking clock. My chest tightened, though not pleasantly, my breath picked up in pace. 

"To find solitude." My answer was quick, instinctive, and far too obvious. Agatha could see right through it.

Taking hold of my arm, she forced me to face her directly, meeting her clear, blue gaze with glimmer of fear in my own. She didn't need to speak; I knew what she wanted of me. 'Tell me the truth. Please just tell me the truth.'

"My mother cast me out." It came as barely a whisper, though I knew she heard every word. "Five years ago, I refused to allow myself to be corrupted by her dark purpose. She called me a disappointment, threw me into the street and drew a ring of warding around her home so I could not return. I had read about students of the Mystic Arts of Kamar-Taj hidden in the Himalayas, so I used the full extent of my power to cast a teleportation spell to bring me there and seek the aid of the Ancient One. I remained their student until eight months ago, when I gave myself the surname Stuart, departed Kamar-Taj, and made my way here to forge a new path, distinct from the one my mother had wanted me to follow." 

The truth was laid out in front of Agatha now, plain for her to see. I could not, would not hide from her, not when she was so willing to expose her vulnerabilities to me. Her hands reached for mine, encasing them both in a gentle clasp. She did not speak, rather rested her head upon my shoulder, silently telling me she understood. I found myself leaning into her, shutting my eyes and taking in a long, deep breath. She smelled like wood smoke, rosemary, and tilled earth, a combination so intoxicating to me that I would have gladly surrendered myself to Death for another chance to take it in. Time passed slowly as we sat there in the cold silence of the woods, letting the stars pass over us in their never-ending journey.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

She left sometime in the night, when I couldn't exactly say. But she had managed to bring me to my bedroll and throw a ragged blanket over my sleeping form before slipping away. I would not see her again for near a fortnight, during which I found myself surprisingly empty. In truth, I had been empty in heart and soul for far longer, though at the time, my own youthful naivety masked it. 

What had begun as a desperate attempt to remain within the confines of my own solitude had quickly shifted and molded itself into a desire for companionship, for her companionship. My camp was too still without Agatha in it, my days too quiet. So, I attempted to create a bit noise, so to speak, by combing through the tattered spell book I had managed to tuck away from my mother before she threw me out like last week's mold-covered bread. The worn and water-stained pages were brittle and fragile, even the lightest touch threatened to rip them apart as I pulled the cracked leather cover back. 

Carminum et Magicum printed against the dark brown cow's hide above an etch of the Triple Goddess. Oh, the legacy this book carried within it. Passed down from my mother's mother's mother into my hands. Hidden amongst pages and smudged ink were the secrets to understanding and controlling all aspects of magic. With as feather light a touch as I could muster, I flipped through the pages slowly, working through each section day by day, glancing over the basics of conjuration, transmutation, and enchantment before settling on the schools of magic. 

"Alchemy, Divination, Protection..." I muttered as I continued to flip pages until my eyes settled on what I was looking to start with.

"Dark magic is an often overestimated and overly scrutinized form of magic drawn to witches who are continually overlooked and underestimated. This magic is wild and difficult to control, which has led to the wrong assumption that it is inherently dangerous and deadly. Witches who wield dark magic are more willing to solve their problems through morally questionable means, though this does not automatically make them morally questionable themselves. The witch who is able to harness Dark magic is not only powerful, but skilled, and with proper education and discipline, can utilize and combine other schools of magic with it, including but not limited to Illusory, Divination, and Alchemical magics. The most coveted and dangerous of tomes pertaining to Dark magic and its spells is the Darkhold, written by the first demon Chthon, in the early days of existence. While several copies of this book exist, the original copy has been lost for millennia, and for good reason." 

I turned the page and froze. On the browning page, in fading black ink, was a sketch. A sketch of a book. Of the book.

"So," I whispered to myself, "that's how you found it, you bitch." 

With the lightest bit of pressure, the page tore away from its binding, giving a soft rip as it fell away from its companions. A surge of emotion slammed into me like a tidal wave: anger, frustration... guilt. Had I been just a tad more curious in my younger years, just a bit more rebellious, could I have prevented what became of my mother? Then reality came crashing back down. I shook my head, fighting back against the welling tears that stung the corners of my eyes. 

"Not that I would have been able to stop you." 

The paper crumpled in my hand, nearly turning to dust in my palm before I threw it into the campfire in front of me. Staring at it as it turned to ash, I could have sworn that the flames closest to it shifted from blue and white to violet and black before the page became nothing more than a memory in the back of my mind. 

I looked to the next page and continued to read.

"The Darkhold is known to influence and corrupt any who utilize it for an extended period of time. Such corruption can be observed as blackening of the fingertips, obsession over the book, and, in extreme conditions, severe mental imbalance. It is advised that any witch seeking the Darkhold abandon their search, lest they wish to be consumed by the darkest of evils. There is no reversal for the corruption of the Darkhold on a witch's soul. It is an absolute condition that cannot be altered or reduced. Any attempt to break the influence of the Darkhold has proven to be a colossal failure, resulting in death and destruction each and every time." 

[hansolmates]

hoshi; vowels and veracity (m)

summary: after a blind date that makes you feel like a giddy teenager all over again, you’re forced to grow up and take a chance when you realize that special someone is your daughter’s kindergarten teacher. pairing: teacher!soonyoung x single mother!reader genre/warnings: fluffity fluff nuggets, humor, a lil bit of angst when yn panics, *steve rogers voice* language! alcohol, unprotected sex (wrap the pickle before u tickle), face sitting w/c: 5.2k a/n: i really have nothing to say about this but i’ve been thinking about going back to school all week so this manifested. enjoy a lil sexy but sweet hosh💕 

“Y-you,” another giggle and the press of wet lips to the sensitive spot of your neck, “stop, Soonyoung! I’m ticklish there!” 

You feel a pout imprint itself in the sweet spot between your ear and your jaw, and you sigh at the rumble of his lips against your skin, “But you taste so sweet, baby,” he croons, and you’re practically melting between the door with how much Soonyoung has pressed himself against you, all of himself. 

“What if I don’t wanna stop, pretty girl?” he husks against your soft skin, whispering things in your ear that aren’t for the faint of heart. In your haste to keep a firm grip, one hand goes to his clothes and the other nips at the undercut of his midnight black hair, “what if I just open the door right now and we slip right in, and then I slip right in you?” 

Your breath hitches and suddenly your core feels like a timebomb, ready to combust. 

Go on a date, Joshua says. He’s a sweet guy, Joshua says. He’s a friend of Joshua’s, so you know going into this blind date that at the very least, he wasn’t a serial killer. But what Joshua failed to tell you going into this was how much Kwon Soonyoung packed and how much of a temptor in disguise he is. 

“I really would love to invite you in,” it looks like it pains Soonyoung to admit this, as he presses his forehead to yours and the edge of his fingers dig into your crushed emerald velvet number, “but tomorrow’s the first day of work and I am not emotionally prepared. But, I do want to see you again. I had a great time.” 

The previous mood melting into the night sky, you reluctantly let go of the lapels of his tweed blazer. Unable to suppress your crestfallen smile you nod, “That’s fine,” you reply, inching away from him to send him a pointed look, “I wouldn’t have gone inside anyway. I don’t put out on the first date,” you cross your arms in an attempt to feign nonchalance.  

Which isn’t a lie, although if Soonyoung had asked you two minutes ago to come inside for a cup of tea, you wouldn’t have argued. He is just that tempting. Said date raises an eyebrow in response, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear at the defiance in your eyes. “Oh?” he echoes, “then what date do you put out?” 

“Date seven.” 

“Lucky seven,” he grins, “so if we go on a date every day this week by Friday we should be good to go. How do you feel about steak?” 

You slap his shoulder in his response, and the giggle that erupts from his lips in response has you feeling dizzy and giddy with excitement. Soonyoung has you feeling like a college freshman all over again, floating like Cloud 9 and drunk in anticipation. You peck one, two more kisses on his lips. He tastes like the peach champagne you shared and his own scent as he pulls you in for a much longer, much hotter kiss. 

“Good luck on your first day,” you mumble against his lips, vaguely remembering that he’s a teacher in a school nearby. 

“Mm, text me when you get home,” and with a final kiss to your forehead he unlocks his door, leaving you warm and full of heart-eyes on his front porch. 

The walk home, more like float home, has you feeling all parts exhausted and hopeful for the days to come. For the first time in a long time you feel young and unbridled, thrumming with excitement. Now you’re just playing with your phone, waiting to exchange goodnight texts. 

“Nari’s asleep,” when you walk into your shared apartment, you spot a sleepy Seungkwan on his laptop and sprawled across your couch. “How was it?” 

“It was reealllly nice,” you’re still a little wine tipsy, drunk on the taste of Merlot and a certain someone’s kisses, “he was really sweet, and surprisingly sexy.” 

“Did you get dicked down?” Seungkwan asks only the most important questions. 

You scoff, flopping down on the couch next to him, “As if, we have work in the morning.” 

“Speaking of work, are you sure you’re not able to drop off Nari to school tomorrow? It’s her first day of kindergarten.” 

“I can’t,” saying it feels absolutely awful, but a single mother has to work extra hard to keep her and her daughter happy. 

“It’s fine,” Seungkwan easily waves you off and runs a hand through his fluffy auburn hair, “her favorite Uncle is there, anyway.” 

“Hey,” you lightly punch his arm, “I’ve already talked Nari through it. I’m cooking a big breakfast tomorrow—chocolate chip pancakes, duh, and taking a million pictures before we have to part ways. I packed a little Kit-Kat for her lunch with a sweet note. When I come back in time for dinner I promised her pizza from her favorite parlor and she can tell me everything about her day.” 

“So, you’re bribing her with food.” 

“Sue me, it’s every parent’s weak spot.” 

Seungkwan stretches his arms, cradling you between his chest. You sigh into his clean linen scent, feeling sleepy. “Yeah, I’ve bribed her with my Switch once or twice,” he admits softly, eyes also drooping, “but you’re a great mother regardless. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything tomorrow.” 

“Thanks, Kwannie,” you sigh, feeling more at ease. 

Nari is the light of you and Seungkwan’s life. Five years ago, you promised yourself that if you were more than financially stable and still sick with baby fever, you would adopt. You didn’t want to find a romantic partner for the sole purpose of having a child, you could easily do that on your own. And that you did, you researched and visited foster homes off in the countryside. 

In a little town off the coast of the shore was where you met Nari, only six months old and full with cherub cheeks and eyes that sparkled like the moon and stars. You fell in love with her instantly. Fast forward five years later and she’s the reason you wake up every morning and work hard every day. Seungkwan being your best friend, also wanted rights as the godfather and therefore is also part of your perfect family picture. 

You and Seungkwan sleep warmly tonight, both excited to share yet another year of Nari’s milestones. 

“And then Mr. Kwon said I was an ‘ace’ with my vowels!” Nari has a string of cheese hanging from her chin, and you don’t bat an eye as you reach to pat it away with a napkin. 

“I wouldn’t expect any less, baby,” you coo, carding a hand through her hair so her bangs don’t get caught in her meal, “remember when mommy and Uncle Kwannie taught you the vowels this summer? We sang that song.” 

“Yes! I sang the same song and showed everyone how ‘ta do it,” your heart is swelling with pride, and you fight the urge to tear up because Seungkwan’s already showing signs of waterworks from his side of the table, “I read a book Mr. Kwon gave me today and he said he’s so impressed I read at a Level B.” 

You quirk your brows at the new jargon. You certainly don’t know what it means to be a Level B, but it makes Nari happy and that’s all that matters. Wiping the orange grease off her lips, you muse that you must get in contact with her teacher one of these days.

“What’s a Level B?” Seungkwan similarly looks stumped at the new vocabulary. 

“I don’t know!” Nari shrugs, but nevertheless her teacher’s attention has her glowing. 

You giggle, “I’m so happy for you, baby.” 

“I’m excited to go back tomorrow, I made a new friend! His name is Jeonghan and he helped me with my numbers today. He called my bows cute.” 

“Cute?” Seungkwan perks up from his stupor, “of course you’re cute, Nari. So cute that you’re too good for this Jeonghwan boy.” 

“Jeonghan, Uncle Kwannie,” she pouts when Seungkwan scoffs, in favor of shoving half a slice in his mouth. She turns to you, tugging on your blazer, “Mama, can I go watch TV now? I finished my homework and I wanna see the new Ladybug and Cat Noir!” 

“Of course,” you pull away her plate, gesturing for her to go to the living room. 

“Thank you mama,” and she’s bouncing off her seat, pushing her chair in and off to watch Miraculous Ladybug. 

You sigh, “They grow up so fast.” 

Seungkwan’s eyes widen at your age-old phrase, the words reminding him oddly of his parents when they used to talk down to him. “And here we are, aging twice as fast,” Seungkwan bemoans, already starting to feel the greasy food settle in his stomach. “We used to eat a whole pie! We could eat absolute garbage back in college and here I am weak at two slices—oh my god, am I having a ‘back in my day’ moment? We need to go out. I need to go out. I’ve been practicing consonants and vowels all day. I need a boyfriend,” he playfully narrows his eyes at you, “I need a boyfriend like yours, sweet and sexy.” 

“Sorry,” you stick out your tongue, “but he’s mine.” 

Perfect timing, Soonyoung’s name pops up on your phone. You two have been texting sporadically throughout the day, making plans for your next date. The two of you are going to watch a drive-in movie, a situation that screams teenage-back-of-the-truck-sex but the movie is a much anticipated favorite of yours and you genuinely want to watch it. 

Soonyoung is full of humor and laughs, getting you to smile and relax at the right times during work and always manages to keep you on your toes whenever he says something flirtatious. 

“Are you gonna introduce him to Nari?” 

You stop typing, and look up towards your beautiful little girl in the living room. Her hair is out of her pigtails, drooping tiredly like she is. Her cheek is pressed against her favorite plush cat, fighting for consciousness because she’s waiting for Marinette to save the day. Your heart swells with affection. 

“Dunno,” you shrug, trying not to think too hard about it, “we’re not that serious right now.” 

You’re absolutely winded. You finished work early today, due to the fact that came in early so you could clock out and pick Nari up from school. Despite the fact that Nari says it’s okay for you not to pick her up, you can’t allow it and you want to be the one who she runs into when she comes out the door. 

“Who do you think she’s gonna hug first?” Seungkwan’s elbowing you, baiting you. “Because this morning she gave me a hug and three kisses before I dropped her off.” 

“Three?” you seethe in annoyance, “three kisses is our thing! Two on the cheek and one on the forehead!” 

The two of you slowly steep together, waiting for the colorful blue door to the kindergarten area to file out. The heel of your shoes are digging into the grass, probably making a needle-like  indentation in the dirt as you struggle not to seep into the lawn. You feel like you’re going to flop on your heels, wishing you could go run back into the car and find your flip-flops from last month’s beach trip. But before you could debate on the run the bell rings, and you’re on livewire when you see the students start to file out. 

Your smile grows ten-fold when you see Nari’s jaw drop in surprise, seeing you waiting for her. She fists whatever is in her hands in surprise, breaking into the cutest smile as she screams, “mama!” 

And you’re ready to hold your arms out and throw her around in circles, until you see who follows right behind her. 

Kwon Soonyoung is Nari’s kindergarten teacher. Kwon Soonyoung with his hair down and untextured, wearing a mint polo and looking nothing like the date you had the other night. He looks absolutely soft and so, you are weak. 

Kwon Soonyoung, the sexy deviant who sends you questionable texts and sends you funny puppy videos, is staring right at you and utterly confused when Nari rams straight into your hip. 

Momentarily distracted, you pepper your pretty daughter in kisses (all three of them, two cheeks and one forehead) and tell her how much you’ve missed her. Clearly she doesn’t miss you as much, as she’s waving around a picture she drew during playtime, one of her and Jeonghan in the sandbox. 

“Really, Nari,” Seungkwan mutters under his breath, shamelessly vocalizing his opinion on a five-year old, “can’t you choose a different friend?” 

“Seungkwan!” you chide, but he pointedly annoys you when Nari finally enters Seungkwan’s embrace. He takes extra time to cuddle her, obviously jealous that another boy has taken refuge in your little Nari’s heart. 

The moment is so sweet and simple you have no choice but to revel in it and take out your phone to snap a photo. 

“Mama!” she pops her head off of Seungkwan’s shoulder, “come meet Mr. Kwon!”

And she’s tugging your hand, only you’re much stronger and you stay firmly planted on the grass. Heck, you even sacrifice your shoes by digging your heels in for extra measure.Your eyes widen in panic, but Nari doesn’t notice because she’s paving a path of dirt with her lime green light-up sneakers, trying to get you to move. You nearly forgot your latest tryst is your daughter’s teacher, and you never told him you have a kid. 

But within seconds, there’s an audible slam and the three of you are shattered from your bubble. Turning to the noise the heavy navy door is now locked shut, all the students dismissed for the day. The crowd is gone. Soonyoung is gone. 

Seungkwan’s eyes dart between the closed door and you, the pieces clicking. His mouth forms a little ‘o’ and he nods in understanding. “He thinks I’m your baby daddy.” 

The two of you point out each other like the Spiderman meme. “He thinks you’re my baby daddy,” you echo, horror marrying your face. 

“Mama? What’s a baby daddy?” 

“Shh, Nari—” he picks up Nari in one swoop, mouthing a go to you as he leads her to the car. 

All alone on the grass, you panic as you watch your family grow smaller and smaller as they enter the parking lot. Soonyoung’s just behind that door, right? Looking left and right to assure no one is going to think you’re being that parent and harassing the teacher within the first week of school, you bound up the steps to knock on the door. Your knocks clang heavily, echoing against the building. 

Ten seconds pass. Nothing. 

You deflate, pulling out your phone to shoot Soonyoung a quick text. 

You: hey, can you come out for a bit so i can explain? Please

A minute passes. He leaves you on read. Defeated, you slump against the door. This day is really a whirlwind on your mental state. All you wanted today was some extra time off work, Nari’s three kisses, and maybe a goodnight text from Soonyoung if you were lucky. 

The door suddenly flips open, and you’re braced against someone’s hands. 

“Whoa, you okay?”

Your face crumples in relief when it’s Soonyoung that’s come out to respond to you. He’s bracing your weight by holding your arms between his hands, although keeping a respectable distance between the upper half of your bodies. It makes you a little upset, but you understand. Once you’re stable, he lets you go and leans away from you.

“Why are you waiting out here?” he asks pointedly, looking at you up and down. You seem terribly overdressed in your coral pinstripe suit, mismatching with Soonyoung’s apple sauce stains. 

“Why do you think I’m waiting out here?”

“And if I close the door again?” he retorts suddenly. 

“Then I’ll follow you home.” 

A beat passes, whatever expression he conveys on his face is practiced and primed. You have a terrible time trying to decipher his blankness. Working with kids probably does that to an adult. “Come in,” he says neutrally, and you wordlessly follow him into his classroom. 

The room is decorated beautifully, with rainbows and glitter. It’s also surprisingly organized, all the crayons in place and the play area free of stray toys. Your eyes instantly search for Nari’s desk, and a small smile fits on your face as you trace her handmade name tag. 

“Normally, I don’t let parents in my room until it’s Back to School Night,” Soonyoung says, leaning against his desk. It makes you terribly nervous, knowing the ball is in your court and he’s waiting for you to make a move. His carefree, easy going nature is nowhere to be found, and all you see is walls and a mean poker face. He pulls up the sleeves of his polo, exposing pale, strong arms. Your mouth waters a little (you can’t help it!) and you immediately reach for a bottle of water in your purse. “So, what is it you have to say?” 

“Seungkwan’s not my baby daddy,” you blurt, and you immediately blanch when Soonyoung’s eyes widen. “Wow uh. I didn’t mean to say it like that.” 

“But you did say it like that,” Soonyoung replies slowly, “no child just doesn’t give three kisses to someone who isn’t their father.” 

“I only called him my baby daddy because he said it first,” you grumble, almost childishly, “and Nari’s a baby, of course she’s going to give three kisses to anyone that feeds her and coddles her.” 

“It sounds like an excuse.” 

“It sounds like I’m freaking out because you keep talking back and forth like this!” you cry, slapping your hands against your thigh. You don’t have to look in a mirror to know that you’re quickly getting annoyed, your face morphing into a shade of embarrassment. You can’t tell if this is amusing him or this is a real interrogation. “Let me explain, Soonyoung!” 

He says your name slowly, deliberately. And then, “do you want to take a break in the Calm Down Corner?” 

“The—the what?” Soonyoung’s eyes flicker to a corner at the far end of the room. The radiator is decorated in a sky blue wallpaper, and there’s a yoga mat on the floor. There are chairs next to a desk filled with coloring pages, decorated with fairy lights. Filling three of the chairs are various stuffed animals, a tiger, a cat, and a panda, all dressed as doctors. It’s a child’s therapy corner. “You gotta be kidding me.” 

He raises a brow, and—is that a smile on his lips? “Then explain, why are you here?” 

“Because I think I really like you,” you confess, frustration melting away to reveal the uneasy upturn on your lips. You lied when Seungkwan asked if you would ever consider introducing Soonyoung to Nari. In a different world, you would’ve loved to take the time to take Nari to the museum and introduce Soonyoung there. They’d definitely bond over their love for tigers. “Seungkwan is my best friend, and helps me take care of Nari. I adopted her five years ago.” 

Something softens in Soonyoung’s eyes, and the air feels much more relaxed. But his dark brows remain knit together, and he looks at you with confused eyes. “Then if you like me so much, why didn’t you tell me you had a daughter?”

“Because kids can be deal breakers,” you admit, and the colorful classroom feels smaller as you hug yourself. “I just, wanted you to like me first.” 

It’s the primary reason why it’s taken you so long to date. Sure, there’d be a fling here and there, but nothing that feels as tangible as Soonyoung is. You’re not old enough to find a partner that wouldn’t blink at the sign of children, yet you’re still at that weird age threshold where a partner could immediately run for the hills at the mention of one. Nothing will top Nari, she’s number one in your heart, but the small selfish part wanted you to put the focus on yourself for just one night. 

“You don’t have to hide, I want every part of your life no matter how long we have,” he assures you gently, firmly without an ounce of regret. Soonyoung opens his arms, and you cry in relief when you get to collapse in the scent of his cologne. You tuck your head in the crook of his neck, slightly sweaty from whatever activities he needs to do with the kids, but you don’t mind. His voice is quiet, melting in your ears, “and I really like you too. I really like Nari as well, she’s a great kid.” 

“She is, isn’t she?” 

You two pull away, and he swipes a thumb under your eyes in case some tears manage to escape. “So, Friday? Movie?” 

“It’s a date.” 

“Where’s Nari?” the question is huffed against your breath as you’re pressed between your freshly washed bedspread and Soonyoung’s body. He takes care in making sure the zipper of your delicate dress doesn’t get caught in the rush, easily slipping your dress off and throwing it on your desk chair. 

“At Seungkwan’s, why?” 

His cheshire cat eyes glow under the moonlight, positively devious. “It’s date seven,” he announces sweetly. His gaze betrays his saccarine reply, a look that only tells you that Soonyoung plans to fuck you five ways to Sunday, and you’ll gladly let him. 

You sit up on your elbows, enjoying the show as Soonyoung quickly sheds his clothing. It’s ungraceful, exciting. Tonight was a simple carnival date, easily making you feel like a giddy college student all over again. Soonyoung won you five Pokemon keychains today, you could put a whole party on your hand. 

“It’s actually date six,” you tease, tilting your head as his pants finally come off, revealing black boxer briefs that snug deliciously around the waist. 

“Oh, okay,” he looks at you like you’ve spoken God’s word, reaching to pick up his shirt, “so you don’t want my dick fucking you raw tonight? Okay, I see how it is,” he pretends to put on his clothing, jabbing a thumb out the door. 

You have the audacity to giggle, pulling him over by the waistband, “Come here so I can make an exception.”

You don’t know what it is that makes you want you want to give everything to this man. Heck, five years ago you didn’t even want a man as an excuse to have kids. But as he nudges you in all the right places and places you on top of him, you know this man will treat you like an absolute treasure. Every kiss is laced with smiles and sweetness, filled with vigor and vivacity that fills you up and leaves you afloat. 

He takes care of you first, unwilling to let you budge as he places your core over his face. He makes quick, but effective use of his tongue and fingers, making sure you’re nice and sensitive for his future plans. You’re practically throbbing with pleasure, vibrating from every cell of your body. Within minutes he’s glistening in your arousal, and he pulls you down so you’re lined up with his crotch. It’s involuntary when you pulse against his member, your body shamefully alerting you that it’s desperate with need, and the remedy is right under you. 

Soonyoung looks more satisfied than you, eager to please you. Without warning, he stuffs two fingers in your mouth, “You pretty, pretty girl,” you are keen at the attention, your body is glowing a radiant rose. 

Your tongue rolls against his fingers, sticky and tasting of your arousal. Tilting your hips up you let Soonyoung pull his member out, lining it against your entrance. Feeling the soft tip brush against your delicate folds, you moan against his mouth. With a little ‘pop’ he releases you, lips shiny and parted. 

“I hope you don’t think I’m some kind of hit-it-n’quit-it kind of guy,” he noses the sensitive spot of your jawline, which distracts you momentarily when the plush tip nudges your folds, coaxing you to unite. “Because after tonight, I’m definitely keeping you. Forever.” 

The reply that dances on your tongue is overtaken by your whines when Soonyoung slips in fully, forcing your body to clench tightly against his. You take him, all of him. You feel wet and sticky and hot and swollen with affection as Soonyoung praises you for taking him so well. His pace is firm and passionate, short nails digging deliciously into your hips for leverage as he makes sure to fill you to the brim. 

He’s right, tonight is far from being a means to an end. You feel like you can have nights like this the rest of your life. And when the both of you finish and you’re pulling the covers over one another, you finally manage to grasp the reply that was nearly forgotten. 

Pressing a kiss to his jaw you whisper, “I’m keeping you, too.” 

“So, how long can we keep this a secret for?”

“Ideally? Ten months. Realistically, I’d say Christmas.” 

“Why Christmas?” 

“Because I know you’re going to be dying to get Nari a Christmas present.” 

Soonyoung props his elbow on the pillow, looking at you petulantly. “I could say it’s a good behavior reward. She’s been racking up those gold stars during morning meetings, babe. She’s not even trying.” 

“That’s my girl,” you coo, rolling over to lean your head on his chest. Light has long flooded into your apartment, seeping through your curtains and reflecting on your white duvet. Soonyoung looks absolutely fluffy and well rested, and you can’t help but reach to pat down the ebony bird’s nest atop his head. 

The two of you lay like that for a little bit, playing with each other’s cold feet under the covers and relishing under the touch of bare skin to bare skin. You remind yourself that you need to take Joshua out to dinner one of these days, as he managed the inevitable and set you up with  an amazing partner. 

“Breakfast?” Soonyoung pops the question easily, “let’s get steak.”

“Steak isn’t eaten for breakfast.” 

“Then can I eat you for breakfast?” 

You snort, hiding under the covers while Soonyoung attempts to tickle you. The whole act in itself feels wholly innocent despite the fact that you’re both naked and smell like sweat and sex. Just as you feel Soonyoung’s head dip under the covers to meet you at your chest, the door swings open. 

“Mama!” 

The previously warm room feels like wickedly sharp ice, freezing you to your spot as you clutch the covers closer to your chest. “Baby!” you cry exasperatedly, flinching when she throws all her weight on you. She’s still in her ladybug pajamas from last night, hair falling out of her braid. 

She lifts her head from your breast to give you an adorable one-toothed grin. You try your best to maintain eye-contact, but Nari has impeccable vision. Her grin evolves into a full-on beam when she finds your bed partner.

“Mr. Kwon!” she’s squealing, clamoring over your lap. You do a double-take when you see Soonyoung sitting next to you, wearing a t-shirt. Where on earth did he get that?

Soonyoung’s eyes reduce to crescents at his (secretly) favorite student. “Good morning, Nari-ah. Had a fun time at your Uncle’s house?” 

“Nari,” you force your daughter down to stand on the hardwood, giving her a stern look, “give Mr. Kwon some space, it’s really early and it’s the weekend.” 

Knitting her brows together, she looks between the two of you, “But you two don’t have any space.” 

You wince at her perception, and nudge yourself away so you’re pressed against your nightstand. The oakwood corner digs painfully into your back. 

“We were haviång a very special parent meeting,” you fight the urge to cry when Soonyoung turns on his teacher's voice, sending your daughter a very convincing smile. You watch as your daughter’s eyes go wide, probably feeling very special that her teacher came all the way to her house to have a meeting. “You’ve been doing so well during the read-alouds that I had to tell your mama in person!” 

“I told you mama!” Nari juts out her chest, and you lean over to kiss the crown of her head. “But Mr. Kwon, why are you having it in mama’s room?” 

“Her room is the warmest!” he says like it’s the most obvious thing, his and Nari’s eyes widening simultaneously as he gestures to the open window. “The sun travels directly into your bedroom in the morning, and those rays send heat—”

“Mr. Kwon,” your voice is as steady as it can be, and  you frown when Soonyoung wiggles his brows. You already know he’s thinking of three separate ways you can use the term Mr. Kwon in private, but you’re not having any of that, “shouldn’t we uh, wrap up this… meeting?” 

“I wanna stay,” Nari glowers, obviously nosy as to what you two are talking about.

“I know baby. We just gotta finish up the meeting, okay? Can you—” you cut  yourself off when Seungkwan finally decides to make his appearance, eyes wide at commotion he’s created. He’s in matching pajamas, ridiculously red as he bends down to scoop up Nari. Absolutely sweating and as red as his clothes, his eyes dart between the two of you. You could care less that Seungkwan’s eyes have bags under their bags, and was probably too tired to catch her when she ran inside the house. No, Seungkwan doesn’t deserve the title of godfather anymore. 

“Nari! You can’t interrupt teacher meetings,” Seungkwan pretends to scold, and Nari turns her head so she can hide in her Uncle’s shoulder. 

Knowing that Nari can’t see a thing, you mouth a very explicit I will kill you to your best friend, and he immediately mouths an apology to the both of you as he ushers himself out the door. You wait ten seconds for your daughter to be out of ear shot, before dropping the blanket from your neck and throwing yourself against the pillows. 

But Soonyoung’s chuckling, pressing a litany of kisses all over your bare body in an attempt to comfort you. Instead of reveling in his lazy morning touch, you want to disappear between the sheets, never to be seen. What will the PTO moms say when they find out? How will you stop Nari from telling Jeonghan, and therefore Jeonghan telling the entire kindergarten population? Why isn’t Soonyoung freaking out about this? Instead, he favors to taste your body, in between kisses muttering something about it being kismet that Nari so happened to see right as you were discussing the secrecy of your relationship. Ten years from now, your daughter will be horrified when she realizes that no, teachers don’t normally give housecalls in your mother’s bed.

Your boyfriend pinches your thigh, regarding you with mirth in his eyes. 

“So, that means I can buy her a Christmas present now, right?” 

[minor-solemnity]

Curiosity pt.6

“Are you implying that I’m not good enough to blackmail?” Which well, that maybe isn’t what you should be annoyed by.

A month passes. You don’t talk in class, just keep your head bowed low, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. You ignore Tom in the hallways and in the lessons you share. You suppose that you should probably revert to calling him Riddle, but referring to a man you’ve had sex with by their last name, even in the comfort of your own head, makes you feel dirty.  

He tries to talk to you twice. He doesn’t try a third time.

You don’t tell Marie or Stephanie what’s transpired between you and Tom and eventually, they stop asking. You’re content to let them believe that whatever courtship or relationship they thought had been budding between the two of you had died. It’s easier to pretend that you’re just sad that you’ve missed your chance with Hogwarts’ most sought after bachelor. The truth is so much more complicated. 

The last of the bitter Scottish winter gives way into Spring and with it comes blue skies, crisp winds, and luscious greenery. Stephanie’s attention is fixed firmly on the final quidditch matches of the school year and Marie begins her yearly fretting over exams. You’re left in blessed peace to ruminate on and stew in your own misery. 

It’s far too early on a Saturday for you to be up, but the Great Hall is always empty until at least nine on the weekends and you’ve taken to avoiding large crowds lest you accidentally run into him. As expected, you’re alone save for the ghosts this morning. You’re stirring honey into your tea when a shadow falls over you. You don’t look up. The shadow coughs politely. You glower at your tea. The shadow sighs and there are footsteps and the sound of someone taking a seat opposite you. When you finally look up, Tom is watching you intently. Merlin, it’s so frustratingly easy to get distracted looking at him. The first thing you notice (and you hate that you do) is that he looks somewhat tense. His expression is a mask of polite indifference and his hands rest casually on the table in front of him but there is a tautness to his posture, as though he’s steeling himself for a fight. 

You think that that should please you. At one point, it definitely would have done, but right now you’re still too raw from the events of a month ago to feel anything other than resigned fatigue at his appearance. “You’ve been ignoring me.” He says, and though his tone is placid you can detect a hint of something hard lacing his consonants. 

“What good observational skills you have. Though that’s hardly a surprise, seeing as I’ve been on the receiving end of your interest for months at this point.” The anger at your own stupidity and his manipulation rears its head once more and you’re somewhat taken aback by how much venom has crept into your voice.

“Perhaps, if you’d let me explain-” 

“No.” You cut him off, gathering your things and shoving them into your bag with more force than is strictly necessary. “No, I will not let you explain. I think you made yourself perfectly clear the last time. You have what you want, your curiosity is sated. You have your own blackmail material on me, should you ever feel the need to use it, and all it took was-” You can’t finish the sentence. All it took was a little flattery and his clever tongue touching and playing with you until you’d… Really, it had taken nothing at all. “I don’t know what else you could possibly need to explain to me. I understand what I am to you and what this entire thing was about. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate it if you just leave me alone.” You don’t hang around to see understanding dawn on Tom’s face, nor do you hang around to see resolve settle firmly on his shoulders.

Fifteen minutes later you’re sat with your arms wrapped tightly around your knees underneath a yew tree by the lake, your bag thrown haphazardly a few feet away. You stare at the lake and determinedly blink back the tears that are threatening to spill down your cheeks. A horrible mix of embarrassment and anger is bubbling in your stomach and your hands shake as you reach down and tug blindly at strands of grass as if they are what your ire is directed at. Merlin, you’ve been stupid. Incredibly, horrendously stupid. You’d known that Riddle was bad news. You hadn’t trusted him from the moment he’d smiled down at you that evening in the dining hall. Almost every meeting between the both of you since had been a constant push and pull, neither of you willing to back down or give way… And now…

Now he has the information that he wanted and the game is up. You’ve lost. And all because somewhere along the line you had forgotten exactly why it was that he’d been interested in you in the first place. You’d let your imagination get the best of you and for a moment you’d let yourself believe that it wasn’t about Mr Larkins anymore. That he was there because of you. Just you and not the secrets that you had tried so hard to keep.

Merlin, what was he going to do with you now that he knew. Blackmailing a teacher (and you have to admit to yourself now that that was exactly what you had been doing) was a serious offence. Enough to get you expelled for sure. Muggles went to prison for blackmail, didn’t they? Would you be sent the Wizengamot? Or would Tom just hold it over your head for eternity? Surely not. He had no use for you now, after all; you can’t keep kidding yourself that he liked or wanted you. You can’t keep kidding yourself that that was part of why this was so painful. 

Beyond the fear you feel for your future, rejection is a bitter pill lodged in the back of your throat. 

“You might appreciate it if I left you alone, but I’d appreciate it if you stopped running away from me.” Tom’s voice is conversational, cheerful almost. You let out a strangled scream of annoyance. He hums a soft little laugh in response. He settles himself down beside you, long legs stretching out in from him, crossed over at the ankle. You notice he’s holding the folder. “You honestly think I’d blackmail you?” He asks, still in that conversational toned and you feel your hackles rise.

“Are you implying that I’m not good enough to blackmail?” Which well, that maybe isn’t what you should be annoyed by.

“You seem intent on misunderstanding everything I have to say, I see.” He says and, at last, something approaching annoyance enters his voice. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see that he’s frowning slightly. As in the Great Hall, his posture suggests he’s at ease, he’s taken his tie off and the top two buttons of his shirt are undone. But something is lurking beneath his relaxed exterior that suggests he’s nervous. “I have no intention of blackmailing you. At first, perhaps, but not any longer. And…” You drop the pretence of not looking at him entirely and turn full to face him. He doesn’t look at you and you get the impression that whatever he’s trying to say does not come easily. “I apologise if that’s the impression I gave you.”

Your eyes widen in surprise at the apology, which whilst stilted, appears genuine. Then, almost immediately after narrow in suspicion and indignation. “What other impression could you possibly have given me? Apart from, maybe, toying with me for your own amusement.” You ask acidly.

His jaw clenches and you notice dimly that he’s making hardly any effort to hide his emotions. He’s almost an open book. Which is… strange. You’re reminded of all the times that Tom’s treatment of you has left you feeling confused. Confused because he doesn’t act the same way around you as he does with the rest of your peers. He’ll put on a facade of politeness, sometimes, but it usually unravels within minutes. You’ve watched him charm and flatter the worst of your professors, that small careful smile never faltering until they’re putty in his hands.

He’s tried to intimidate, taunt, and seduce you but he’s never tried to charm you. The realisation hits you harder than you’d like. But so what that Tom doesn’t seem to think you’re worth the effort? Does it matter that he drops his perfect little persona around you? Yes, the quiet, treacherously hopeful voice in your mind whispers, yes it matters. Of course, it matters.

“That we were having fun, perhaps?” He says at last and he looks pained just saying it. As though telling you that some part of him had enjoyed your company and had assumed that you enjoyed his is physically uncomfortable to admit. Maybe it is. “That I believed you and I had some level of understanding regarding our relationship?” 

You ask incredulously, “Has this been your way of flirting with me, Tom?” At the sound of his name on your lips, he turns to face you and you can practically see him come undone. His throat constricts around a swallow and you can’t stop yourself from tracing the column of his neck to where his collarbones, surprisingly delicate and sharp protrude from the collar of his open shirt with your eyes. He follows your gaze intently. “You never tried to charm me.” You murmur, finally bring your gaze to meet his.

“I’ve only ever been honest with you,” He replies, his voice equally soft. An admission that his persona is mostly a lie, used to trick and manipulate everyone else. Maybe that should put you off, make you turn away from him for good. It doesn’t. “You can’t blame me for wanting to know you when the few things I did know were so interesting. You can’t blame me for liking you more when I found out the rest.” It’s strange, knowing that the parts of you that usually stop people from liking or trusting you are what draws him to you. Then again, maybe it isn’t strange at all. You’re remarkably similar in so many ways, after all. “I thought, perhaps, that you regretted it.” Regretted me, is what he means. Is what he won’t say. Is what you hear nonetheless. 

You’ll need to talk more later; you need to know what he intends to do with the knowledge of your blackmailing schemes but later. Right now… You lick your lower lip and you don’t miss the way he tracks the movement. “I don’t. Regret it.” He nods once, a short decisive shake of his head. You’ve made up your mind. “You should kiss me now.” And he does. He shifts and suddenly you’re being dragged to his side, one large hand curving around your waist and another cupping your jaw, his fingers tangling in your hair. 

You feel like maybe, you’ve just won the best kind of game there is.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6)

[mlmreaderfics]

You Look Quite Divine Tonight (Cthulhu x Lighthouse Keeper!Male Reader)

The years have not been kind to you.

You are grizzled, old, scarred from your face to your heart, and tired. Your hair has gone white from age, along with your beard, and wrinkles break up the symmetry of your sandpaper skin. Your voice constantly aches and itches from yelling and overuse, though you appreciate the light Scottish accent you allegedly have. It makes you seem tougher than you actually are. There are callouses and blisters on your fingers, palms, feet from work. For work on the sea is anything but easy.

The sea has not been kind to you.

On occasion you find yourself with a strange, salty taste in your mouth. You used to know whether it was the ocean or your own tears. Your eyelashes freeze, yet you feel the most comfortable in the cold, or at least that’s what you’re telling yourself. You are very tired. Ever since hitting your ripe age of “too old to go to sea, but too young to retire properly” you took the toll of a lighthouse keeper. When you got here, it was supposed to be six weeks, with a young, scrappy helper that reminded you of yourself. Instead, he hung himself from the rope while he was supposed to be repainting the blistering white tower. Maybe he hated you. It wouldn’t surprise you, although it’s the first time anybody has taken their own life just to get away from you. You didn’t know him, yet you feel immense sorrow. Perhaps you were being too parental. You do tend to get attached.

The world has not been kind to you.

You never really knew your mother, she left before you were ten, and your father was colder than the ocean himself. Yes, you tend to refer to inanimate objects as “him,” but those rich men call their boats “her,” so who are they to judge? Though, perhaps it is because they see you as a predator, an animal itching to get its hands on any man it can find. But that’s not what you want. What you do want, you’re not sure, but it wouldn’t be just any man, and it wouldn’t be just for sex, throwing yourself around dark alleyways like a London whore. Though, you are just as tired as they are. It was supposed to be six weeks.

You have resided here, alone and without rescue, for a year. You think.

Thankfully, you have enough food to last you another six months. There’s been no ship to come rescue you from this rock, perhaps they no longer have a need for lighthouses. Maybe those children with their inventions figured out how to navigate the sea blindfolded, backwards, and in the dark. but they wouldn’t just leave you here, right?

You decide not to think about it. Thankfully, you have a very worthwhile distraction.

Whilst searching through the house, you notice one of the floorboards sounds off when you step on it. It takes you about five minutes to crouch down to the floor, but in the end, it’s worth it. You knock on the floor. Sounds like normal. You move your scarred fist to the left, three raps following. Also normal. Left once more.

There it is. The knock is echoed slightly, the wood hollow underneath.

It takes you ten minutes to get up off the floor, but thankfully you have a newfound adrenaline. You hobble over to the toolshed outside.

You make a point of not looking to your right, knowing you will find some of the grisly remains of your crew-mate, your excitement giving you tunnel vision to the crowbar. You rush back and bend over, your back loudly protesting as you attempt to pry back the floorboard. One push. Then two. Then three.

With a loud crack, the board splinters away, revealing a small hole with a book inside. It appears to be a journal.

————————————————————————————

Though you eat dinner that night, your health is the furthest thing on your mind as you theorize what the book could be. A book of spells? A tale as old as time itself? Maybe just pretty pictures? Whatever it is, the fact that new information is occupying your head is enough.

When you finally get a chance to sit down and begin to read, you notice an important sentence on the front page:

“This journal belongs to: Gustaf Johansen.”

Well, whoever this Gustaf character is, you are sure to be fascinated by him!

————————————————————————————

January 12, 1792.

Today marks my first day on the sea. While I do admit that I may come down with a minor sickness, I still have faith in my comrades to help me, as I shall help them.

———————————————————————————

You scan the pages, word by word. It details six months of a life at sea, similar to yours. Gustaf is (allegedly) described by his friends as “a man with strength and beauty to rival Thor himself.” Though you doubt that description, you can’t help but entertain the handsome image.

He’s holding your hand, rubbing his thumb on the back of it. Smiling, he nestles his head between your head and shoulder.

You shake your head. It’s ridiculous, no one is coming to save you.

_________________

April 20, 1792.

I have been having frequent dreams of a place I have yet never seen. I find myself under the ocean surface, far from dry land. And yet, in the murky waters, I see a glowing, beautiful city.

——————-

That night, you have the same dream.

You don’t think anything of it.

You continue to read.

_____________________

May 2, 1792.

The dream has come again, but now I hear a chorus of people. Or perhaps, not people, but simply voices. They speak in a language I do not recognize, yet still understand. They speak of the coming of a god, a Great Old One.

They call this being Cthulhu.

—————

Underneath the entry,  a sentence, phrase, or paragraph in an unknown language, presumably the one from the dreams, is written. It is a terrible mess of consonants and apostrophes. Though, it is still somewhat readable. Your pronunciation is messy, but you get through it.

Mggoka'ai ya, throdog gn'th

nog, uh'eog ot shugg

Y' nogephaii

nogephaii l' ya, gn'bthnknyth

nogephaii l' ya, orr'e

nogephaii l' ya, cthulhu

You finish the final syllable. Nothing happens.

In a burst of anger, you grab a flare from the supplies closet and walk out into the night.

Standing on the beach, you light the flare, waving it around. The sky is black, not a star in sight. “Please, help me!” you cry. “Please, anybody! I’m right here!” Tears burn your eyes and run down your cheeks. You muster all the strength in your lungs.

“I’M RIGHT HEREEE!!!”

With the final syllable, the ground shakes. Did somebody finally hear you? Are they coming to help you, after a lifetime of isolation?

It shakes again, your take a few steps to regain you balance.

Again. Your knees wobble.

Again. You fall, and a great deal of pain does not fill your body. In fact, you feel a great sense of rejuvenation in your bones.

Again. You manage to get up, seeing bubbles on the ocean surface.

Slowly, a mixture of flesh and scales emerges from the sea. Two sets of burning red eyes lie below. A strange beard of tentacles. A hugely muscled body with miles-wide wings. And when he speaks, you feel it in your chest.

“I do not recognize you, my beloved.”

You stare in fear, the flare still belching smoke.

“Lovely mortal, fear not. My beloved, Gustaf, had the most beautiful soul.”

The tentacles on his face gently wrap around you and lift you up. You find yourself between his eyes.

“You have that same soul deep within you.”

You begin to cry once more. The tentacles are surprisingly not as freezing as you thought they would. Instead, they fill your body with loving warmth.

“I-I apologize.” You say. “I have not been held like this since…”

You look back on your life, quickly.

“No one has ever held me like this,” you admit. Your voice is small, lost, broken.

“Then I am honored to be the first.”

His centuries-deep voice is filled with love. He speaks your name softly.

“Wouldst thou like to experience the pleasure of a god?”

“Yes,” you whisper desperately. You quickly unbutton your shirt, but the tentacles take care of your clothes for you. He laughs like rolling thunder.

He devours you, body and soul.

[littlekatleaf]

The shape that I'm in now

(It's 1 am, I must be posting Roadrat snz fic. This takes place in the same 'verse as 'Buried in a burning flame' and 'My heart as spent as ashes, but takes place before them. Not that it's necessary for the story, just to orient.)

Whatever here that’s left of me Is yours just as it was ~ Hozier, As It Was

Junkrat rolled over, trying to ease the ache in his hip, but it didn’t help. Sheets scratchy on oversensitive skin. Eyes hot, dryer than the fuckin’ desert, nose running like to make up for it. Flipped the pillow, but both sides were already too warm. Everything hurt, from toenails to eyelids. Even his fucking missing limbs hurt, however the hell that worked. What sucked the most, though was the silence. It pulsed against his eardrums, buzzed in his head.

Had told Roadhog to go. No choice about it. Bones’d been aching with impending fever, head felt packed with sand. Knew what was coming and didn’t want Roadhog to see. Didn’t want to be seen. Not when felt like his skin was peeled back, leaving all of his quivering insides bare. Being sick was being vulnerable. In Junkertown being vulnerable meant you was good as dead.

Felt Roadhog watching him from the first handful of sneezes. “Nobody fuckin’ cleans this shithole,” Junkrat had grumbled, trying to play it off. Roadhog said nothing.

Didn’t say a word when Junkrat blamed the spices in the stir fry for the second fit.

Unfortunately the third handful of sneezes seemed to have blown all thoughts from his brain and he was still trying to recover when Roadhog asked, “All right, Rat?”

“‘M fine. If you want to get in my pants just say so.” Might have intended it to sound flirty but it came off pissy.

Roadhog crossed his arms over his chest. “Ain’t like that. You just look…” “Ain’t neither of us winning a beauty pageant, Hog. Mind your business.” Least that time sounded like maybe he could be joking, even with the edge in his voice.

Tried to bite the sneezes back after that. Pinch them off. Smother them in his sleeve. But every single time he felt Roadhog’s eyes on him, watching. Made the hairs raise at his nape and finally he snapped, shouting at Roadhog to get the fuck out and leave him alone.

Roadie had, and he was fine with it. Just perfectly fuckin’ apples, mate. Went to bed, tried to sleep it off. But couldn’t. Now he tossed back the sheets, pushed himself up, buckled on his prosthetics. Make himself tea. Caffeine might dull the headache. Heat’d feel good on his throat.

You wanted to be by yourself... teasing whisper of her voice through the buzzing. You told him to go. You should be happy - here all alone with your disease. Could practically feel her breath at his ear and he swayed for a minute, dizzy. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.

“Shows what you know. Roadhog likes it when I sneeze.” Hated how defensive it sounded. Proof that he was only good for one thing.

Perhaps, but this is beyond even his depravity. Look at yourself, Jamison.

Without really meaning to, his gaze flicked over to the mirror that hung above the washbasin, then away again. Not before he’d seen himself though - scarecrow hair, singed in more places than he’d realized, skin and bones, dark circles around his eyes, nose red, lips cracked from breathing through his mouth. Expression going blank as the need to sneeze came over him. “Huh-R’iiishh! Isshew! R’iishew!” Managed to catch them in a tissue at the last minute, but it was a close thing.

Disgusting. And weak. I absolutely cannot fathom why he has not left you behind yet. Ill so often. Missing half your limbs. In need of protection. What kind of man are you?

“Shut it,” he said. Much as hated to admit it, she was right. Knew full well all the ways he was lacking. Rubbed his dripping nose on a handful of tissues.

Perhaps he just enjoys toying with you. Drawing things out before he takes your treasure and returns to the Queen. Her tone is a purr. A predator does love to tease its prey.

“Roadhog ain’t the Queen’s. Not anymore.”

No? He told you that, did he?

“Yes.” Sort of. What had Roadhog said when they met? Freelance? What did that mean? He wouldn’t… would he? If he got pissed off enough? If Junkrat was enough of a pain in the ass? A sudden chill whipped through him and he shivered. Grabbed a windcheater off the hook on the back of the door and yanked it over his head. Roadie’s, he realized as the soft cotton engulfed him. At least he was warm. Tugged the hood up over his head. Maybe that would block out her voice.

Pathetic… The whisper echoed in his ears, then faded - taking his energy with it. Giving up on the tea plan he curled up in a corner of the couch. Pulled in his knees, tugged the windcheater down over him and tried to disappear. Just needed to get smaller. Smaller.

A sneeze jag shook him awake. Took him a second to catch his breath and open his eyes. There was Roadie, holding out a tissue. Didn’t want to take it, but the alternative was worse. And messier. “Thanks,” he said, stuffiness blurring the consonants. Blowing his nose helped, but only a little.

Roadhog didn’t say anything, just turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Kettle rattled, water hit the basin. Click snap of the flame catching on the stove. Clink of spoon against mug.

Apologize, Jamison. Unless you want to test his patience even further.

Don’t need your input, he said, but only in his head. Always weirded Roadhog out when he answered aloud. Cleared his throat, attempted to pitch his voice loud enough to carry, even though felt like he’d been swallowing sandpaper in his sleep. “Oi, Roadie?”

Nothing. Sighing to himself, Junkrat untangled his limbs, ignoring the shivering. Maybe Roadhog wouldn’t notice. Managed to reach the kitchen this time. Roadhog’s back was turned, head slightly bent over whatever he was doing.

Rat hesitated in the doorway. While his mouth usually moved faster than his brain, at the moment neither seemed to be online. He leaned against the jamb, waiting for inspiration to strike. Instead he sneezed, catching them in his sleeve, then coughing after. “Ugh, fuck. I’ll wash this I swear.”

“...” The skepticism was clear even without words.

“Ain’t gonna forget this time.”

“...”

Junkrat coughed a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right I probably will.” Rubbed the back of his neck where it ached. “Roadie, I’m…” sorry he was going to say but Roadhog turned, offering a steaming mug.

“I know. Drink.”

Couldn’t smell anything through his clogged nose so he sipped warily. Then sighed, relief and gratitude. “Where the hell’d you find Lemsip?”

“Bobby had some.”

“An’ he just gave it to you?” Meds were hard to come by, even stupid shit like cold medicine.

Roadhog shrugged. “He owed me somewhat.”

The steam made his nose run and tickle and he sniffled a little. Which only served to trigger another round of sneezes and he slopped hot liquid over his hand. “Ow, god fucking dammit.”

“Here, let me…” Roadhog reached for his hand, but he stepped back.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Rat. I said let me.”

The darkness of his tone sent a shiver down Rat’s spine. The command in it was as unmistakable as the warmth. Junkrat stopped, pinned, barely breathing. Roadhog wiped his hand, carefully, like the burn could have been serious. Then he laid a palm over Rat’s forehead, fingers pleasantly cool. Junkrat leaned into the touch.

“Really got a fever, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, exactly but Junkrat nodded anyway. “Feelin’ shit, to be honest.” A hot flush chased the chills. Had to tell Roadie the truth, but didn’t make it any easier.

“You hurting?”

Rat shrugged, nodded again.

“Come on,” Roadhog put an arm around him, led him back into the bedroom. “Lie down.”

“Ain’t tired,” he tried. Not quite enough energy to be a proper brat.

“Not planning on sleep. Lie down.”

Junkrat did as he was told, but closed his eyes as the bed dipped and Roadhog sat down beside him. With gentle fingers he disconnected Junkrat’s prosthetics and set them aside. Even though he’d only been wearing them a short time, they’d already rubbed sore spots on his skin. Roadhog knew to avoid those places as he began to massage the muscles in Rat’s forearm, kneading until the knots loosened, then moved on to Rat’s thigh.

As the tension drained away, Rat sighed so deep was almost a groan. “God, that’s good.” Roadhog let go of him, but didn’t move away. There was the soft sound of a jar being opened and a teasing scent of menthol that Rat could smell even through the congestion. Vicks, of course. “For the cough,” he asked, smirking.

“It’ll help,” Roadhog said, but this time Rat knew it was a question. Making sure he was okay with it.

“It will,” Rat agreed. Put him back on easier footing. Hog gave him a little care, he’d get Hog off. Fair and square.

Roadie slid his hands up under the windcheater and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch. Junkrat’s back arched, “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s so… Itchew! Huh-Itchh! Itchhuh!” Luckily he’d pulled the sleeves over his hand because he covered just with his hand before realizing.

“Bless you,” Roadhog said, without pausing from the massage.

“Th...thank y-Ihchuuh! Ah’tchh! Chh!” The sensations together were almost overwhelming. Felt like he was tingling along every nerve, shivering with both chills and desire, surprised to find himself going hard, even as he kept sneezing.

“You blushing, or is that the fever?” Roadhog’s voice a rumble in his ear and even that made a shudder run through him.

“Both,” he sighed. Nothing he could do about it, body betraying him with every sneeze.

Roadie chuckles. “You do that so well.”

“Wh… Huhitch!... Itch! Ishhew! … what?"

“Lose control.” An answer but also a command as he tugged Rat’s boxers down and slid inside, surprisingly gently.

“Oh…” Words gone. Thoughts gone. Only feeling left. Heat, fever, want, like fire in his blood. Waves of trembling over him. Hog deep inside, moving with a gentle but implacable rhythm, driving him higher, stoking the flames. He clenched his mech hand in the sheets, clung to Hog with his flesh hand, fingers tightening convulsively. And as the flames built so, too, did the need to sneeze. Little panting breath, interrupted by sniffles and teasing hitches.

“Lose it, Rat,” Roadhog said.

“Ah’Rrrishhah! Ushhew! Isshah!” The flames engulfed him, he shook with release. For a long, long moment he could only blink blearily at the ceiling, utterly spent. “Holy shit,” he managed, finally.

At some point Roadie’d gotten a cool washcloth and he wiped it carefully over Rat, washing away sweat and the vaporub. Just when the cold was about to set him shivering, Roadhog pulled a blanket over him, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You did good, Rat.”

A burst of warmth flowered in his chest and tears sprang up. Rat blinked them back, scrubbed his face with his hand. “‘M a fucking mess,” he said.

“...”

“I mean, sure we have fun. But look at me.” Waved a hand over himself. “Missing a piece or two. Fuckin’ sick all the time. Maybe we should just… go our own ways.”

“...”

“Got enough of a haul to make up for the fight in the bar. Enough to make this bodyguard gig thing worthwhile. We should maybe quit while we’re ahead.” Before you get tired of me, he didn’t say, but it was there on his tongue.

“Rat.” Clink of buckles as Roadhog took off his mask.

Junkrat resisted the urge to look at him. Didn’t want to read the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

“Look at me.”

He does, for a second, then away again.

“You see the scars. All of them. You think they make me ugly?”

“No!” Surprise had him actually meeting Roadhog’s gaze. Caught, he couldn't look away. “Just part of who ya are.” He reached up and traced one from the corner of Roadie’s eye, curving down and along his jaw. No, the scars had surprised him at first, but never bothered him.

“Need the hogdrogen. The mask. So I’m weak?”

“Course not.” First person to mistake Hog for weak wouldn’t live to regret it.

“This place tried to kill us. In so many ways. But it fucking hasn’t. Don’t let it win, Jamie. Don’t let it.”

Junkrat swallowed hard. Nobody called him that, not for years and years. “I won’t,” he said.

Roadhog lay next to him and Junkrat curled into him. Roadhog pulled him closer, carded his fingers through Rat’s hair. “Sleep, Jamie.”

I’m yours, he thought as he drifted away. Whatever’s left of me.

[sareyen]

To my roomba with love (Cherik)

Read on ao3 

There are a lot of things that Erik loves about Charles. He loves all of the obvious things; Charles’s kindness, his intelligence, his laughter, his eyes. He also loves the little private things; the way Charles sneaks Erik his unwanted tomatoes, his warbled opera singing in the shower, that sensitive spot on his hip.

And he loves the silly things about Charles, especially the way the man has a habit of talking to inanimate objects when he thinks no one is looking. Charles has conversations with the kettle, the washing machine, and their roomba – and every time Erik eavesdrops on him, he falls in love with the man a little bit more.

***

It was a Sunday morning, somewhat late by Erik’s standards, the man’s fatigued body allowing him a few extra hours of sleep after a hectic business trip. Erik had barely gotten any sleep between meetings and flights, and when he had arrived back home to a half-asleep Charles he only had enough energy to shirk off his clothes before collapsing into bed beside his husband.

Still, despite his tiredness, Erik’s body woke him as the sun tried to filter into the bedroom, the single slither of sunlight enough to rouse him. Erik had surprisingly awoken to an empty bed, the patch of mattress dripped in the shape of Charles still warm.

Erik had pulled himself out of bed groggily, tugging on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, before quietly padding out of the bedroom in search of his missing husband. Erik stifled a yawn as he meandered through the hallway, ears pricking up at the sound of clinking glasses in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Miss Kettle,” a whispered voice sounded from the kitchen as Erik neared, consonants soft and vowels gentle like the morning sun drifting through the parted curtains. The voice made Erik pause, the last of his sleep ebbing away. His silent steps came to a stop, Erik lingering outside the threshold of the kitchen and leaning against the plaster wall, small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Please work hard again today,” Charles said quietly, and Erik could imagine the man tapping the side of the kettle as he filled it with water. “You’re going to have to work double since Erik is back. Yes, yes, I know you’re getting old now, but you still do your job perfectly. Oh, of course! Your water comes out perfectly boiled, steaming and wonderful. Don’t sell yourself short, I’m not willing to sell you yet myself. You’ve been with us since my first PhD, I’m quite attached to you, you know. Oh, pish posh, I won’t have you belittle yourself like that, young lady.”

Erik covered his laugh with his hand, heart fluttering as he heard the water begin to boil and whistle.

“Shh, shh, shh, darling! You’ll wake Erik up,” Charles chided in a whispered tone as the kettle’s shrill cry rolled to a full boil, the light clatter of metal against metal cutting the sound off as Charles pulled ‘Miss Kettle’ from the stovetop. “We have to be quiet, I want to let him catch up on his sleep. He was so exhausted last night, we should let him lie in, hm? He’s been working so hard for us lately, he deserves a break.”

A surge in the desire to run into the kitchen and smother Charles with kisses thrummed through Erik, making his toes curl into the soft carpet. Erik contained himself, however, but let himself peek around the corner just in time to catch Charles pouring the boiling water into two mugs - a magenta one with a red E on the side, and a matching dark blue cup with a yellow C.

Erik was entranced as he watched Charles dunk the tea bags a few times, adding a dash of milk to each, his husband soon picking up both mugs and turning back to the kettle.

“Thank you for your hard work once again, Miss Kettle,” Charles murmured, the smile on his face reaching his azure eyes, making his sleep-rumpled visage and fluffy bedhead all the more endearing. “I’ve got to go see if Erik is awake yet, so good bye for now.”

With that, Erik quickly but silently tiptoed his way back to the bedroom, sliding into bed and closing his eyes, controlling his mouth’s urge to grin as he feigned sleep.

Charles soon entered the room, and Erik heard the light clack of a mug being placed on his bedside table, followed by the warm feeling of a kiss being pressed to his forehead.

Opening his eyes, Erik let himself smile as he was met with Charles’s beautiful face, the man’s red lips parting in muted surprise.

“Good morning, Liebling,” Erik said, Charles smiling as he leaned down once again, this time kissing Erik on the lips as he set down his own cup of morning tea to crawl onto the bed, weight of his thighs pressing against Erik’s sides.

“Morning, Erik,” Charles sighed against Erik’s mouth. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

“No,” Erik said, pulling Charles close to him. “Not at all.”

***

The washing machine beeped angrily, and Erik heard Charles curse under his breath, pausing in front of the laundry door on the way to the garage to head out on his daily run. Halfway through fastening his watch, Erik smiled as he heard his husband curse again, not too dissimilar from the way that tongue had curled around a moaned ‘Fuck’ during Erik’s early morning cardio session in bed.

“Don’t make that noise at me, young man,” Charles continued, followed by the noise of more buttons being pressed. “I know it’s early, but I need you to wash these bed sheets, otherwise your father and I will be sleeping on a barren mattress tonight.”

Erik had to bite back the chuckle that threatened to spill from his lips as Charles seemed to wrestle with their temperamental washing machine. The machine was somewhat new - a housewarming gift from Raven - but Charles had struggled to get used to the high-tech device that had options other than just warm wash and cold wash.

It was at times like this, though, that made Erik wonder about having children. Erik had never thought about having kids, about even settling down enough to even consider having them. Having lost his parents young, Erik had always been by himself, not growing attached to places or people, moving between cities and beds.

But then he had met Charles, and everything changed.

Charles had given him a home, back when he was still an undergrad and living in a shitty walk-up that didn’t have a working heater. That apartment had been their first home together, even if at the time Erik was adamant that they were no more than fuck buddies. But fuck buddies turned into friends, then into roommates, to boyfriends, to fiancés and, finally, to husbands.

They hadn’t thought about becoming parents, though. Charles had his hands full with his students, and at times it felt like he already had dozens of kids. And yet, sometimes, Erik would catch him like this, calling their furniture and their appliances his children, and Erik their Papa and…

Erik’s heart squeezed tight.

“Your father’s about to go on a run, you should get a little exercise too,” Charles chirped, punching a few buttons before hopping onto his toes to get the liquid washing detergent from the shelving above. Erik peered around the corner in time to catch the slight glint in Charles’s eye, the twitch in his lips as he thought of something apparently hilarious.

As the barrel inside the washing machine began to turn, Charles gave it a little pat on the lid.

“Good lad, enjoy your spin class,” Charles said, chuckling to himself as Erik’s eyes rolled, though his mouth was curled softly in matched amusement at his silly, adorable, utterly wonderful husband.

Erik was so absorbed in the warm cocoon of his heart that he didn’t notice Charles leaving the laundry, the man almost bumping into right Erik.

“Oh! Erik, you surprised me,” Charles said, not hesitating to slide his arms around Erik’s lithe frame to snuggle him against the wall. Erik’s arms fit around Charles with perfect familiarity, the German man pressing a kiss to Charles’s upturned cheek. “I had thought you already left on your run?”

“I was just about to,” Erik replied softly, Charles tilting his head up further to ask for a kiss, Erik indulging him willingly.

“Bring home some bagels on your way back?” Charles asked hopefully against Erik’s lips, the taller man chuckling.

“Anything for you, Liebling.”

***

When Erik got home from his run, body comfortably tired, he placed the bag of Charles’s favourite bagels on the kitchen counter along with his keys. Glancing around the room in search for his husband, Erik hummed to himself when he saw that it was empty.

Wiping some of his sweat from his face with the hem of his shirt, Erik leisurely made his way through the apartment until he heard the muffled accent of his husband in his study. Erik briefly wondered if the man was talking to Raven or Moira on the phone, but that notion was shot down quickly when Erik looked through the slight gap in the door, silently chuckling.

Charles was sitting at his desk, the papers he had apparently been grading left forgotten as he clapped to himself, the man watching something lazily move across the floor. The thing was near-silent if not for the whisper of a mechanical whir.

“Oh, look at you go!” Charles exclaimed, almost cooing as leaned down on his ornate desk chair, ushering the thing closer. “Come here, girl! Come here! Aw, that’s a good girl!”

The Roomba skittered across the hardwood floors, sucking up the dust and dirt as it went, beginning to approach Charles’s feet. The man giggled as it bumped into his toe, turning in a circle as it recalibrated itself. Charles then laughed at its apparent confusion, now folding himself over to give the device a scratch on its supposed head like it was a puppy.

The Roomba let out a short beep, before turning and sashaying back across the room to find its next pocket of dust.

“My, my, your appetite is quite impressive today,” Charles said, leaning his elbow on the desk as he smiled, watching the Roomba work. “Eat up as much as you can, Roo – you know how Erik is with dust.”

Erik momentarily thought about getting Charles a real dog, imagining his blue eyes widening with love at the tiny creature. He imagined Charles curled up on the couch with the pup on his chest, the two snoozing together. He imagined Charles reading a book with the puppy curled up on his lap. He imagined going on walks with Charles, holding his husband’s hand with his left, the puppy’s leash in the other.

Erik decided that he rather liked those images, filing them away in his mind amongst the many other things he wanted to experience with Charles. Things he would experience with Charles, because they had the rest of their lives to live together, after all. Erik would make sure of it.

But, for now, Erik merely opened the door to the study, Charles immediately looking up with an elated smile on his face, letting out a bright “Erik, you’re home!” Soon, Erik was embracing an armful of Charles, had warm arms draped around his neck, and his favourite pair of berry-red lips on his. “Welcome home, darling. How was your run?”

“Good,” Erik said succinctly, burying his head in Charles’s neck and breathing him in, the man chuckling. Pulling back, Erik kissed Charles on the tip of his nose, his husband’s cheeks warming slightly. “Sorry, I probably smell.”

“You smell like you,” Charles said, nuzzling Erik’s neck in return, and Erik could feel the slope of his husband’s smile against his shoulder. “But, you can go shower. I’ll get the coffee on and reheat those bagels. You did bring the bagels, right?”

“Mm, of course. They’re on the counter,” Erik said, Charles beaming, and disentangling himself with one last kiss to Erik’s cheek.

“Excellent, that’s why I love you, darling,” Charles said, skipping off to the kitchen to claim his bagels, Erik just smiling fondly after him.

Before Erik made his way to the bathroom, he heard Charles begin to speak again, but this time not to him.

No, when Charles spoke he said hello to the coffee machine, good morning to the toaster, and good day to the fridge, while Erik just thought -

And that’s just one of the many reasons why I love you, Charles.

[fanfictionaries]

Oh So Many Years: Ch. 12 - December

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fred Weasley

Summary:

The Yule Ball has been announced and Fred Weasley has made the sinking realization that he’s completely and utterly attracted to Hermione Granger. But is he the only one with seemingly unrequited feelings?

So many questions and yet the biggest one of all: Who is taking Hermione Granger to the ball?

Warnings: Swearing, Death, Smut/18+ NSFW

Author’s Note:

I'M SO SO SO SORRY THIS WAS LATE! The week got away from me and before I knew it, it was Sunday and I hadn't written ANYTHING. So, I ended up writing this entire chapter in one day and fell asleep editing it. I hope you guys like this chapter as much as I do!

I update every week before midnight on Sundays (US MST) (except for this time...ha ha ha...)!

Please feel free to like, comment, and reblog! xoxo

Masterlist

<<Chapter 11

  December come to me I hope I can see You not just in dreams

I will let you be

Why can't you believe

How much you really mean

 Hermione sat in the library, feeling more on edge than she ever had in her life. Krum was due to meet her at any moment and all she could think about was…her face heated just thinking about it. She’d had the dream again. No, not her nightmare. Her nights of fear inducing dreams were long gone ever since she started spending most of her days with the twins. No, she had had the dream again. The one that left her stomach in heated knots and raised her pulse to a terrifying level. While the dream started the same as last time – the library, the couple, the hands on her body and lips kissing up her neck – this time, when she turned to catch a glimpse of the fiery red hair, the world spun around her. It spun and spun until she realized the world wasn’t spinning at all – she was. She was dancing, turning circles in space as the same pair of hands held her close. Her mind fought tooth and nail to catch a glimpse of the mystery man, but it was as if her spine was fused – unable to look anywhere but straight ahead. Who was it and why did they turn her hot and feverish? Why did she melt at just the thought of their embrace?

When she awoke that morning, sweaty and out of breath, she couldn’t ignore the thrumming of her heart at the apex of her thighs. Shifting in her seat, she tried to quell the achy feeling starting to rise just from the brief memory of her subconscious escapades. Fully expecting to become a jumbled mess of embarrassment and arousal, she was nervous to see Ron in History of Magic that morning. However, much to her pleasure and confusion, when she saw him, she felt nothing more than a slight heat on her face which she attributed to nerves over how she might feel, rather than a true reaction due to her dream. Perhaps her ability to compose herself was better than she thought. The possibility quelled her racing mind, but she couldn’t ignore the small nagging voice in the back of her head that said she knew more than one person with red hair.

“Hello, боец, you are vell, yes?” Krum’s voice broke Hermione from her thoughts. She jumped, dropping the heavy book in her hands onto the parchment covered table with a muffled thud.

“Viktor hello. Yes, I’m doing quite well,” greeted Hermione breathlessly. “I can call you Viktor, correct?”

“You can call me vhatever you vant, боец,” said Viktor, giving her a reserved smile that Hermione found to be quite charming.

“Ah, yes. Well, I suppose if we’re going to be studying together, I should probably introduce myself properly—” she extended a hand to him “—Hello Viktor, my name is Hermione Granger. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Hermy-own?” said Viktor with great difficulty as he shook her hand. His full lips twisted and stumbled over the vowels and consonants.

Hermione laughed nervously. “No, no. Hermione. Like this: Her-my-oh-nee,” she spoke slowly, sounding out her name bit by bit.

Viktor’s brows scrunched in concentration as he repeated her to the best of his abilities, “Her-my-oh-ninny.”

“Close enough,” sighed Hermione in good nature, gesturing for Viktor to take a seat across from her.

He surprised her by seating himself in the chair next to her with ease. Or at least as much ease as possible for the tall Bulgarian. He was surprisingly uncoordinated for someone who flew with such grace on the quidditch field. The one advantage to seeing Viktor Krum off of his broom, however, was the ability to see just how handsome he was. He had a very pleasing face, with a broad brow, sharp cheekbones, strong nose, and equally strong jawline. Yes, he was really quite handsome, Hermione thought indulgently as she observed him. His black hair was cropped exceedingly short, which Hermione thought was a shame – she quite liked the way longer hair looked on men. Feeling as though she had been staring for much too long, Hermione turned back to her book as Viktor pulled out a notebook, quill, and ink.

“This library – it is much larger than the one at home,” commented Viktor casually.

Hermione looked up from her book again and glanced around at the tall shelves, expansive stone walls, and large tapestries. “Really? What is your school like?” she asked curiously. While she had read everything she could on Durmstrang, she had been left wanting – the Bulgarians were quite secretive.

“Vell, it is a castle much like yours, but it is much smaller. Ve have less students, I am thinking. The library is smaller, but you do not have all the same books here, I have noticed. Ve do not have a, what you call a restricted section,” said Viktor thoughtfully.

“Really?” asked Hermione in surprise.

“Yes. Ve do not view knowledge as good or bad at Durmstrang. Just knowledge.”

“I’ve always thought the same thing,” said Hermione excitedly, mindful to keep her volume low with her increased enthusiasm. She didn’t need to be kicked out of the library a second time that year. “I think knowledge should be accessible to everyone. Sure, some things can be quite vile, but it’s not the magic that makes the witch or wizard bad and a bad person will find the information out one way or another if they really want it. Tell me more about Durmstrang.”

“It gets very cold in the vinters and the fires are only lit for classes and such. So ve vear heavy cloaks to keep us varm. But in the spring and summer, you should see the grounds. Vhile our castle is smaller than yours, the grounds are triple the size! Ve vill fly for hours over the mountains and lakes. It is beautiful,” said Viktor proudly. Hermione tried to imagine a school with grounds triple the size of Hogwarts. She already felt like the space around her school was expansive.

“That sounds lovely,” responded Hermione with a smile.

“Do you fly, Herm-own-ninny?”

“Oh no—” Hermione chuckled bashfully “—I’m quite afraid of heights if I’m being honest. But I love quidditch. I think the sport is so fascinating. The theory and tactics behind it are very interesting and of course the talent it takes to fly the way some players do is very impressive. Like you, for example—”

Viktor raised his dark, thick brows in surprise.

“—I saw you at the world cup, you know. You’re an excellent flyer. Even Harry agreed. He was quite impressed with your…oh what was it…oh! The Wronski Feint. Does that sound right?”

“Yes, yes! That is vone of my favorites. Unfortunately, ve did not vin…” Viktor trailed off, frowning as if the loss of the world cup was still a freshly open wound.

“Yes, but you ended things on your own terms,” said Hermione, remembering Harry’s explanation for Viktor’s catching of the snitch while Ireland was up by 160 points.

Viktor perked up at her comment. “Yes, that’s exactly it! Ve vould not be able to catch up, I knew that. Their chasers vere too good.”

“So, you caught the snitch to end the game with only a loss of ten point, as opposed to three hundred and ten,” concluded Hermione, settling comfortably into her seat. She felt much more relaxed now than she did when Viktor had first sat down.

Viktor smiled at her in appraisal. “That is exactly vhat I did. You are very smart Harmony. Smart and strong.”

Hermione blushed at his compliment, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, and looking down at her textbook shyly. Still, she couldn’t fight off the smile that formed on her face at his praise. They were silent for a moment, both of them turning to their work to fill the time. Afterall, they were there to study.

Hermione was just finishing her chapter when Viktor spoke again, “Have you heard of the ball that is happening at Christmas time?”

Hermione looked up, finding an earnest Viktor staring back at her. “Yes, they announced it formally last night with some unfortunate dance lessons as well. Did you have something similar?”

“No, ve at Durmstrang learn how to dance first and second year. It is expected that ve know how, for formal events vhen ve are older,” said Viktor.

“How fortunate,” said Hermione. “I was lucky enough to have my dad teach me a bit when I was younger. My mum and dad like to play the radio in the kitchen and sometimes on Sunday mornings my dad will pull me away from whatever I’m reading at the table and make me dance with him.” She smiled at the memory, feeling a small pang of homesickness. It was high time she sent her parents a letter – with all her extra time spent with Fred and George her weekly letters home had dissolved into a dismal once or twice a month.

“That sounds very nice,” responded Viktor genuinely before clearing his throat and looking down at his folded hands on the table. “Perhaps you vould like to accompany me to the ball?”

“Pardon?” Hermione pulled out of her innocent musing of home with confusion. Surely, she must have heard him wrong because she could have sworn Viktor Krum just asked her to the Yule Ball.

“The ball – vould you like to go vith me?”

The question hung in the air – Viktor looking expectantly at Hermione as she tried to comprehend it. Viktor Krum wanted to go to the Yule Ball with her?

“Why?” The question blurted out before she could stop herself.

Krum blinked in surprise. He took a moment to mull her words before answering, “Vell, I think you are very pretty. You are very smart, and you have the heart of a fighter. Vhy not?”

Hermione was struck – mouth gaping and brain short-circuiting. Viktor Krum thought she was pretty. Out of all the girls in the school to pick, and there were many available girls as the ball was only announced the day before, and he chose her. Answer him you daft airhead, her brain screamed as she still delayed her response.

“Of course, if you already are going with someone then—”

“No, no. I’m not,” Hermione reassured him in a panicky manner.

“Then you are just not interested or…?”

“No—I just…Can I have some time to…think about it or something?”

Krum stared hard at her for a moment, before nodding with a small smile.

“It’s not that I don’t want to go with you—” Hermione sat forward, running her hands through her frizzy curls and pushing them out of her face as she rambled “—it’s just I don’t know you very well. Perhaps we should get to know each other a bit more first. It’s important that we know each other before we decide to go together, otherwise we’d get there and risk finding out that we can’t stand each other. But please don’t think that I’m just delaying an inevitable ‘no’ to be nice. I swear—”

“Of course, Herm-oh-nee. Take all the time you need. Until then, ve vill spend more time together. Yes?”

Hermione was grateful for the interruption of her nervous babbling. Any second longer and she was sure to make such a fool of herself that Viktor might rescind his offer. “Yes, I would like that.”

Viktor stood, collecting his things, and placing them in his bag. Hermione glanced at the large grandfather clock across the study area and noticed it was almost time for Charms. She stood too, placing her book in her bag. Once the two were packed up, they headed towards the exit of the library. It was just outside the large double doors that the two parted ways, headed in opposite directions of the castle for class. Expecting his usual bow of departure, Hermione was surprised when instead Viktor grabbed her right hand in his and brought the back of it up to his lips. She blushed something furious, her face growing hot as embers as his soft lips brushed the sensitive skin. Then he was gone, and she was left to gawk in his direction as a bubbling glee built up in her chest.

The joyous moment was cut short however by her two troublesome shadows.

“My, my, my…was that Viktor Krum?” asked one twin as the two of them rounded the corner.

“You know, you two really must stop spying on me. It’s getting sad and weird,” said Hermione, rolling her eyes and turning away from the two ginger boys as she headed in the direction of her Charms class.

“Excuse you missy. We were not spying. We were merely walking by and decided to stop and watch the show,” said who she now recognized as George.

“Hmmm,” responded Hermione flatly, continuing to walk.

“So, what did Viktor want?” asked George.

“None of your business George Fabian Weasley.”

“I’m wounded—” George held a hand up to his heart “—we simply want to be a part of your life, Hermione. You know, be good friends and all.”

“Sure, you do,” she grumbled.

“I don’t think she believed me. Back me up, Freddie,” said George turning to his brother.

Hermione waited to hear Fred’s familiar sarcastic quip and cheeky tone but was surprised when all he did was give a distracted hum. She turned her head, looking at Fred fully for the first time. Catching his hazel eyes, he looked at her with an indistinguishable expression. Her heart clenched painfully in her chest and the heat that had occupied her face shot south, leaving a burning sensation in her lower stomach. Oh no, thought Hermione quickly looking away from Fred and instead focusing on the grey stone beneath her feet. They reached the Charms classroom a moment later, much to her relief. She made to head into the room, but a long arm extended in front of her, blocking her path.

“I have class. Can’t you just save your routine till tonight? I’ll laugh and everything,” promised Hermione, trying her best to keep her voice light and not show the inner turmoil she was currently experiencing.

“About that – change of plans.”

“What? Are we not meeting at the usual place?”

“No, Fred and I have a bit of a surprise for you—” George looked to his twin with a pointed stare “—isn’t that right Freddie?”

Fred, who had been staring off down the hall, turned to his brother and nodded distractedly. If Hermione hadn’t been trying so desperately to get away from Frederick Weasley and into the safety of her classroom, she would have noted his odd behavior. But instead, she raised a curious brow at George.

“Right—” George stared at his twin with an odd expression before looking back down at Hermione “—meet us in the common room after dinner and make sure to bring Harry and Ron along as well. It’s really a surprise for all three of you.”

“Okay, yeah, we’ll be there,” Hermione said before ducking under George’s arm and disappearing into the classroom. She found Harry and Ron already seated a few rows back from the front and took her chair between the two of them.

“Are you alright, Hermione?” asked Harry as she stared down at the desk in front of her breathing deeply in through her nose.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she squeaked, before taking out her notebook and writing utensils.

It all made sense and simultaneously no sense at all. Fred was the person in her dreams. It explained the dancing certainly. It also explained the timing. The first time she’d had the dream was the night Fred found her in the hallway and walked her back to the tower. He had held her in his arms that night, even held her hand. At the time she thought nothing of it, but clearly her subconscious had been squirreling away those brief moments of contact and saving them to manifest in an entirely different way. No – this was not good. She didn’t like Fred! He was loud and obnoxious and troublesome. He wasted his potential and squandered his talents. Two things she wholeheartedly disagreed with. He pushed her buttons and got her into trouble. How could she possible like him as anything more than a friend?

The rest of the day went by in a blur, all of Hermione’s waking thoughts dedicated to Frederick Weasley in the worst possible way. By the time dinner was over and she found herself in the common room with Harry and Ron, she had come to decision. She did not like Fred. It was simply her subconscious playing a cruel trick on her. Dreams didn’t mean anything anyways – even if they did happen twice. Dreams were simply an amalgamation of your conscious memories and thoughts mixed into an incoherent jumble as your brain tried to process them at night. They weren’t accurate representations of ones waking feelings. They held zero stake in reality.

Unfortunately, that didn’t keep her heart from stopping when Fred and George emerged from the portrait hole with wide grins as they chuckled mischievously.

“What’s got you two so chuffed?” asked Ron, pulling a chocolate frog from his pocket, and opening the package.

“Just ran into Adrian Pucey in the hallway—”

“—struck him with a nasty sticking charm.”

“Won’t be going anyways for a while,” laughed George, leaning on the back of the couch to peer down at the work in Hermione’s hand. She’d dedicated this time in her day to working on the Canary Creams and was still determined to do so, change of plans or not.

“You can’t do that by the way,” stated George casually as he pointed over her shoulder to a bit of Charms work detailed on the page.

“Excuse you,” sneered Hermione, pushing his hand away. “And just why do you say that?” she asked taking offense.

“Because I’m the Charms master, remember?”

Hermione sighed, knowing begrudgingly that George was right. He was very well adept at Charms work – even better than herself. Slamming the notebook shut, she placed it on a side table and stood.

“Well – what’s this surprise then?” she asked digging into her pocket to distract herself from the two tall ginger boys in front of her. Her fingers closed around one of the hundreds of sugar quills Fred gave her and she pulled it out satisfactorily.

“The whole point of a surprise, my dear Hermione—” began George.

“—is to surprise you with it—" continued Fred.

“—not just tell you!” the two finished together before turning and heading back towards the portrait hole. Ron and Harry followed them, Hermione hanging back as she unwrapped the sugar quill and placed it in her mouth. She trailed behind the four of them as they traveled deeper down into the castle.

“Hey,” said Fred, dropping behind to walk beside her as George boldly led the way.

“Hi,” Hermione responded shyly, worrying the candy in her mouth to calm herself.

“Alright?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

“You?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”

“Good.”

Hermione felt stiff and uncomfortable, like at any moment her skeleton would relieve itself from its fleshy prison, shedding her skin and running as fast it could from Fred and this painful conversation. The worst part of it was that she knew why she was being weird, but why on earth was he in such a strange mood? For a brief moment, the mortifying thought that perhaps he knew about the dream, flashed into her head, but she quickly brushed it away. That was impossible. There was no way he could know.

The four of them continued further into the castle, heading down stairway after stairway until they were in its deep underbelly. It was when they found themselves in a large, well-lit corridor – the walls adorned with portraits of food – that Hermione realized where they were headed. Harry seemed to have the same realization as he groaned, turning around the look at her.

“Hermione…this isn’t another S.P.E.W. thing, is it?”

“Please don’t let it be a spew thing, Hermione. How many times have I told you – it’s no use! House elves like to work!” exclaimed Ron.

“First of all, it’s not called spew—”

“Oh, what is it now then – the House Elf Liberation Front?” asked Ron sarcastically with a roll of his eyes.

“It’s the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare thank you very much, and secondly in case you didn’t remember, I’m not the one dragging us down here. They are!” She pointed to Fred and George who now held amused grins on their faces.

“Quit your fighting and come on you lot,” laughed George coming to a halt in front of a picture of a large fruit bowl and ticking the green pear. The fruit squirmed and giggled until it turned into a large green door handle. George grabbed hold of the handle and pulled the door open to reveal the cavernous kitchens. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what she imagined the Hogwarts kitchens would look like, but it definitely wasn’t the enormous space in front of her. With ceilings almost as tall as the Great Hall, it seemed to host everything you could even want or need to make a large feast.

“Harry Potter! Oh, it’s Harry Potter!” a squeaky voice yelled out before Hermione heard Harry let out a guttural yelp. Turning to her best friend she saw Harry standing there with a small house elf nearly wrapped entirely around his middle, holding him tightly.

“Dobby?” Harry gasped in surprise.

“Yes sir! Dobby has been waiting and hoping Harry Potter would visit him and now he has!”

Dobby released Harry, stepping back, and allowing Hermione to get a full view of the infamous house elf Harry had told her so much about. He appeared to live up to his description. Long thin nose and batlike ears. However, instead of the filthy pillowcase Harry had described, he donned the strangest assortment of clothing Hermione had ever seen. Dobby wore what appeared to be a tea cozy adorned with brightly colored badges on his head like a hat, a patterned tie with no shirt, shorts, and mismatched socks. However, despite his strange fashion sense, Hermione found Dobby to be quite appealing. His enthusiastic personality and overwhelming love for Harry was enough to make her fond of the little house elf – no matter how odd he was.

“What are you doing here Dobby?” asked Harry.

“Dobby works here, sir! At Hogwarts! Professor Dumbledore has given Dobby and Winky jobs!” proclaimed the small elf proudly. Hermione perked up at the mention of a second house elf she was familiar with.

“Winky’s here?” she asked looking around her to try and spot the poor disgraced house elf she’d met so many months ago.

“Thought that would interest you, Hermione,” said Fred in a knowing manner. “She’s over there by the fire. But be warned, she’s not in a great mood.”

“Or at least she wasn’t when we were here yesterday,” added George with a grimace.

Rounding the corner, Hermione was greeted with a large crowd of busying house elves. They bowed and greeted her kindly as she passed them, spotting a small and slumped figure on a stool by the fire.

“Winky?” she asked hesitantly.

The little creature turned, looking a complete and utter mess. While dressed unarguably more fashionable than Dobby, in a matching blouse and skirt, her clothes were dirty and wrinkled. One look and Hermione could tell she was a very unhappy house elf. That sentiment was only confirmed when Winky burst into large, hysterical tears.

“Winky, oh Winky, please don’t cry,” pleaded Hermione, rushing forwards and placing a hand on Winky’s shoulder. Winky only cried harder. Unsure of what to do, Hermione stepped to the side, allowing Harry to take the lead. She watched in rapt horror as Winky, Bartemius Crouch’s ex-house elf wailed at her failure as a good, loyal elf. The whole thing was so upsetting. So upsetting, in fact, that by the time they left the kitchens – after Harry promised Dobby about a thousand times that they would visit – she was in a whole new kind of bad mood.

“Cheer up, Hermione. Winky will be alright eventually,” said Ron casually as they strode through the halls back up to Gryffindor tower.

“It’s just absolutely horrid. I can’t believe that anyone has allowed this to go on for so long,” cried Hermione, throwing her hands up in the air.

“Now, now. You’re forgetting that house elves like to work. It’s their way. Their tradition,” said Fred, slinging an arm over her and squeezing her shoulder kindly. A gesture that would usually calm and reassure her, made Hermione jump out of her skin, pulling away from Fred and his touch that filled her with new sensations and confusion.

“Yes, and why is that Frederick? Because they’ve been used as slaves by wizarding kind for so long that they’ve been generationally brainwashed into thinking that working for nothing and being treated horribly is some sort of badge of honor!” she shouted at Fred, all of her conflicting feeling bubbling up into one unanimous feeling of anger.

Fred gawked in surprise before responding with equal annoyance, “Well if they were truly so unhappy, they would say so like Dobby. Clearly, they’re smart enough to think for themselves or Dobby wouldn’t be walking around asking to be paid for his work!”

“But even Dobby said he’s been looking for a job for over a year. No one wants to pay a house elf to do work when they ask for it! Don’t you think there should be laws to help him with that kind of discrimination?”

“Sure, but he’s different! If more elves wanted rights, then there would be a demand. But seeing as it’s ONE house elf out of thousands it doesn’t really make sense that they would rewrite legislature,” scoffed Fred.

“But if there was new legislature then perhaps they’d feel more inclined to break away like Dobby—” Hermione ran a hand over her hair, feeling it already growing ten times its size as her anger increased “—you know what? Clearly you are all either too thick or too heartless to understand.”

Pushing past their group she charged forward, determined to put some space between herself and the lot.

“Hermione!” one of the twins called after her.

“Just let her go. She gets like this, but she always gets over it,” said Ron.

“Hermione!” the twin called again, ignoring Ron’s comment.

Continuing to march ahead of them, she made it as far as the end of the hallway before a pair of arms wrapped around her middle and lifted her into the air. Hermione let out a cry of surprise and then a ragged grunt as her stomach made contact with one of the boys’ shoulders. Sputtering in indignation, she attempted to brush her hair out of her face enough to figure out who had the audacity to pick her up. Finally making a part in the curtain of her curls she saw Ron, Harry, and George laughing as they caught up.

“Frederick Gideon Weasley, you put me down right this instant!” yelled Hermione, pounding her fists on his back,

“You three go on ahead. Miss Granger seems to have her knickers in a horrible twist. Just needs a moment to decompress. We’ll catch up,” said Fred casually as Ron, Harry, and George looked down at her in amusement.

“Are you three really just going to let him do this?” Hermione asked, looking up at them with pleading eyes.

They pondered her request for a moment, before George gave her a sweet smile and bopped her on the end of the nose with his pointer finger. “Yep.”

Ron was next, rubbing a hand on top of her head and messing up her curls. “Good luck, Hermione,” he chuckled before disappeared around Fred.

Harry was last, smiling the widest. “I hate to say it, but he’s right. Sorry, Hermione,” he said giving her a small wave and disappearing as well.

Hermione listened to their fading steps as they turned the corner and left for the tower. Then, Fred began to walk, and Hermione let her head hang once again, tired from the strain of keeping it upright.

“Where exactly are you taking me?” she questioned, feeling all the blood in her body rush to her head.

“Hush now. No talking,” said Fred gripping her legs tighter. Hermione tried not to focus on the way his grip sat dangerously close to the top of her knee-high socks. Instead, she focused on the ground moving below her and the backs of Fred’s shoes as he walked down hallways and corridors. It felt like they’d been walking forever when he finally lifted her off of his shoulder and deposited her down onto the ground. She stumbled, all the blood rushing back to her limbs and making her faint. Fred caught her, grabbing her by the upper arms and keeping her vertical. After a few moments he released his hold, instead reaching up and brushing her messy hair out of her face. He smiled down at her as he did so, making Hermione’s heart stutter as he tucked the pieces behind her ears.

“So…” Fred sighed looking down at her and then to his left, staring hard at the wall. Hermione followed his gaze to see what he was staring at and realized just where Fred had taken them. It was the painting he’d found her at, those few months ago.

“Why…?” she drifted off, confused as to why he had brought her there of all places.

“Well last time I found you here you were upset. I figured it might be a good place to take you. Clearly something’s bothering you—” he brought a hand up to scratch the back of his neck nervously “—I’ll just…leave you to it then.”

He made to walk away but before Hermione could stop herself, she called out to him. Fred halted in his tracks and turned back to her. “You can stay…if you’d like,” Hermione said softly, turning away from him and sitting down gently on the cold stone. She heard the shuffling of shoes before she felt Fred take a seat next to her. Hermione stared at the painting with unwavering concentration. Just like last time, the field had metamorphosized into an entirely new vision. While previously it had housed a mixture of many flowers on a bright sunny day, now it showed her nothing but thousands upon thousands of purple lilacs with an overcast sky.

“Viktor Krum asked me to the ball,” Hermione blurted. She didn’t know why she felt the need to tell him. She hadn’t planned on telling anyone – at least not until she made her decision. But something about the moment, the painting, and it being Fred, made her want to tell him more than anything.

Hermione expected him to be surprised. She expected him to look at her incredulously – perhaps call her a liar. Instead he smiled and gave her a look that said: ‘I could have guessed that’ before asking, “Is that what’s got you all in a twist? Worried you made the wrong choice by saying yes?”

“I didn’t say yes.”

That did surprise Fred. “What? You said no then?” he asked, a glint in his eye that if Hermione knew any better, she could have sworn looked something akin to hope.

“No – I told him I’d think about it.”

Fred laughed.

“What?” asked Hermione defensively.

Fred wiped a tear from under his right eye before catching his breath and answering, “Nothing, it’s just…only you would tell an international quidditch player ‘maybe’ when he asks you to a ball.”

“I want to make sure his intentions are right.”

“What? Want to make sure he’s not just trying to get into your knickers?” asked Fred with another laugh.

“More like I want to make sure he actually likes me and isn’t just trying to get to Harry,” admitted Hermione with a whisper. Looking at her hands, she worried the inside of her bottom lip. She felt foolish for her confession, but Fred had the annoying ability to put her at such ease that she blurted out all her worries before she even knew what she was doing.

“Hey—” Fred brought a hand up, grabbing ahold of her chin softly and turning her to face him “—why would you think a silly thing like that?” He smoothed his thumb over her skin, pulling her lip from out between her teeth as he frowned at her.

“I just…why would he like me? I’m nothing special.”

“Nothing special? Hermione Granger, I never want to hear those words come out of your mouth again. Nothing special, she says,” Fred scoffed.

“Well, it’s true! My hair is a ratty nest, I’m skinny and knobby, and plain and freckly—”

“What’s wrong with freckly?” asked Fred accusingly before breaking out into a wry grin.

Hermione laughed. “You know what I mean,” she said, aware now that Fred’s hand had never left her face. Instead it found it’s home cupping the side of her cheek sweetly.

“No. I don’t think I do because…well because when I look at you, Hermione, I don’t see a knobby plain girl with ratty hair.”

“You don’t?” Hermione’s heart leapt into her throat. Suddenly the space between them seemed much too close but not close enough. Fred’s eyes scanned her face, flitting from her forehead to her lips before landing back on her eyes as she waited with bated breath for him to speak again.

“No.”

“What do you see?”

Fred hesitated, swallowing audibly as his sight flitted once again from her eyes to her lips and back up. “I see a beautiful girl with a wild mane and an equally wild fierceness. I see a beautiful girl that any man would be lucky to take to the ball,” said Fred, his voice a low timbre.

Hermione let out a shuddering breath. “What if…” she began, but stopped, unsure of whether to say next what she wanted to.

“Yes?” asked Fred, pushing her on.

“What if…what if I didn’t say yes because I was secretly hoping someone else might ask me?”

Fred deflated at Hermione’s question. Releasing her face, he dropped his hand and looked off to the painting once again as he sighed. For a brief moment he thought he saw what looked like disappointment on Hermione’s face, but that couldn’t be. Not when she’d just confessed, she said no to Viktor Krum because she hoped Ron would ask her to the ball. Still, it was probably for the best. He was taking Angelina after all – he hadn’t asked her yet of course, but she had made it exceedingly clear after Professor McGonagall’s abysmal dance lesson that she expected them to go together.

“I was thinking purple,” said Angelina, leaning lazily into Fred’s side as he stared into the fire of the Gryffindor common room.

“Huh?” he asked dumbly, Angelina’s comment pulling him out of a deep concentration. He’d been thinking about Hermione. He was…always thinking about Hermione.

“For my dress for the ball. Purple – I like purple. It’s my favorite color, you know?”

“I didn’t know. Is it really?” asked Fred, looking down and wrapping an arm around Angelina’s waist.

“It is. I figured you’d want to know now so you’ll know how to match your dress robes.”

“I think…” began Fred, speaking slowly and choosing his words carefully. “I think that if you’re holding out for someone else and you’re not 100% sold on Krum, then you should wait.”

“Really?” asked Hermione, looking at him with those wide, Firewhisky brown eyes.

“Yeah, make Krum sweat it out for a bit. I’m sure he isn’t used to having to work for dates – it’ll be good for him. And it’ll give this other bloke some time, maaaybe he has something special planned for you.”

Hermione stared at him speculatively. “You say that as if you already know,” she said with an earnest, vulnerable expression on her face.

“I have it on good authority that by the end of next week you’ll have more than one invitation to the ball, ‘Mione. Trust me,” he winked, trying to keep a cool composure and not show the inappropriate disappointment he currently felt.

They continued to sit and stare at the painting above them for a while longer until Hermione broke the silence once again, “What about you?”

“What about me?” asked Fred, continuing to stare straight ahead.

“Well, I couldn’t help but notice you’ve been…off today. Something bothering you?”

Fred breathed deeply. “You remember how we won all that money off Ludo Bagman at the world cup?” he asked.

Hermione nodded.

“Well, the arsehole paid us in leprechaun gold. We’ve tried to get in touch with him since, but he’s been dodging us and well…not only do we not have the money he owed us, but we also don’t have the money we gave him either. It’s why supplies are so tight for the business,” he admitted, remembering when Hermione had asked why they weren’t putting their development efforts into more than just one thing at a time.

The soft touch of Hermione’s hand on his brought Fred’s attention away from the painting. Briefly he looked down at the place where their hands were entangled. He should stop her. The touch while friendly in nature, did nothing to quell the stirring attraction in the pit of his stomach. But he didn’t. Instead he allowed himself to indulge in the small bit of intimacy. After all, it was innocent enough.

“Have you considered writing to him and reminding him just how serious unsanctioned gambling is in Britain? I’m sure he’d like to know how…consequential it would be if someone in the Ministry found out he’d been gambling illegally at the cup, especially with at least two underage wizards,” said Hermione.

Fred look at her incredulously. Had he really heard her say what he thought he did? “Are you suggesting blackmail, Miss Granger?”

“I’m just saying that if I were Ludo Bagman, I’d like to keep my job at the Ministry. How he chooses to do so, is entirely up to him.” She said the words so casually, you would have thought she was discussing an article in the Daily Prophet – not the plotting of blackmailing a Ministry official. But Fred didn’t miss the evil glint of mischief in her eye as she stared at him impishly. Good god, he did not deserve Hermione Granger.

And neither did his little brother, thought Fred as he sought out Ron that afternoon. It was Wednesday – a week and half till the ball and he had a mission. Despite his feelings towards Hermione and the thought of Ron being not nearly worthy of her, he knew that what Hermione wanted was for his idiot of a brother to ask her to the ball. So, he was going to make sure just that happened. He found Ron on the grounds, under a tree near the black lake with Harry and Hermione. Despite the snow and freezing temperatures, the three were huddled up arguing about something as a small blue flame floated near them. Wrapping his robes around him tightly, Fred trudged through the snow towards the three of them.

“What’s this then? Not you three freezing your arses off in the snow when there’s a perfectly good castle just over there!” he called out to them, breaking the small trio out of whatever spat they were in.

“Hullo to you too,” called Harry.

“What do you want?” asked Ron.

“Oi. Very rude! I can’t come and see my favorite baby brother?”

“Is it me that you want?” questioned Ron, sending a glance in Hermione’s direction.

“Actually yes—” Fred dug his hands deep into his pockets “—mind if we…” He gestured behind him and Ron stood with a huff – clearly put out by having to pause his conversation.

Fred walked a distance from where Harry and Hermione sat before he stopped and turned to Ron.

“What?” asked Ron again, looking down at him expectantly. Merlin, when did he get so tall? wondered Fred.

“Have you got yourself a date to the ball yet?”

“Why do you care mate?” laughed Ron, looking around like he expected George to pop up at any moment and pummel him with snowballs.

“I’m just saying, time’s running out and before you know it, the ones you really want to ask will be taken,” he said sending a purposeful look towards Hermione.

“What? Hermione? Don’t be ridiculous,” squeaked Ron.

It took every last ounce of his strength, for Fred to not throttle Ron for his stupidity. Here he was trying to do a nice thing for Hermione and subsequently his little brother and what did he get in return? He was Father bloody Christmas at this point.

“Listen – you can say whatever you want, but your little crush on Hermione—”

“—I don’t have a crush on Hermione—”

“—your little crush on Hermione isn’t as big of a secret to some. So, I advise you ask her before somebody else does.”

Ron scoffed, “Sure.”

“Hey—” Fred held his hands up in defeat “—I’m just saying. And now that I’ve said my peace, my moral obligation is done, and I can leave you to it. Don’t cock it up, mate.”

Ron looked at Fred like he was a strange creature from the depths of the Black Lake itself. “Okay…well if that’s all, I’m gonna head back. Weirdo…” Ron breathed the last sentiment as he turned away from Fred and headed back towards Harry and Hermione.

Fred shook his head, having the sinking feeling that Ron would, in fact, cock it up.

And he’d been right. Two days later and Ron had yet to ask Hermione to the ball. Even worse, he had it on good authority – from some gossiping third year girls – that Krum had approached Hermione on the grounds the day before. For all he knew, Krum had asked her again and the poor girl had said yes because at this point it was so close to the day of the ball that she probably thought Ron would never ask! Fred glared down at the parchment in front of him and then over to Ron who was seated on the couch between Harry and Hermione. Scratching a quick note onto a bit of spare parchment, he crumpled it and threw it in Ron’s direction. Ron picked it up, unfolding the note and reading it out loud.

“Hurry up and ask someone before all the good ones are taken. Who are you taking the ball then?” Ron asked in annoyance.

Fred looked from Ron to Angelina who sat at a nearby table with Alicia working on her potions essay. Crumpling up another piece of parchment, he sent it flying in Angelina’s direction. She looked up at him with a tired expression when the paper landed on a bit of ink not yet dried.

“What?” Angelina asked.

“Fancy going to the ball with me, Johnson? I think we’d make a rather good-looking pair.”

Angelina smiled widely, looking excitedly at Alicia before turning back to Fred and nodding enthusiastically. “Yes, I’d love to Fred.”

George clapped a hand on Fred’s back in congratulations which he gracefully took. Really it wasn’t the most romantic thing. Perhaps it would have been more romantic if Angelina hadn’t already decided they were going together. But at least he’d asked her. Fred shot a smug grin and wink in Ron’s direction. While the irritated expression on Ron’s face was expected, the look on Hermione’s face was not. She almost seemed upset as their eyes met momentarily, but before Fred could properly tell, she looked away.

“Say…Hermione…” began Ron.

Alright, not off to a great start, but it’s something, thought Fred as he listened closely.

“Yes?” asked Hermione, looking at Ron in trepidation.

“You’re a girl…”

“Very well spotted,” Hermione said, giving him a confused look.

“Well, why don’t we go together?”

Yes! He’d done it! Just when he thought Ron didn’t have it in him, he overstepped Fred’s expectations. Fred was almost tempted to walk over and pull him into a hug, but then all temptation was erased at what he heard next.

“Really?” asked Hermione in surprise.

“Yeah. I mean it’s one thing for a guy to show up alone, but for a girl it’s just sad.”

No…no, no, no. Fred groaned, laying his head in his hands. George winced beside him, knowing that a comment like that absolutely would not fly with Hermione.

“What makes you think I’d be going alone?” asked Hermione – a seemingly innocent question, but Fred knew that behind it, lurked only bad things for Ron.

“I mean, come on…” remarked Ron, faltering a bit when he saw the rage in Hermione’s eyes. Just when Fred thought it couldn’t get any worse…

“For your information. I won’t be going alone because somebody already asked me…” Fred looked up when Hermione hesitated. While he knew it wasn’t really any of his business, a part of him was wildly curious as to what the next thing she had to say was. Hermione seemed to agree with his involvement, for her eyes landed on him for the briefest of moments before she looked back at Ron and seethed her answer, “And I said yes.”

Christmas morning came without a hitch. The term had been over for nearly a week now and Fred could finally focus all of his time and effort into working out the remaining kinks of the Canary Creams. In fact, he’d spent the last week cooped up in the small classroom that was their work area, reading and brewing. George had been there quite a bit as well, but he often snuck out to the kitchens or to play a few rounds of exploding snap with Lee. Usually Fred would go too, but with the added company of Hermione he found he didn’t mind staying behind to continue working. Hermione had almost no qualms with spending most of her time hidden away in their workspace as she was still vexed with Ron over his disastrous attempt to ask her to the ball. While Fred felt bad that it didn’t work out the way he planned, he hated to admit that a small part of him was happy Ron wasn’t taking Hermione to the Yule Ball. She was too good for him, he told himself resolutely.

Fred rolled over in his bed and pulled back the curtains to see the sky still inky black. Winter mornings were always so bleak and dismal. He preferred summer when he woke with the sun. But still, the cheer and excitement that came with Christmas morning left him wide awake and so he sat up excitedly, ready to see what presents were waiting for him. The pile at the end of his bed looked its usual size except for a rather large box at the very bottom. He wondered for a moment who that could be from. Did his mother hit her head and forget they were poor? he pondered, reaching out and grabbing the first present from the top. Looking at the tag, he recognized it was from Angelina. He smiled, knowing with a chagrin that it was most likely sweets. She always got him and George sweets – despite Fred mentioning many times that he didn’t care for candy all that much. Tearing the wrapping, he was pleasantly surprised to find not candy, but a small golden compass for his broom. They had seen it in a shop last Hogsmeade weekend. Fred had innocently mentioned he’d quite like a compass for his broom, but never did he imagine Angelina would buy it for him. Amusedly, he thought of the present he got her. That same Hogsmeade visit she’d spent hours eyeing a scarf in a little side shop. When she wasn’t looking, he’d snuck back and purchased it for her. Placing the compass gently to the side, he dug into the rest of his presents. A big box of chocolate frogs from Lee, a sweater from his mum and dad along with some fudge, and a year-long subscription to Jokester’s Magazine from Alicia. All in all, a good turn out – but there was still one present he had yet to open. A big box that simply read: To Fred and George, From Hermione.

Fred reached for the box and then stopped. Looking over at the closed curtains of George’s bed, he wondered if he should open the present when it was meant for him and George. Really, he should wait for George to wake up and open the present together, thought Fred before grabbing the corner of the wrapping and tearing it open. Ridding the large box of its wrappings, he pulled off the lid of the box to reveal a number of small vials and boxes.

“What?” Fred pondered out loud.

“Oi! You started with out me, ya git,” grumbled George, pulling back his curtains and glaring at Fred.

“Come and see what Hermione’s got us Georgie. I’m not quite sure what it is.”

George groaned, rolling out his bed with a heavy thump of his feet and shuffling over to him. George stared down at the contents of the box and reached in. His fingers closed around a vial of deep blue color. Turning it over and reading the card attached to the top George read aloud: “Billywig sting—" George reached in and grabbed a box this time “—dried mandrake root. Freddie, I think the girls gone and bought us potions ingredients for Christmas.”

“Really?!” Fred asked excitedly, reaching down, and grabbing a jar of newt spleen. Sure enough, it looked like the box was filled with a bit of ingredients Fred had ever heard of and then a few he had not. This would help their progress more than he though Hermione even realized. Brilliant. It was just brilliant.

“We’re set for a while now, Freddie!” exclaimed George, sitting down on his own bed and beginning to open his presents.

“Yeah, I guess we are,” Fred couldn’t wipe the grin from his face for the rest of the morning. With the knowledge that they were free to explore and experiment to their hearts desire, he was constantly reminded of one of the best Christmas presents he’d ever gotten. He meant to tell her as much too, but Hermione was distinctly missing from the breakfast that morning and the common room as well. When he finally ran into Ron and Harry and asked about her, they had said something about her getting ready for the ball. Ron had scoffed, still convinced that Hermione was lying about her date for the Yule Ball. While Fred was one of the few who actually knew who she was going with, he wasn’t going to tell Ron any different. Secretly he couldn’t wait to see the stupid look on Ron’s face when Hermione arrived that on the arm of Viktor Krum.

How could it possibly take her all day to get ready for a stupid dance? thought Fred as he settled into a game of chess with Ron. While his little brother walloped him, checking his king for the third time that morning, Fred thought of Hermione’s fantastic Christmas gift. Self-consciously he wondered if his gift to her matched up. What was a small book compared to all those ingredients? It must have cost her almost all her pocket money and then some. The rest of the day was spent in the common room, alternating between chess, exploding snap, and chatting with his fellow Gryffindors. The tower was much busier than any holiday Fred had spent at Hogwarts – the Yule Ball keeping everyone over Christmas break that usually would have gone home. It was a little after two when Angelina, Alicia, Katie, and Ginny stated they were headed up to their dorms to get ready for the ball. He, George, Lee, Ron, and Harry bid they goodbye before deciding to take a walk around the grounds before getting ready themselves. The wind was bone chilling as they strolled from the castle to the quidditch pitch and back, leaving their faces tinged pink and raw.

By the time they got back, they had nearly an hour till the ball began and so, they all departed to their dorms to get into their dress robes. Fred’s dress robes were a standard black, but he’d purchased a purple tie a week ago via owl-order to match Angelina’s dress. Checking himself in the mirror one last time, he straightened his tie and smoothed down his long, ginger locks. George appeared in the mirror behind him, straightening his tie as well and giving him a shit-eating grin.

“I reckon we’ll be the best-looking blokes at the ball tonight,” said George definitively.

“Yes, but only if you mean I’ll be the best looking and you’ll be a close second,” quipped Fred.

“You both look like two huge identical prats to me—” Lee rolled his eyes, pulling at the sleeves of his baby blue robes “—now let’s go. The sooner we get there, the sooner we get to hear the Weird Sisters play.”

Lee hadn’t shut up about the Weird Sisters playing at the Yule Ball since Dumbledore had announced it. Fred and George were excited too, but they didn’t hold quite a candle in their hearts for the band like Lee did.

The night went by quickly and spectacularly. The food was divine, the Weird Sisters were just as good as Fred imagined, and Angelina was as good a date as he could imagine for the night. They talked and joked and danced, never lulling into awkward silence like so many couple there that night. It wasn’t until Angelina excused herself to the restroom that Fred realized it was nearly eleven at night. Where had the time gone? Glancing around the marvelously decorated room, he saw George laughing loudly at something Lee had said near the punchbowl, Kenneth Towler was dancing slowly to a ballad with his Ravenclaw date, and across the room sat Ron and Harry looking miserable. Their dates had long since abandoned them, Fred noted, as they had failed to dance with them once – a missed opportunity as Fred acknowledged that both Padma and Pavarti Patil were very pretty girls. Unfortunately, Ron and Harry were just too preoccupied with Hermione and more importantly her date. When he failed to spot the duckling turned swan of the evening, he meandered casually out of the room and into the adjoining corridor where several students stood mingling. Traveling further down, he spotted a terrace door ajar and peaked through the glass to see Hermione standing by herself in the cold. Hands braced on the stone railing, she looked out into the dark expanse of the knight.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing!” exclaimed Fred, noting Hermione’s flushed appearance and looking for any signs of her turning blue. Luckily, the only thing blue about her was the fabric of her dress – a dress that every girl apparently adored that evening, for even Angelina had spent a fair bit of time discussing it with Alicia. Hermione truly did look beautiful. Everyone had been gossiping about her since the moment she walked into the ballroom on the arm of Viktor Krum. Her dress revealed a figure Fred had never seen before – one that was womanly and soft, her skin looked soft and dewy like she’d stepped out of a painting, and her hair had somehow been tamed into an elaborate updo with a few loose curls framing her face. Although, if Fred was being honest with himself, he preferred her hair the way it usually looked – wild and lioness-like.

Hermione jumped, grabbing ahold of the railing in front of her and bringing a hand up to her heart. Clearly, she hadn’t expected company out here and Fred didn’t blame her – only someone truly insane would be standing out in the cold like this without the proper robes. “Merlin Fred, you scared me!”

“What are you doing out here?” he asked again, stepping towards her.

“Nothing…Viktor went to get drinks and I needed a bit of fresh air,” said Hermione, but the way in which she worried her bottom lip, her deliciously tempting bottom lip, between her teeth told him there might be more. So, he stared at her, raising an eyebrow in question until she broke.

“Oh god, Fred. I don’t know what to do!” she yelled, bringing a hand up to her temple. She began to pace back and forth, the hem of her dress dragging in the snow that was beginning to build on the terrace.

Fred reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, halting her movements. “What happened? What’s the matter?” he asked, looking over her for any signs of physical ailments. Had Krum hurt her somehow?

“Nothing, well no that’s not true. It is something, but it hasn’t necessarily happened yet and I—”

“Just tell me why you’re out here trying to freeze to death, please Hermione,” said Fred, cutting her ramblings short.

“I…what if he tries to kiss me?”

Fred wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t that.

“I mean, you kiss him back. If that’s what you want and if it’s not what you want, then kick him in the shins. You’ve got a killer kick – I can attest to that personally.”

Hermione smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes, the golden amber color shining with worry. “I just…I was dancing with him and there was a moment where I thought he might kiss me and then someone interrupted us and so we didn’t. But I had the realization that he might try to kiss me again and I’ve never kissed anyone before. What if I’m bad at it, Fred?” she asked looking up at him with a desperate expression.

“It’s a first kiss – everyone’s first kiss is a little awkward,” reasoned Fred, trying very hard not to look at her plump pink lips.

“Yes, but what if I’m so bad that he never wants to kiss me again? I just…I don’t know what to expect or what to do and I—”

Before Fred could weigh the pros and cons of his actions, he was leaning down and capturing Hermione’s frantically moving lips in his own. The kiss was sweet at first, a firm yet gentle press of his lips to hers, but like a man thirsting in the desert, the moment he reached water he had to drink his fill. Reaching up, he cupped her face and deepened the kiss. Slotting their lips, he moved in slow measured movements. For her first kiss, Hermione was more skilled than she knew. Her lips moved naturally and achingly sweet with his, parting just enough for him to swipe his tongue along the crease and taste her. Later on, he would reason with himself that he only did it to shut her up. He’d go on to tell her, after breaking the kiss, that he merely did it so she wouldn’t be nervous for when Krum kissed her later – she’d be prepared and know what to expect. But in that moment, as he felt her soft skin beneath his fingertips and breathed in her essence, he couldn’t lie to himself. He kissed her because he was selfish. He kissed her because the idea of Krum being the first man to sample her sweet lips lit a burning fire of rage in his veins. He kissed her because he wanted to.

Chapter 13>>>

Taglist:

@theworldisugly-22

@aoonai

@sjh-07-10

@is-it-madness

@i-d-e-g-a-f

[loudsuitlover]

Indie and Harry

A/N: More Indie and Harry but angst. 

She was sitting alone and the city lights were somehow bothering her. They were a reminder that she wasn’t alone, that her family- now maybe even broken- wasn’t the only family in the world and that there were other houses with other lights and other people that might never face even half as much as what she had faced so far. She wondered whether that was true but she pondered that maybe everyone would have to face something and that there was truly no measurement, no acceptable comparisons, because for someone who hadn’t lost, a misplacement could hurt just as much and there was no way of knowing if that was true. 

Wheez made her way towards her on her furry paws and she sat down next to her and looked out to the city as well but Blue knew, even if she couldn’t talk, she knew she had found her in an attempt to lighten her mood. Wheez could always tell when someone needed her and Blue hadn’t known souls could be seen faster in dogs that in people until they had adopted Wheez, mostly for Anie; but she was now a part of the family. 

She wouldn’t talk to the dog. She thought that was weird, but she would hold her gaze and she would comunicate with her somehow; for she swore she could feel it in her chest; and Wheez might understand or maybe not- but she was there and that was enough. 

She didn’t even know how things had gotten so bad but it was the first time she was really scared that they might not make it. She hadn’t talked to Harry in a week and that was the longest he had been apart from their children ever so she was afraid that if he needed that much time without her then maybe he was really considering a divorce. The word made her tremble. 

It was so silly too, that they had gotten this far for something so silly, specially because it had happened ten years ago and for the life of her she couldn’t see the big deal. Harry wasn’t a jealous guy, he had never been and she worshipped the ground he stood on anyway so he never really had reasons to be jealous and still... She guesses she had kept that stupid date from him for years for a reason after all, even if it was mindlessly. 

He really wasn’t a jealous guy but that didn’t mean he was never jealous. He had been a little jealous a few times, but every time they had fucked and he had forgotten about it. There was just this one guy he was jealous of and he knew it was irrational, for he knew he had nothing to do and he knew Blue loved him way too much to jeopardize what they had; but it was just knowing it had been him. 

It was probably silly. After all, it had happened ten years ago and she said it had just been dinner and nothing had happened and he believed her but she still had had ten years to mention it and she never did. And he had had to hear things about them every day in the hospital. Students who didn’t know they were married would talk in the O.R “Doctor Brook is so sleeping with doctor Anderson” or “I love it when doctor Brook operates with doctor Anderson, they’re so dreamy” or “stay with someone that looks at you the way doctor Brook looks at doctor Anderson” and every time he had wanted to tell them “doctor Anderson is my wife and we’ve been together since she was your age so pay attention and shut the fuck up” but every time he had stayed quiet and he had cleared his throat and mind his own business. Still, he wished he could take back what he said to her but some things can’t just be taken back once they’re out there. 

“Mummy,” Blue turned her neck when she heard her son’s voice. 

“¿Qué pasa, Hughie? ¿Estás bien?” (What is it, Hughie? Is everything alright?) 

“Sí... ¿Por qué estás aquí fuera?” (Yes... Why are you out here?)

She shrugged and then she stood up from her chair and walked towards her son before making their way inside. Wheez followed them and lied down on her bed on the kitchen. 

“Es un poco tarde, Hughie. Deberías estar en la cama. Mañana hay cole.” (It’s kinda late, Hughie. You should be in bed. You have school tomorrow.)

“Can we facetime Daddy? I miss him.” 

She had a look at the time on the oven. It was 9 pm so she supposed they could give Harry a call if his son wanted to talk to him. She knew that’s what he’d want her to do anyway. 

“We’ll text him, see if he’s awake.” 

“Okay...” 

She texted her angry husband and made sure he knew it was about Hughie and then patiently waited for him to reply. 

“A lo mejor está dormido...” (Maybe he’s asleep...)

“¿Daddy se va a ir?” (Is Daddy leaving?)

Her hazel eyes looked up to her kid the second she heard his concern. It had almost been a sob and when she looked up at him she could see his green eyes filled with tears. Was that what had been keeping him up? 

“¡No!” She shook her head. “Claro que no, peque.” (Of course not, little one.) “Daddy está en un congreso.” (Daddy’s on a work trip.)

“Entonces, ¿por qué estás triste?” (Then why are you sad?)

“Porque yo también le echo de menos.” (Because I miss him too.)

“Y, ¿por qué no hablas con él cuando le llamamos?” (And why do you not talk to him when we call him?) 

It was in those moments when she damned herself and Harry for having raised such smart kids. He was only four years old for crying out loud, but he had still noticed that. 

“Bueno es que cuando llamáis vosotros yo sé que Daddy quiere hablar con vosotros y veros. Yo hablo con él cuando os vais a dormir.” (Well, that’s just because when you call him, I know Daddy wants to talk to you and see you guys. I talk to him when you go to bed.)

“Daddy’s sad too. I can tell.” 

But she didn’t have time to answer him because her phone started ringing. She set the phone against an empty mug on the kitchen counter so it was pointing at Hughie but she stood next to him so he didn’t add any more suspicion to his worried mind. 

“Hi, love!” Harry greeted his son and her heart broke a little at the way it had sounded and she wanted to cry at the fear that he would never speak like that to her again. 

“Daddy! Pease, come back.” 

She loved her son’s pronunciation struggles and that was a fact. He couldn’t pronounce the l between consonants and he had some struggles with pronouns too, surprisingly worse in English than in Spanish, and he had been going to speech therapy for a year but he still struggled sometimes, especially on his PJs but she wasn’t yet worried about that. He was still four years old. 

Harry gave his son a little smile before his green eyes set on her. She tried to give him a hopeful smile, one that meant that she wanted him to come back too, but she was afraid it hadn’t reached her eyes. 

“Hey” He greeted her. 

He hadn’t called her baby like he normally would but he hadn’t chosen to call her by her name either so he hadn’t named her at all. She didn’t know what that meant. 

“Hey, I’m gonna give you two some privacy to talk. Voy a estar en el salón, peque.” (I’ll be in the living room, little one.)

Hughie nodded and she left and that time she didn’t eavesdrop for she wasn’t sure she was ready to face what her husband might tell their son. He had this thing- he didn’t like lying to his kids- so, always saving their inocence and the magic of childhood, he would still talk to them about the majority of things and he would explain everything to their little minds and they would nod and ask questions so she wasn’t ready to maybe hear that things were going to change. 

It had happened a week prior. He had waited until they were alone- Hughie was at speech therapy, Dylan was at soccer practice and Coco had picked Anie and Wheez up on her way to the dogs’ park. 

They were having a disagreement, but it wasn’t the first time they had disagreed on something after sixteen years together; and up until that moment, they hadn’t bursted like that. It was true that this disagreement was probably worse than the rest they had had because this was about one of their children and that was the most important thing for the two of them so it was hard to agree to disagree on something that required both their attentions. 

“I think Anie liked the centre, just in case you care.” She said after some minutes of silence in the kitchen. 

“I’m glad she did.” His jaw clenched. “I wish you would have told me you were taking her today too.” 

“Why? Would you have come?” 

His eyes held hers for long seconds. She was mad. No, she was furious. She couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t want to get help for his own daughter when they knew- they were doctors- that early therapy was the most important part of Autism treatment. She kept telling herself he was on denial but denying that their daughter had Autism wasn’t going to make it disappear. Plus, she really couldn’t understand. She thought- if left untreated Autism could be terrible- but he would ignore Danny every time and Danny said most times with early treatment, kids with mild Autism could have a pretty normal life, and he knew that because his own nephew had struggled with that and nowadays he was, if anything a little shy, he didn’t like to be touched but for the rest, he was just like any other kid his age. 

And she remembered Alan. There was nothing wrong with Alan. She loved Alan and so did Dylan and she was pretty sure Alan loved them too in his own way but if she could do anything to help Anie so she could have normal relationships with people and no one could take advantage of her then she would do it because Anie was her daughter and she would do just about anything for her, even if that included having a fight with Harry. 

“You know? I love our daughter just as much as you do.” He replied. 

“You have a very weird way of showing it.” 

“Why? Because I think you’re rushing into this?” 

“Yes! Me and Ollie and every other person who’s seen Anie, Harry! You’re the only one who doesn’t want to see it! She’s two and she doesn’t speak a word! She doesn’t share anything with us, she doesn’t smile at us when she likes something, she doesn’t even pay attention when you call her by her name. She’s still in the first year development.”

“She is a baby, Blue! And she has hearing problems, we both know that! And she’s bilingual. Bilingual kids take longer to start talking and... You and I both know she has her own way of comunicating, I understand her and I feel a connection with her so maybe it’s you...” 

Her breathing worked up and her jaw clenched as her whole face hardened, trying to hold back her tears. He would not make her cry in such a nasty way. He regretted his words the minute he said them but he had been on edge all day and she had a way of getting on his nerves and still he shouldn’t have said that. He knew that had been a fear of hers from Anie’s first months, she had said one too many times that her own baby didn’t like her; just because she seemed to like her Daddy much better so the fact that he was saying that made her want to cry. 

“I’m sorry.” He said but she shook her head and still didn’t look him in the eyes. 

“I don’t know if you think I want our daughter to be sick or that I want to treat her differently for no reason but the truth is I wish you’re right and if I’m wrong, I will be the happiest mum on Earth” her voice croaked and she rested a hand over her heart, as if that was going to stop it from breaking “because all I want is for my babies and you to be okay because I love you all more than anything. But if there’s something wrong with her, why do we have to wait for it to get worse? I mean what harm is there on her going to therapy even if she didn’t need it?” 

“I just don’t want to give her a problem that she doesn’t have.” 

“That’s the first thing that’s wrong about your conception of this whole thing. I don’t think Autism is a problem. It’s just another way of presentation of the human form and they need some help to fit on society but that’s that. Danny-” She stopped her sentence when she noticed the change in his body language and she got even madder. This could not be about Danny. “What? What is it with Danny? What the fuck is your problem?” 

“I don’t want to talk about it with you.”

“With me? When did we stop talking about things, H?” 

“It’s not constructive, that’s why it’s better not to say anything.” 

“Well, shouldn’t you let me decide that? I want my husband to talk to me, whether what he’s gonna say is constructive or not.”

But he shook his head and that made her angrier. 

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Stop swearing.” 

“You’re a jerk.” She sighed and shook her head. “I don’t know what your problem with Danny is but if you care anything about Anie or me, you wouldn’t have a problem with him.” 

Oh, no, she did not just say that. 

“He’s always had my back and he’s always been there for me and-”

“That’s exactly the problem, Blue.” He bursted. “That he’s always there. And it’s precisely because I care about you that I have a problem with him.” 

Because the thing about Danny was he had lost his fiancé too and the moment you had told Harry about that, he had seen it in your eyes, the relief, the finally someone was going to understand and he could never give you that. He couldn’t possibly compete with that and that scared him. 

She shut her eyes and brought a hand to her temple as if all of a sudden she had gotten a terrible headache. Somehow she had. 

“I can’t believe you’re jealous. You... You...”

“I’m not crazy, Blue. See? This is why I didn’t want to say anything.” He sighed but it was too late, it was out there, so then he could only elaborate on it. “He... He’s into you, babe and that’s okay, I mean I understand, I’m into you too.” He almost chuckled. “But everyone knows that. I mean people talk-”

“And since when do you care about what people say?” 

“I don’t. I mean for the most part I don’t but...” 

“But what? Do you think I would ever do that to you?” 

“No. It’s not about you doing anything. I know you would never.” He shook his head. “I guess it’s about the possibility of you wanting to do it.” 

“Well, I don’t.” She sighed. “And what do you want me to do about that? Do you want me to pretend I don’t like him or to put some distance even though we do work together-”

“No, nothing! That’s what I meant when I said it’s not constructive. There’s nothing you can do about it. It’s just what it is.” 

“But it’s nothing.” 

“Well, it’s...”It was not nothing, and if she had known by saying that she was invalidating his feelings she probably wouldn’t have said that. He was a lot more careful with his words than she was. Sometimes, that is; because some other times he would say things he regretted; but still he was always better with words than she was. “It’s listening to students gossip about how cute you two are together.” 

“What student? The same one who calls you Harry?” 

He stopped and his shoulders tensed before his green eyes investigate his wife’s. In that moment, he had forgotten all about how non-constructive that was going to be and even if he had known, when he wasn’t mad, that talking about it would bring no good; he couldn’t let it be then. 

“Harry’s my name, Blue.” 

“Oh, I know that. I also called you Harry when I was a student.” 

She had poured herself a glass of water and she had a sip while she avoided his eyes so she missed the way she had hurt him. She had never really allowed herself to ponder about that thought because deep down she knew it was stupid but she had look at that student and she had seen herself sixteen years prior and she had had the fear that she wasn’t so young anymore and she didn’t look like it either and maybe Harry had noticed too. 

“What are going on about?” 

“Nothing.” 

“Are you comparing that to us?” 

And he said that with all the horror he could muster because he would never think Blue would ever feel that way. The thing was, yes, he had slept with a student but he was so much younger then and he had married that student so he didn’t think it was something anyone could hold over his head; much less her anyway. And he had never felt judged by that, not by her at least, until she said that. 

Her eyes challenged him and she stood tall before him with her chest up and her shoulders tensed. He couldn’t possibly know that, for some things we just never know, but she would stand taller when she felt intimidated and there was no reason for her to feel intimidated then, if not by her own words and her own stupid fear of never being what he deserved. 

“It’s just funny that you’re the one jealous when I had a student the other day telling me oh, you mean Harry when I asked her if she could please hand you a patient’s chart on her way out.” 

“We work in a Uni hospital. I supervise students just like you do and my name’s Harry.” He stated the facts as if he was reading a list, “How does any of that make you jealous?” and then he wondered. 

“It was the way she said it, Harry. Oh, you mean Harry.” She mocked. “As if she could ever know you better than I do. I mean she clearly didn’t know you were married to me.” 

“Well, I don’t tell students about my personal life and let me remind you, you’re the one who didn’t want to take my last name in the hospital.” 

“That has nothing to do with this. We’ve been over that and it’s-”

“About feminism and Spanish tradition, I know. I’m not the one troubled about students not knowing we’re married.” 

“Yeah, that’s right. You don’t have a problem with that.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“You were right, this is not constructive.” She sighed. 

“No, it’s not. It’s just... It’s not fair that you give me that shit when you’re the one..!” He took a deep breath. “I mean it annoyed you the tone a student used to talk about me, do you know what it feels like to be constantly reminded that your wife has such a special connection with her male coworker who happens to like her like a fool?”

“What special connection? What the hell are you talking about? It was just a dinner, years ago and nothing happened!” 

“What?” 

She swallowed. Time had stopped in her brain but she was suddenly very aware of the slow movement of the thin second hand from the clock her mother had placed on their kitchen wall. He didn’t mean that. Her hazel eyes shied away from his but his still searched for her and he waited and he wouldn’t let her scape. She sighed. This was not constructive. 

“Blue.” He urged her. 

“We had dinner” she admitted “when you asked me for a break, remember?” 

There it was, the defensive tone again, the defensive argument, the fear and the guilt tightening her throat. He felt his heart breaking and he wasn’t quite sure why then but, in his mind, he had seen them having dinner together and she had been wearing that pink dress he liked and he had felt his heart on his belly. 

“And you’re telling me this now. Ten years later.” 

“I wasn’t planning on telling you ever if it wasn’t already clear.” 

Why would she say those things? And why would she talk like that to him? She loved him, she didn’t want to hurt him. But in the midst of everything she was thinking, he thought she wasn’t planning on ever telling him because she knew it would hurt him and she knew it would hurt him because there was something that could. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to cry but he felt like she had just punched him on his chest. 

“You were the one who broke up with me.” She continued, for once she started with the defensive manner she couldn’t take it off. . 

“I didn’t break up with you. I just told you I needed some space.” 

“You told me you needed to stay away from me.” Her voice croaked even if ten years had happened. 

He had hurt her a lot back then and he had hurt her a lot when he had asked her for time even before they really got together all those years ago and that had been a reminder, and it had been a fear of her- that she wasn’t good enough, that she was hurting him, that he wasn’t happy with her. So thinking about it was painful and it would break her voice and make her cry every time. 

“I told you I needed to stay away from you so I could think coldly because I had learnt from your fucking boss that you had been considering taking a job offer in fucking Boston and you hadn’t told me anything, Blue.”

“What for? So you could talk to them and ask them to hire me just like you did to doctor Laurie? One humilliation is already one too many, Harry!” 

“I didn’t ask him to hire you!” He raised his voice then, just like she had done before, and he would later regret it but in that moment it was frustration that had gotten over him. “He asked me! I just told him what I thought! What did you want me to do? Lie to him? Tell him I thought you were terrible?” 

“I wanted you to tell me! You were- You are the most important person when it comes to that to me! Do you have any idea how I felt when I found out the person I admired the most didn’t even think I could get a job without his help?” 

“I was just looking out for you! I-” He stopped then. 

He had said that too many times and every time he thought she had believed him but it would randomly come up again, years later, and they would start all over again. And he was done with that. 

“Okay, we’re on a swirl.” He sighed. “We’re just throwing past, old things at each other’s faces and I don’t want to be a part of this.” 

“Oh, you don’t want to be a part of this? Why don’t you leave then? Do you need another break from me?” 

“Why? Do you feel like going to dinner with Danny again?” 

She narrowed her eyes and her jaw clenched. 

“No, but if you want to know, he’s coming with me to take Anie to the centre tomorrow again.” 

“What do you mean again? He went with you today?” 

“Yes, he did because he actually cares.”

“Fucking great, Blue. And you have the nerve to wonder what my problem with Danny is. He fucking looks like my baby’s dad. Because Anie’s my daughter, right? Or did you go on another fucking date with him that you also forgot to mention?”

“You did not just say that.” 

“One has to wonder after all!” 

“No! You have no right to give me that! I am the one who’s had to deal with women talking about you all the time! Don’t you remember? When we started dating and you had already slept with half the Neo floor?” She yelled. “I had to compete with-”

“You have some nerve talking to me about competion...” 

“Oh, yeah? Against whom have you ever competed, huh? It has always been clear that I was crazy about you! Not just to you, but to everyone! It’s been so easy for you. You’ve always had me wrapped around your finger. You-”

“Easy? You’re not the one who’s had to live under the shadow of a dead boyfriend, Blue.”

She had been hugging her knees to her chest and replaying every word they had ever said in her mind when Hughie came to find her, phone in hand. 

“Daddy quiere hablar contigo.” (Daddy wants to talk to you.) He had given her a little smile at that and he had said he would tuck himself in bed on his own because he wasn’t a baby. 

“Hi.” She smiled at her husband’s exhausted expression. 

“Hi.” He smiled back. 

That was good. 

“How are you?” 

She shrugged and then she sighed. 

“I’ve been better...” 

“Yeah, me too...”

“The boys really miss you.” She let him know. “And Anie. And Wheez.” 

He smiled. If he was being honest he had missed the dog quite a lot too, and his babies but that was rather obvious. 

“And you?” He dared. 

“Me too.” 

He nodded. 

“I miss you guys too... Are you, uh, ready to talk?” 

She just nodded. She didn’t think they were going to be doing that on Facetime but if that was what he wanted then that was what she would do. 

“Okay.” He swallowed. “What do you say about having lunch out tomorrow? You know, so we can talk properly.” 

Her heart broke. She thought if he wanted to meet her outside the house it must be worse than she expected. He wouldn’t want to have her crying on her knees for him not to leave her and if they were out somewhere, he knew she would not do that. 

“Sure.”

“Good. Uh...”

“I’ll ask Coco to stay with Anie and we can meet while the boys are still in school. Early lunch?” 

“Sure. Sounds good.” 

“Good.” 

“See you tomorrow then.” 

“See you.”

He hadn’t shaved. He had a week’s worth of stubble and he hadn’t particularly done it on purpose but he knew she liked it. She told him all the time, that she loved shaving him or watching him shaved, but that she loved running her fingertips along his stubble too and that she loved that he wasn’t a hairy man but still had some soft hair on his chest. 

He gave her a little smile from the table as he watched her walking towards him and he stared at her baby blue coat and her black jeans and the way her hair brushed against her shoulders before falling down her back. Her hair was long again. 

He stood up when she reached him, “Hi.” and he held her waist with one hand and pecked her lips swiftly and she felt her pulse accelerates. 

“Hi.” 

The waiter approached them and they both ordered water and giggled before reading over the menus and choosing what their bellies desired and then he gave her a smile and she didn’t know what he’d say.

“You have no idea how sorry I am.” 

But out of all the things he could have said, she wasn’t expecting that. So her brows meet on her forehead and she let a sigh scaped her lips as the waiter placed the glasses and the bottle of water on the table. 

“I’m sorry too.” She said when he left. “I’ve felt like shit all week, wanting to just go back in time and keep my mouth shut. I am so, so sorry I didn’t hear you out about this Danny thing. It just doesn’t make sense to me that you would ever be jealous of anyone, Har, because” she had started talking and she felt like she couldn’t stop, but he had let her and he was listening, with one hand over the table and the other resting on his thigh, and he was staring at her and he would remain silent for as long as she needed him to. “you are my person. I am constantly thinking about you like anything I do or anything I see it’s just like I have to tell Harry and I’m 37 years old” she raised her eyebrows as if saying that’s a lot to be thinking like that but he just scoffed and blinked “so the fact that you can be jealous about a special connection, you said? A special connection is this, is what I have with you, you’re my special connection and you can’t be afraid of anyone taking a place that you made for yourself.” 

He smiled but his eyes had gotten teary. He found out he was a rather emotional man a couple of years after meeting her when he had cried after accidentally finding a photo album that she had made entirely about him and she had written little notes on every page like bold of him to look at me like that or the beauty and he had felt tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at them. 

She gave him a smile and her hand rested on top of his over the table and he squeezed her hand before she started whispering. 

“And about Dylan, not our son... About Dylan Meyer... I didn’t know that was how you felt. I, uh, I thought... I mean throughout the years you have been with me through all of that and... Well, you were the one who encouraged me to get the courage to visit his grave for the first time and you’ve even been there with me and... I mean our son... We named our son after him and I swear I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t-”

“Baby” He gently interrupted her “let me stop you there, please. I don’t feel like that. I just said it because I knew it would hurt you.” His voice croaked. “And I regret it so much because you didn’t deserve it and it was nasty and I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay.” She looked down at her plate. 

“No, no, it’s not. Listen, baby, this has been very hard on us both but... You’re smarter than me, you’ve always been, and you’re stronger than me too and... After this week I’ve been thinking and I think you were right, maybe I just don’t want to see it because I don’t want to accept that my baby girl is not going to understand the world.” He shrugged. “I don’t want to think that she won’t be able to love somebody the way I love you.” 

“Funny how I’ve been thinking the exact opposite.” She chuckled in an attemtp to lighten up the mood. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m just trying to justify why I don’t understand her like I do the boys but it’s just... You know how Dylan’s a mama’s boy and I know Hughie likes you better” she giggles at the way he smirks “and so does Ana but with her it’s just different. It’s not just that she likes you better, she’s just... I feel like I can’t reach her.” 

“Well, still I think therapy can do her no harm. If anything we’d be creating a super human with uncharacteristically developed emotions processing skills.”

They both managed to laugh at that and after that bit of laughter had been shared, they stared into each other’s eyes and were suddenly aware of their hand hold over the table. 

“I’m so lucky you’re their mother.” He stated. “This week’s been good reflection time for me to actually realize how incredible of a mum you are.” 

Her smile trembled then but he didn’t remain silent that time. 

“You’ve always understand them in a way that’s beyond my understanding and I’ve seen you protecting them fiercely like a lioness and I’m just so... Calmed. I feel serene because they have you. I mean I know you love me, I have no doubts of that, but I’m also pretty sure that you would use my body as a human shield to protect them if you had to and that weirdly brings me so much peace.” 

She threw her head back and laughed at his words and he chuckled along, with a new fear that they might be true. 

“It’s soothing to know that’s what you have been thinking about this week. I thought you were considering a divorce.” 

His green eyes opened wide and he stared into hers. Was she serious? Oh, damn, she was. He raised his eyebrows. 

“Okay, baby, listen carefully to me, you know how we vowed when we got married?” 

“Yes.” She smirked. 

“Well, after knowing that idea has been in your mind, I’m gonna need you to promise something else to me.” 

She smirked and nodded. 

“If I ever even mention a divorce, like if I ever say to you anything along the lines of going our separate ways, please promise me you would take me to Psych.”

And then she laughed again. 

[salamanderskin]

Looking Out

A Critical Role sickfic, Caduceus/Fjord because I will go down with this ship on their ship. 

Caduceus likes to make himself useful during the journey, while his Captain just wants to take care of him a little. 

Fjord opens the door of the Captain’s Quarters and ushers Caduceus inside. The firbolg has to stoop to miss the brass lamp that swings from the ceiling, giving him a crouched, apologetic look even without soaking wet clothes and obvious shivers.

“What the fuck were you-” Fjord hears the frustrated edge on his voice and tries again. What’s done is done. It isn’t anger anyway, it’s guilt. It was his unclear orders that had the firbolg standing watch in the worst of a freezing rain storm. “Never mind. You’re freezing, ‘Duceus. Let me get you dry.”

Caduceus stands passively, allowing the half-orc to fuss around him. He looks like a drowned rat. All that long, luxurious hair is plastered to his head and falls down his back in sodden tangles, meeting the fabric of his less-than-waterproof coat.

Fjord helps him to peel the coat off, asks, “You mind it I-” and waits for a nod before working on the fastenings of Caduceus' tunic. 

“I don’t think I could do it. My fingers are stiff.” Caduceus comments. 

Fjord catches the offending digits and clasps them in both his palms, pressing his own warmth into them. This makes Caduceus smile, so  he presses a kiss to the back of one to see the smile widen further. The firbolg flexes those long, slender fingers and seems to come back to life as the warmth of room seeps into him. He takes over undressing himself and stands in his smallclothes, which are mercifully dry, then turns from Fjord to give a full body shake, like a dog. Fjord narrowly avoids a mist of water. It’s surprisingly efficient given how short most of Caduceus’ fur actually is, but his long hair remains stubbornly sodden.

Fjord snags a towel and pats the edge of the bed for Caduceus to sit. He sets to work drying that long, silken hair and trying his best not to pull. He even remembers to blot rather than rub, lest he make the mats worse. 

“You really didn’t have to take that watch.” Fjord  comments as he works, summoning his ‘Captain’ voice. “We could have sent Frumpkin out, or literally anyone else on the crew-” He leaves “that I care about less than you” unspoken.

“I was talking to the gulls.” Caduceus shrugs. “And I’ve got the best eyes of all of us.” 

“Yes, but now you’re soaked and-” 

Fjord pauses in his ministrations when he feels Caduceus draw an uncharacteristically sudden, shallow breath. He removes the towel to see an uncertain, ticklish expression and sure enough, the firbolg ducks away from him with a sneeze.

“Hhh--ISSSHoo! …’scuse me.” 

“-and you’re getting sick.”He finishes. 

“I’m-” Caduceus begins, but is overtaken by another “Ussshue!”

 “I think I was already sick,” He adds appeasingly.

Fjord isn’t having any of it. “That isn’t better. You should have stayed in the warm.”

“Hmm but I’m in the warm now.” Caduceus shrugs off the towel turns to wrap his arms around Fjord, burning his face in his neck. Fjord can feel how cold his poor nose is still, but is distracted by the warmth of a kiss behind his ear. “And it feels so much better for having come in from outside.”

“If you say so.” 

The kiss deepens and they let their bodies collapse back onto the bed. It lasts a good long time and Fjord relaxes into the rhythm of it, relishing slow, shared breaths and contented noises. The moment cannot last, however, and his partner mumbles, “‘scuse me-” and turns away to direct a round of coughs into his shoulder. Fjord is close enough to feel his abdomen kicking with each, and the exhausted slump of his shoulders afterward.

Caduceus turns back but keeps a hand tucked over his face to worry at his nostrils. He sounds stuffy and miserable. Fjord presses a kiss to the broad bridge of his muzzle and sees his slit nostrils twitch like a rabbit’s under the attention. The effect is not unappealing. If anything, the anxious arch of brows and the uncertain little noise he makes are downright cute. 

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” He queries, leaning away from his love to take in the whole of him.

Caduceus considers, pausing to blow his nose. “M’ really cold. I should go get some dry clothes.”

“Borrow something of mine,” Fjord says at once, loathe to let him leave his sight, “or… just get under the covers. You may as well stay here tonight.”

Caduceus blinks and gives a grateful smile; they’ve not slept together, in either sense of the word, for a little while. Between Fjord’s duties as Captain and the need for him to project as air of authority while carrying them out, they have reached an unspoken agreement that it is unseemly for the Captain to be openly railing one of the crew.

Fjord takes the lead by climbing under himself and opening his arms to create a welcoming hollow.  Caduceus is truly cold though, waves of shivers seeming to spread from his spine and along his limbs, hard enough to make his teeth chatter.

“Ugh, s’freezing in here…” he grumbles.

“You don’t feel cold to me now,” Fjord frets. “Think you’re working up to a fever?”

“Could be.” Caduceus shrugs. “It’s okay.” 

“It’s not okay,” Fjord says, planting a testing kiss on Caduceus’ forehead. It’s hard to tell temperature and he resolves to keep a weather eye on it as the evening progresses. 

Caduceus’ answer is a happy hum and he wraps his limbs around Fjord’s and buries his face in the hollow between shoulder and neck. His grip relaxes as enough combined body heat pools beneath the blankets to quell the shivers. Fjord lets his hands wander, loving the contrast of fine velvet fur pulled tight over the firbolg’s lean muscular build. They settle face to face so that he can cup a hand to the firbolg’s cheek.

He’s still sniffling though; sad, irritated little snuffles as he worries under his nose with the back of his hand. 

“Leave that alone, you’re making it sore.” 

“Can’t.” Caduceus protests, the congestion thickening the consonants to cadt. It makes him sound soft and sleepy, a tone far more adorable than it has any right to be. His eyes draw into an irritated squint and he breathes a shallow, vulnerable little sound before collapsing into his cupped palms with a harsh sneeze.

““uh’HFFSCH”

“Bless you!” Fjord feels his partner’s whole body shudder with it, then the relaxation of an exhale afterward. Caduceus nods his thanks and thrusts forward again, too tired to fully turn his head. 

And again- he hovers between them, gaze cast somewhere near the ceiling and features in an expression of ticklish frustration. Fjord finds himself holding his own breath in sympathy, waiting, waiting and “- ISSshoo! Uh--IUSSShhoo!” 

“Melora bless you,” Fjord sighs fondly, gathering Caduceus to him again so he can rub soothing circles over his back. 

“Ughh… okay, that didn’t feel so good.” Caduceus admits. 

“Regretting going out in the rain now?” He makes a neutral noise. “I wouldn’t say that. There isn’t a lot I can do on the boat apart from cook, but I’ve got very good eyes. I like to look out for you.”

That makes Fjord’s heart flutter with warmth. “I know. I know you do. But you don’t need to be doing something for us all the time. We’re just glad you’re here.” 

“That’s nice.” Caduceus nods. His eyes are closing, shadowed underneath with tiredness. 

“Will you let me look out for you a little now?” 

Fjord doesn’t wait for an answer but shifts their position so that the firbolg’s head is resting higher on his chest, hoping the elevation might help with the congestion. Strong seaman’s fingers sift through Caduceus’ damp hair and press into the tightness he can feel in his neck and shoulders. Caduceus practically melts. Fjord doesn’t like the little wheeze he can hear out the outbreath. That’s another thing to keep an eye on. 

“Do you need anything? Water? Some tea?”

Caduceus shakes his head. “Just rest, I think.” 

The storm seems to be ending; the ceaseless pitch of the ship has settled to a familiar, rhythmic roll. Fjord finds it soothing. He knows Caduceus finds it less so and makes up for it by holding him more tightly and pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. 

“You rest, then. I’m keeping watch.” 

END.

[get-your-fics]

Plaything

Summary: You are Malcolm and Ainsley’s babysitter, but end up getting involved with the father of the Whitly family in unexpected ways.

Pairing: Martin Whitly x reader

Warnings: Cheating, kidnapping, drugging, language, non-con sexual content

A/N: so this has been in my drafts for a while and I don’t think I’ll ever get around to finishing it, so consider this my new year’s eve present to y’all :)

“Coming!”

The voice came from inside the Whitly’s townhouse three seconds after you had rung the doorbell. Footsteps drew closer, and the lock on the front door clicked. The knob twisted before the door pulled open, revealing a man on the other side.

“Hello,” he said in a deep, rumbling baritone. He had brown, curly hair and a full beard. He was wearing a bright red sweater, and he had a welcoming smile on his face that you noticed didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You must be (Y/N).”

You forced a smile on your face. “That’s me.” You reached a hand out to him and hoped he didn’t notice the way you were slightly shaking. You couldn’t help but get a little nervous when meeting new people. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Whitly.”

His blue-green eyes raked over your form up and down as if he was taking all of you in. After a moment, his grin grew wider, and grabbed your outstretched hand. “Please, call me Martin.” You tried to ignore the way the feel of his skin ignited sparks along your nerve endings. “Why don’t you come in?”

You subconsciously mourned the loss of contact when he retracted his hand. He stepped aside and held the door open wider for you. You stepped inside and wandered further into the foyer, gazing up at the crystal chandelier and high walls in admiration. “Wow. You have a really nice home, Mr. Whitly.”

He closed the front door behind him. “Thank you,” he walked closer to you, “and didn't I tell you to call me Martin?” He nudged your shoulder with his elbow and gave you a playful wink. You felt an involuntary blush wash over your cheeks as he called up the stairs, “Ainsley! Malcolm! The babysitter is here!”

You heard the pitter-patter of light footsteps against hardwood before you saw two children appear at the top of the stairs. They flew down the winding staircase in a blur and landed in front of their father at the bottom. One of the children was a girl with long, blonde hair that was slightly mussed. The other was a boy slightly taller than his sister with brown hair like his father’s and bright, blue eyes.

“Kids, meet your babysitter, (Y/N).” Mr. Whitly wrapped his arms around his children’s shoulders. “You listen to her while we’re gone, all right?” They nodded wordlessly, and he ruffled their hair with a chuckle.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” You swiveled your head to see a woman rushing down the stairs, her stilettos clicking against the hardwood. She finished putting her other earring in as she came to a stop next to Mr. Whitly. “Sorry I’m late, dear. You know how long it takes me to get ready.”

She flipped her glossy, chestnut brown hair over her shoulder, and it cascaded down her back in elegant waves. You assumed this must be his wife. She was extremely beautiful and had a regal air about her. “Mrs. Whitly, it’s nice to meet you,” you stammered out and held your hand out to her.

She glanced at you before draping her hand in yours. “You, too.” She gave your hand a single shake before drawing hers away. She turned to her husband. “Really, darling, we must get going if we want to make it to the banquet on time.”

“I wonder who’s fault that would be,” he muttered with a roll of his eyes only you caught. You stifled a giggle. “You go ahead and get in the car, dear. I have to give (Y/N) a few instructions first.”

She let out a sigh. “All right.” She gave each of her children a kiss on their head before exiting the townhouse, leaving a cloud of Chanel perfume in her wake.

“Here’s some money in case you want to order a pizza later.” Mr. Whitly dug out his wallet from his pocket and handed you a crisp twenty dollar bill. “They should both be in bed by nine o’ clock.” He put a hand on your shoulder and leaned down to whisper in your ear, “Thanks for agreeing to watch them for us.”

He smiled at you, and you felt like you were glowing under his touch. “No problem.” You gave him a small smile back. You didn’t know why you were reacting to him in this way, but he was so handsome, you couldn’t help it.

He patted your shoulder before turning to his children. “Be good for (Y/N) while we’re gone, okay?” He kissed the top of their heads before giving you a final wave goodbye. You waved back, and he followed after his wife out the door.

You watched the headlights of the Whitly’s car pass over the windows as it drove away. Then, you turned to the two Whitly children who stood stock still at the bottom of the steps. You bent down so you were eye level with them. “So...” you smiled at them. “Who wants pizza?”

The Whitly children were rather surprisingly easy to deal with. Ainsley was a little demanding, dragging you around by your hand to play dolls or stuffed animals with her. Malcom was more guarded and reserved. He had this haunted look in his large, round eyes, like he had seen too much, more than he let on.

When you put the kids to bed on time, you still had a while before the Whitly parents were due home, so you retired to the living room. You laid down on the couch and turned on the tv, flipping to some random channel playing a movie. The blue light from the screen washed over you as your eyes started to flutter closed.

Next thing you knew, there was a hand on your shoulder shaking you and a deep gravelly voice whispering in your ear. “(Y/N), wake up.”

You opened your eyes. The television was off. You blinked rapidly to clear your blurry vision and, through the darkness, you could make out Mr. Whitly’s form hovering above you. “Oh, Mr. Whitly,” you murmured, your voice groggy. “I’m sorry. I fell asleep.”

“That’s all right.” You thought you felt his hand trail up from your shoulder to caress your cheek, but it could have just been your mind playing tricks on you. “Here’s for babysitting.” He pressed a couple of folded bills into your hand.

“Thank you.” You closed your eyes and stretched your aching limbs. You were all cramped from napping on the couch.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No, that’s okay. I can walk.”

“Walk? At this time of night?” He looked dismayed. “At least let me get you a taxi.” You nodded, and he stood up. “I’ll go call one now. Can I make you a cup of tea while you wait?”

You sat up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. “Yes, please.”

He smiled. “Great. I’ll be right back.” He retreated to the kitchen, and you felt your cheeks warm. You didn’t want to inconvenience him, but you wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend a little more time with the man. There was something intriguing about him. You found him undeniably charming, and his presence was so warm and comforting.

“Leave,” a voice drew you out of your thoughts, and you whipped your head around to find where it was coming from. You spotted Malcolm standing in the archway leading to the foyer dressed in his blue striped pajamas, a blanket wrapped around his small frame.

“Malcolm?” You furrowed your brow. “What are you still doing awake?”

“Don’t drink it,” he urged you in a hushed whisper. Before you could question him further, the sound of approaching footsteps made his clear blue eyes go wide. He whirled around and dashed back up the stairs the way he came as quiet as a mouse.

A second later, Mr. Whitly returned with a steaming cup of tea in his hands. “Be careful, it’s hot,” he warned you as he set the cup down on the coffee table in front of you.

“Thank you.” You stared down at the murky, brown liquid in the cup before looking up at him. “Did you call a taxi?”

He folded his hands in front of him and nodded. “It’ll be here in ten minutes.” He jutted his chin out in the direction of the cup on the table. “Aren’t you going to drink your tea?”

You looked back down at the cup, curls of steam rising off of the surface and floating into the air. You didn’t want to be rude, and Malcolm was probably just trying to play a joke on you. But when you lifted the cup to your lips and took a sip, you swore the grin on his face grew wider and his cerulean eyes turned dark. You set the cup down and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, looking up at him with a smile.

“Good girl,” he nearly purred, sending shivers down your spine. He drew closer to you as your vision became fuzzy, his eyes as black as a shark’s when it smelled blood. You felt like you were being sucked into a blackhole, and you gave in as gray dots blurred your vision.

The last thing you saw before you were completely swallowed by darkness was Mr. Whitly’s menacing grin sharper than a knife.

-

Falling. You were falling. You were falling down a long, winding rabbit hole. Your eyes were closed, and swirls of bright light lit up the veins running along your eyelids. You couldn’t move. Your limbs were numb, but it felt like every inch of your skin was draped in warmth. Then, the gray gave way to a blinding light above you searing your eyes.

You winced. “Turn it off,” you groaned. “Turn it off.”

The light moved out of your eyes, and you blinked to see Mr. Whitly hovering above you. His lips lifted into a wide smile when he saw you. “Finally. You’re awake.”

You frowned. “The sun. It’s too bright.” Your words were slurred, the vowels and consonants running together until you were barely intelligible.

He chuckled. “Don’t worry. You’re all right.” He reached out a hand and brushed some stray strands of hair out of your face.

You tried to move your arms, but couldn’t. You looked up to see rope looped around your wrists. You tried your legs next, but same thing. You looked down to see you were restrained to a metal table and your form was completely bare.

You looked back up at him. “I’m naked.”

He laughed and hummed. “Yes, you are.”

You furrowed your brow, but your muscles felt like they were made of molasses. Your mind tried to form a coherent thought, but it felt like your head was stuffed with cotton. You leaned back against the table and groaned. “My head hurts.”

“I’m sorry, dear. It’s probably a side effect of the drugs I put in your tea.” He corners of his lips turned downwards, but his expression didn’t match the twinkle in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to hurt you, really. I was just going to let you do your job and go. But when I saw you standing on my doorstep, so innocent and naive, I just couldn’t resist.” He brushed his thumb over your lower lip and stared down at you with an unreadable look in his eyes. “I had to make you my new plaything.”

Your lips parted, and his thumb slipped into your mouth. Without realizing what you were doing, you swirled your tongue around the pad of his finger. You closed your lips around his thumb and sucked. He watched you, entranced, before removing his appendage from your mouth with a pop. You let out a high-pitched whine.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, never taking his eyes away from you. Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. “I am sorry, (Y/N).” He slid down your body as your vision blurred. “But I’m not sorry about what comes next.”

[nightcityhqs]

case  file     ;  Maddox Kingsley

nicknames     ;  None.

associations    ;  The Entertainers

occupation    ;  Host of the Sunset Frequency, Owner of Persephone's Den.

birthdate    ;  November 22th, 1980

hometown    ; London, England

current  location     ;  Downtown

pronouns     ; She/Her

mirror image     ; Charlize Theron

IN CHARACTER INTERVIEW

the record stops, the player tape states, and the radio static is replaced with voices;

 — And our dear listeners are eager to know, how long have you been in Sunset Port? — Most importantly, why do you stay? 

"You know, I'm normally the one doing the questions," Maddox says, accent heavy on her tongue, blowing the smoke from her cigarette away as she watches her assistant tug on the collar of his shirt, visibly uncomfortable. She sighs, "I've been in Sunset Port for twelve years. Stuck in this studio for what? Eight years?" her accent is thick, and Maddox shifts on her seat, clearing her throat. "Why don't I leave? I think about doing it, often. But I made a home for myself here, despite how dull the city can be. And if I leave, who will be the joyful company for our dear listeners every night?"

  Of course! We can all identify with the sentiment. Well, at least some of us. [LAUGHTER] What do you do in Sunset Port? 

A brow is raised, and Maddox groans, half annoyed and half offended. "Is that how I sound when reading those questions? This script is badly made, you know! Who is responsible for this? They should — What? I wrote it?" There's silence, before a tongue is clicking against the roof of her mouth. "Ah. Well, I should rewrite it, then. Well — Isn't it quite obvious?" She leans forward, mouth close to the microphone and voice low and dark, full of mysteries as she repeats the well known quote, "Good evening, Sunset Port. You've tuned in the Sunset Frequency, 66.6. And I will be your company for the night. Here all night, every night." 

  Admirable! Now, I’d have left this question last to finish with a bang, but our listener is impatient, oh my! Have you heard of our little organization?  

Nothing but silence can be heard through the radio, long and uncomfortable. The cigarette burns as the fingers holding it tremble slightly, and Maddox sighs after some time, clearing her throat once more and taking a long drag of her cigarette. "Who hasn't?" The question escapes her lips with no emotion, no surprise. It's cold, and sharp as knives. "Why is that an important question?" 

  Oh my! — And if Isabella Castello came knocking at your door, what would you do?  

Maddox chuckles, the absurdity of the questions finally catching up to her. "Well, darling, I would tell her to go fuck herself." Her assistant goes pale as a ghost, his next words barely leaving his lips. 

  Interesting. Well, I think I’ve kept you here long enough! Thank you for speaking with our public! Which song would you like me to play for you, now?

"Let’s put something inspiring for our dear listeners, huh? How about The Other Side, by Woodkid."

BIOGRAPHY

Trigger Warnings; Violence, Murder, Guns, Drugs, Serial Killers Mention

Maddox Kingsley understands enough of human nature to perceive her morals; nor black nor white, but shades of grey. Most are darker than others, more prominent. Some are hardly noticeable, but the danger is still unmistakable. In hindsight, it should be said her morals are questionable, simply put. There is no wrong or right, for Maddox. Sides are of little importance, as the only side she cares for is her own. A selfish little thing, with only her well-being in mind; she doesn't partake in any activities if she is not gaining something out of it. Maddox is easily buyable, and that's where the trouble resides; her loyalty is not worth a penny, at the end of the day — Not if someone pays better for it. Betrayal is part of Maddox's nature; it's in her blood, her instinct. Not born with her, but shoved in her bones, carved into the space where her heart should've been. Survival had been the first thing Maddox Kingsley learned, forced into her veins by unpredictable events and painfully drastic circumstances — 

You see, Maddox Kingsley had not been planned by loving parents intending to start a family. She had not been imagined, had no one who had longed for her — who had dreamed of her. No. Maddox is the outcome of a series of unpredictable events and terribly, comical if not painfully drastic, exaggerated misunderstandings. A tale so entangled in lies and achingly raw sorrow it is hardly possible to determine the truth. Few things were undoubtedly accurate, facts people embraced without question or suspicion. But the truth, not in its entirety for many pieces of the puzzle were in possession of wrathful and indignant people who would not abide Maddox's questioning, laid dormant and guarded within the confines of her mother's broken heart, hidden from those who found fondness in rumors. Her mother bore the harshness of words in a selfishly selfless act to shield her daughter, and herself. A deed meant to reassure Maddox of her devotion, and thus devotion would be given in return. 

So Maddox knew she was not unloved, her mother’s love had been her only certainty amidst the turmoil, but she wasn't awaited.

At eighteen, Lucrecia Kingsley found herself aggravating her family's situation — once prominent but now sunk in a sea of disrepute and misery. Pregnant. Surprisingly, unseemly and in her father's perspective, undesired. To further his despair, orchestrating a marriage with the father would be improbable, as the man was to be engaged. Not to his daughter, thus saving the family from bankruptcy, but to a society lady. Maddox's mother was adamant about keeping her child, despite that her father threatened to disown her. Thankfully, the man she had slept with during a moment of intoxication and hurt provided accommodations, given she allowed him to share the child with her, and she willingly accepted in a moment of desperation.

The first few years weren't cruel to Maddox. They were not particularly kind, by any means, but the child was shielded from harshness and ruthlessness during most of her first years. Her mother was young, inexperienced, fighting to overcome an essentially empty bank account — but the woman was loving, in a way her own mother had never been before. Maddox was attached to her, clinging to her mother's dresses whenever the woman had to leave for work or when Maddox's father arrived to pick her up for weekends each Friday night. Maddox's mother gave her as much care and comfort as she could, but the woman couldn't preserve her from the distant home her father dared take Maddox to every weekend.

A psychiatry student, Bertrand was a man none dared challenge in fear of his influence and authority. Rumors of Bertrand fabled cruelty were shared in hushed whispers by those brave enough to speak words considered blasphemy, but no eyes had ever witnessed such evil coming from the man's hand. Cold, yes, but not brutal. The man adored Maddox, pampering, and doting on her whenever they spent weekends together, but his family did not share the sentiment. Maddox never met her paternal grandparents, before.

She was young, barely 5, but her first memory is of that night. 

Sat in the back of an ambulance, the police lights bright and vibrant amidst the darkness, Maddox hardly paid mind to the yells of an elder woman she had never met before, who was daring to disturb the ghostly silence plaguing the night. Her attention was solely on her father, his calm eyes staring at her through the car window. To this day, Maddox remembers the strangest feeling creating roots in her lungs at the sight of her father in the back of a police car, officers and agents crowding their house and invading their space.

Your father killed a bunch of people, the agent with kind eyes had informed her, and Maddox remembers how she struggled to speak the words - had to force each syllable and consonant out, her brain surely wondering how to best tell a young girl her beloved father was a killer — and that her mother would not be returning. Her blood continued to stain the blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her father’s eyes never showed any sign of emotions — Maddox knows, now, if she was in the agent's shoes, she would’ve been struggling too.

When Maddox had been discharged from the hospital — an extraordinary child having survived the impossible — it was to the stern hands of nuns with kindness in their eyes, faintly. Taken to a countryside orphanage, Maddox Kingsley turned out to be a difficult case for the nuns and caretakers to restrain. It was to be expected, of course, with her father in jail and her mother murdered. But Maddox's refusal of cooperating, accepting the affections of candidate parents, and simply not speaking whatsoever — proved to be rather complicated. She went and came, a family never settling with her or accepting her into their folds, wishing for an easier child to love and support instead, and returning Maddox to the hands of desperate nuns had been Maddox growing years. Coupled with fights she would often get into with the other children, well — They couldn't do much for her. 

It wasn't until Maddox turned twelve that a man with a prominent glare on his face and few words on his lip finally sealed the deal, taking Maddox in and signing the adoption papers when they were ready. Unusually quickly, but the orphanage was thankful for the money the man provided and to see Maddox finally with a 'family'. Little did they know the man was nothing of a father, but a mentor of sorts; an assassin, one with quick hands and light feet. Maddox kicked and screamed, but soon she fell into her new routine. The man did not care about the fights she picked in school, as long as she kept her head down and the attention on her to a minimum — and every day they trained. Trained until Maddox bones were sore and heavy, until her lungs ached in her ribcage, her ears ringing from the gunshot noises, and her arms burned from the weight of guns.

Maddox and the men held no affection for each other, traded few words, but he shaped her to be a merciless killer, one who could survive the dangers of this world and would not be bound to the grieves and disturbances a heart might cause. By then, she did not remember her mother by face, and tried not to think of the woman — choosing to guard the good memories in a dark place of her heart, a place where the sun doesn't shine and her blood-stained hands couldn't cause such joyful things to root. Maddox and the man held no affection for each other, traded few words, but he shaped her to be a merciless killer, one who could survive the dangers of this world and would not be bound to the grieves and disturbances a heart might cause. By then, she did not remember her mother by face, and tried not to think of the woman — choosing to guard the good memories in a dark place of her heart, a place where the sun doesn't shine and her blood-stained hands couldn't cause such joyful things to root. By eighteen, Maddox started taking her own jobs, and proved to be quite adept at it. She was never caught, and never left witness behind. Fighting came as easy to her as breathing, and Maddox paid no heed to pain. She was a machine, good as they come. By twenty-five, she was running in with a partner, a man she met during a job who was paid to kill another target in the same party she had a target. It wasn't a life she was proud of; running credit card scams, killing for money, and never settling down in one place — but it was the life she knew. The only thing she had been good at. Perhaps it is genetics. Perhaps she is as rotten as her father. Thoughts that kept her awake at night, knowing them to be true. Everything she touched died, just like him. 

With her story and her past, it didn't take long for the Organization to contact her. They promised her the world for her skills, but it came with a price. She had to leave her partner behind, and kill a target that had been escaping the Organization grasps for some time. Maddox faked her own death, leaving London, and following the trail, she was given up to Bulgaria, where she found herself face to face with the man that had raised her, taught her. It wasn't an easy fight. But she came out victorious, and at first thing in the morning, was leaving on a plane to Sunset Port. 

After that, guilt began to settle in her bones. She continued to do her job, but the taste of blood now left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth, and when she turned 32, Maddox decided to leave this life behind. She couldn't, not fully, of course — one does not simply leave the Organization. But they offered her a retirement plan; take charge of the radio station, and be free to do as she wishes in her free time. She accepted it with no questions asked, and has been the radio host for the Sunset Frequency since then.

[canyouhearthelight]

The Miys, Ch. 50

The past week has been an abominably wild ride. I’m in the U.S, and we have had entirely too many shooting recently.  Add to that the fact that our election season is starting to ramp up, and the vitriol is spewing at work.  I’m a very opinionated person when it comes to politics and human rights (this really shouldn’t be a surprise if you’ve followed this far), and I try to keep the majority of it out of this story and off this blog.  That said, I’m down for some discourse if any of you want to message me.

Moving to the actual story: This chapter gives a bit of insight into where the story is going next, plus some of the background stuff I always have cluttering up my head.  It always gives me good material to show the different personalities and skill sets of the main and secondary characters.  Overall, I really like how this chapter turned out.

And don’t worry - that difficult conversation is coming very soon.

I managed to compose myself by the time the men came into my sister’s public room, but only just.  I hardly noticed the jostling on the couch as Tyche refused to move from my side and allow Maverick and Conor to sandwich me in between them like usual.  She elbowed me to get my attention, and only then did I realize that she was still sitting next to me. Maverick on my other side, with Conor on the floor leaning against mine and Maverick’s legs.

Antoine looked so amused at the situation, I thought he might explode. When I arched an eyebrow at him, he just shook his head and settled into the one perfectly empty chair.  “So, the festival?” he ventured.

Thank you for the safe ground, I thought before responding. “Overall, huge success.  I still have to debrief with Alistair tomorrow, but preliminary reports are pretty good.  There was a minor kerfluffle with a vendor before everything got set up, but we got that resolved pretty tidily.  I think so, at least.”

Tyche shook her head. “I don’t recall any vendor issues.”

“Exactly,” I pointed out. “Originally, there was going to be a location that specialized in a certain pork product, and Alistair caught it when the vendor wanted to be stationed where the Jainist cuisine ended up being.”

“But that was between….” Maverick trailed off, horrified. Conor’s shoulders shook with laughter, resulting in getting a swat on both shoulders – one from the pilot, one from my sister.  “Dude, it’s not funny!  That’s just deliberately being rude.  You don’t put pork between two groups who have religious prohibitions against it!”

Conor held his hands up in surrender. “I’m laughing at the tongue-lashing our Sophie probably gave the poor sod, I swear!”

“Actually, I didn’t.” Four heads turned to stare at me in disbelief. “Seriously. It was so much worse than you’re thinking, but I managed not to chew anyone out… much.  Remember all the gourmet bacon that was everywhere at the festival?  That was the guy.  For whatever reason, the vendor and Simon thought there was nothing wrong with having a bacon-themed stall.”

“At the same event that was intended to help everyone recover from the attack on the ship by a certain terrorist group?” Antoine asked quietly, in a tone that I had learned meant he was boiling mad.

“Yep,” I popped the last consonant in emphasis.  “I called him, pointed out how tasteless it was, and we decided instead to let the other alcoves feature the wares. To his credit, it never even crossed his mind that it was a bad idea. He was focused on the flavor list, and the vendor was focused on showing off like everyone else was.”

He nodded thoughtfully as my sister spoke. “So, the bacon gets out there, in the best possible way, without anyone being distracted by the connotation.”

“Pretty much. And, honestly? I think that particular vendor got better coverage than anyone else at the event… that stuff was everywhere.  Maple and bacon donuts, chocolates with candied bacon, on burgers, wrapped around seafood, you name it.”

“And that was the only vendor issue?” she asked.

I nodded, before switching gears. “Now, I want to hear about the low-stim portion of the event.  I have the official reports from everyone, and Alistair is going to give the highlights tomorrow, but I want to get an idea from you three how it plays against the regular session.”  Automatically, I started playing with Conor’s hair, just because it was by my hand. I had no idea how many times I had done that in the past, but I was very conscious of it right now.

Maverick spoke up, snapping me out of my distracted thoughts. “Well, it was a lot calmer, better lit, pretty much as intended.  With a very few exceptions, the vendors were much more relaxed during the low-stimulus session, too. I think that had a positive impact on the attendees, since they felt less like a bother.”

“There was definitely less resistance from the vendors in regards to food preferences in the earlier portion,” Antoine added.  “In the first session, when presented with a list of foods that were not an option, they largely cooperated. However, when we went back, this dropped by an estimated thirty percent.”

“That’s disappointing,” I muttered.

Maverick reached over to squeeze my hand gently. “Hey, on the plus side, the Japanese vendor kept the natto covered the entire time.”

“That was surprisingly popular,” my sister pointed out.  “Probably the novelty, from what you two told me about it. We may need to be on the lookout for natto-eating challenges in the near future.”

I shook with revulsion before composing myself. “To be fair, there are people who do actually like it, and it’s supposed to be very nutritious.  Don’t let our bias stop you from trying it. Just… please don’t do it when either of us is around?”

Conor took that chance to jump into the conversation. “Any of the typical disturbances you would see from a big event like that? Fights, drunk and disorderlies, that kind of thing?”

“I haven’t heard anything,” I responded cautiously. “And the alcohol was limited to two drinks per attendee, non-transferable.  Even at The Undine, the drinks were low or no content after each person had their allotment.  Xiomara will have the exact data, though.”

“Oh!” Tyche grabbed my arm for attention. “The quiet rooms? Huge success. I ducked in several of them both times I was there, and even toward the end of the festival, people were really respectful of them. Any groups were small, and they kept their voices at a whisper or a very low – “ She waved her hand at the word she was looking for. “Mutter. Not mutter. The other one. But that, yeah.”

Antoine chuckled at her excitement. “Yes, the attendees were keeping the noise to a minimum, as she says. It felt very much like walking into a library. You may receive some requests to keep the rooms in place, Sophia.”

Regretfully, I shook my head.  “I wish we could, but the majority of the space we used for the festival was only loaned to us by people who actually live there.  If those people want to keep the rooms as they are, they are more than welcome to the free re-decorating, but those are still private residences.  In fact, most of the people have already moved back in.” A collective groan came from everyone in the room, Conor going so far as to bury his face in my knee out of disappointment. “The best I can do is offer the design plans freely to everyone on the Ark, and I can talk to the Council about the demand for spaces like that. Maybe we can set up a few small libraries or botanical gardens throughout the ship, if Miys is okay with it.”

“I think the botanical gardens will go over well,” Conor offered, glancing up. “Noah is fond of air-cleaning plants, it turns out.  Calls them little trooplings.”  When Maverick furrowed his brows so hard it looked like it hurt, our resident pseudo-botanist clarified. “Hujylsogox are mycogenetic, which means they evolved from fungus-like lifeforms.  Mushrooms grow in colonies, clusters, and troops.  The word’s probably not the same, but the closest the translators can get to the concept of a baby Hujylsogox is ‘troopling’.”

“But why would Miys compare plants to baby-thems?” Maverick asked, glancing around for explanation.  Tyche, Antoine, and I just stared at Conor, waiting for an explanation.

With a sigh, he continued. “Noah – or Miys – absorbs nutrients and sustenance from the air, constantly.  It has to be supplemented with rations, sure, but it’s a function they can’t control.  Miys jokes about not having a sense of smell, but they can definitely tell how clean the air is, and they’re sensitive to caustic fumes.”

“Just like the plants,” Tyche ventured.

He nodded. “It’s really similar. The plants are a bit less sensitive to things like fumes from spicy foods, though.”  Tyche and I flushed at the reminder of the time we ran Miys out of my quarters while making dinner.  Antoine smiled, but Conor roared with laughter and told the story to Maverick.

When he finished, Tyche jumped in. “In our defense, we didn’t know the smell of the chili sauce reducing would give Noah actual burns.  The fumes or vapor, or whatever you want to call it, had run a couple people off, but Noah told us before that they don’t have noses, so it never occurred to us that it would be a problem.”

“Nothing in what you just said argues against the fact that you two were deliberately cooking and eating something so spicy that people ran away and one needed treatment for burns,” Maverick pointed out.

“Miys pointed that out, too,” I admitted. “Okay, new topic, before I die of embarrassment. Festival is out of the way, so the gravity adjustment is scheduled for two days from now.”

Antoine leaned forward with laser-focus. “We need to expect increased anxiety and paranoia, along with some fatigue.”

Tyche and I nodded, while Maverick made a noise of agreement. Conor glanced around at all of us. “Okay, superbrains, tell the dumb lug what I’m not understanding here.”

I rolled my eyes at the self-assigned appellation - he had just given us a  small lecture on the similarities between Miys biology and that of a potted plant -  and gestured for Antoine, following the evening’s convention of deferring to the people with the most expertise. He nodded and explained, “The increase in gravity will only be five-percent of Earth gravity, putting the entire ship at 1.1. It is not enough for anyone to really notice, beyond some minor discomfort, as everyone has already adjusted to the initial increase to 1.05. However, our brains know something is ‘not right’ for lack of a better term.  Not necessarily wrong or dangerous, but not the same and not what we have grown to consider normal, similar to if everything was moved two centimeters to the left – just because you cannot tell exactly what changed, it does not mean you cannot tell something has changed.  This results in increased anxiety and sometimes paranoia.”

Conor nodded as it started to make sense to him. “Even knowing ahead of time that the gravity will be adjusting, it can still happen?”

I snorted violently. “Never expect people to read all their mail.”

“Good point,” he conceded.  “How many total adjustments to gravity are we going to have?”

“Ten, total,” Tyche answered as she flicked open her data pad, shrugging apologetically. “I know, I know. Family rule: no data pads on dinner nights. But I don’t have all the information memorized, and this is a good discussion.”  Scrolling through the information, she stopped and mimed tapping a screen. “Kepler 442b has half-again as much gravity as Earth, which is more than our scientists Before had initially estimated.  Its star is slightly bluer than Sol, but not quite as bright. It isn’t tidally locked, but just barely.  A year there is about three Terran months, with the days half that long. It’s also colder than Earth, due to its star being smaller, but not by much once you compensate for Terran global warming and Kepler 442b having a denser atmosphere.” She scowled up at me. “We need to name our new home, you know. I thought you were going to work on that.”

“I’ve had a lot on my plate,” I objected before sighing and slouching against the back of her couch. “But you’re right. We need to get on that. I want to do an Ark-wide poll, but I need to set the criteria and have it approved by the Council, first. Nobody actually wants to name our second chance ‘Colony McPlanetface’, and I would like to weed out the multitudinous variations of home or dirt.”

“Have people submitting ideas include a justification,” Maverick pointed out. “That will weed out a lot of people who aren’t serious, if they have to include an essay.”

I grinned widely at him, squeezing his arm in affection. “That’s a great idea, actually.  Granted, I don’t look forward to reading all those essays – even if a single-digit percent of people submit, that’s still hundreds – but at least it will limit the submissions that are intended as a joke.”  I thought for a moment. “And… if we include the criteria that the name cannot be certain words or versions of certain words, Zach can probably write a program to weed those out, as well.”  I turned to my sister and Antoine, nudging Conor gently.

“Start thinking of names we don’t want to see.  I’ll send a message to the Council tomorrow asking for their input and running the idea by them tentatively.  And whoever is keeping track, add Goldilocks to that list.  It was unoriginal to start with, and now it just feels cursed.”

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[thunder-the-ranger-wolf]

Possible Excerpt from Had Enough: The Dreamsight Remix

Summary, the tag to follow

The next shop was Flourish and Blotts, where Harry would get his school books. On the list were The Standard Book of Spells, A History of Magic, Magical Theory, A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi, Magical Drafts and Potions, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection.

He knew nothing about these books or the authors. Maybe he should have paid more attention to his dreams because he knew there was something about Fantastic Beasts that helped him and his friends later on.

There were far too many books for him to go through in one day, so Harry was hoping McGonagall had a good idea of where to go. He would definitely be coming back to get more books that weren’t on this list but he’d start with these.

Harry paid for the books on the list and a few of the others that Jaime, Jack, and Amelia had picked up. McGonagall had a few books of her own that were accidentally lumped in with his. After they realized, he said that she could pay him back later if she felt like she had to. It made no sense to split up a purchase like this when they were all here for similar things and were all going to the same place next. He didn’t see the big deal she was making of it, but he also might have been missing something. Maybe it’s because he has his own money now.

The next shop was for potions supplies. Hary would need a cauldron and a set of scales to weigh ingredients and apparently a telescope. McGonagall was very no-nonsense and by-the-book about the purchases despite the awe that he felt seeing all these tools. He and Jamie made lists of everything they could come back for the next time they visited this place. McGonagall agreed on that because it would have to be another six times, one for each year.

The Apothecary reeked like rotten eggs and cabbage went bad, Harry’s dreams lied about that. Barrels almost Harry’s height stood against the wall, some of them caked in slimy goop that he wasn’t too keen on touching. Jars of shriveled herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the windows. Feathers bundled, wicked fangs, and snarled claws were strung up and dangled from the ceiling. Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he’d need for potions, but the surprisingly young man behind the counter seemed to expect McGonagall, so he and Jaime were free to roam around the shop and keep a listening ear out for whatever sounded most interesting. Harry would definitely be looking out during Potions. If the magical world was anything like the science teacher said chemistry was, something was bound to explode if he didn't know what he was doing.

After the apothecary came time for a wand. Harry and Jaime laughed when that came up and whipped their arms about.

“Abracadabra!” Harry shouted.

“Alakazam!” Jaime parried.

Professor McGonagall hissed and something smothered Harry’s mouth seconds later.

“Do not ever say that word!” McGonagall insisted sharply.

“But it’s just a silly trick!” Harry scoffed beneath her hand. She shook his head from side to side before lifting her hand.

“Say again?” She ordered frostily.

“It’s a silly trick. Nothing happens if you say it. To people who don’t think magic is real, it’s just sounds strung together.”

“Well, it’s not here.”

“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” Amelia offered warily. “And I would very much like it if you never struck my nephew again.”

“What did you think I said?” Harry asked, coming to a realization.

“Avada Kedavra is the killing curse. If a Magician is powerful enough, it can be done without a wand. Its intended target receives an instant, painless death.”

“That’s not what I said,” He confirmed. “Similar language,” because of course it was, he almost can’t believe this! “but lacking a syllable and different vowels and consonants. I’ll keep it in mind, though. Wouldn’t want to accidentally kill someone for annoying me.” He joked.

“No, Mr. Potter.” Professor McGonagall informed him sternly. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“Jaime, stick with Harry and McGonagall, your father and I are going to have a look around, see if we missed anything and maybe get you some food. You can handle the wand part, can’t you?”

Jaime looked at his mother, eyebrows scrunched before he nodded and slung an arm around Harry.

“C’mon, Wolf, let’s go get that magic wand. I wonder if there’s anything else you’re not allowed to say around here.”

“The store is Ollivander’s.” McGonagall hurried off after Harry and Jaime and it took a lot for Harry to walk away from the Alfers. He had no clue why the Alfers sent them away or what Amelia was so upset about. Harry had committed a faux-pas here. It was only right that he was corrected.

Jaime shook his head when Harry voiced his thoughts.

“Teachers don’t put hands on their students. That stopped a few years ago and most of Britain isn’t too keen on bringing it back.”

This was all so weird that Harry figured it was best to just go along for now. It was stupid to be so upset over getting hit when he’d very obviously done something wrong and was getting corrected. What if someone’s life had actually been in danger from my words?

“We’re here,” McGonagall said stiffly.

The shop before them was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that McGonagall sat on to wait. The place had an air of silence about it similar to a very strict library. Jaime let out a noise of surprise and he instantly shushed him. Stunned by his own actions, Harry didn’t speak again.

There was so much to do with wands that Harry wasn’t sure where to start. Would Ollivander answer all his questions? Did he even know how to?

Harry shook his head to clear it and looked around instead. Each wand was nestled in soft velvet jewelry boxes, the type that would hold a necklace the long way.

The strict feeling intensified, to the point where shivers jolted up Harry’s spine and he clutched Jaime’s arm.

“Good afternoon.”

Surprisingly, Jaime was the one who jumped. Harry’s feet remained rooted to the floor, though he still clung to his new cousin.

Twin orbs glittered through the darkness and the closer the person stepped, the more of themselves they revealed.

“Hello,” Harry murmured awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said Ollivander. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter."

Goodness, it would take forever to get used to people automatically knowing his name.

“Wolf,” He responded on reflex. “If you don’t mind too much.”

“Of course not, dear boy. Names, somewhat like wands, are chosen and shed. If a name no longer fits the person it belongs to, much like a wand, it can be exchanged for a new one.”

“How do you know when it’s time to change?” Harry wondered. “What if a name, or a wand, is forced on you?”

“Well, well, well, cunning little magician you are. Wands are a bit more obvious when they no longer fit, but, much like a name… sometimes you just know, Wolf. I want you to keep that in mind as you accomplish your goal today.”

“Fair enough.” Harry offered warily. He doubted that the same wand dream-Harry got would fit now, but he could only hope. Having the same wand core was all that got him through his dreams. Without that protection, that luck… well. Harry was already hopeless in the real world. He didn’t want to die anytime soon.

"You have your mother's eyes,” Ollivander said conversationally as he rifled through a stack of wands on the counter nearest to him. “It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.”

It’s good to hear something nice about Lily Potter. Harry didn’t remember much about her that isn’t skewed by someone else’s view. Apparently, she’s good with charms. Maybe Professor Flitwick would know something about her.

“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration.”

Ollivander got closer as he said this, and within seconds Harry could see his face reflected in the man’s off-white moon-like eyes. Ollivander reached a long unkempt finger towards Harry’s forehead and Jaime jerked Harry back before he could actually reach it. Ollivander paid no mind to the offense and Harry nudged Jaime’s arm.

Play nice! He mouthed to his new cousin.

“I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that sealed your fate, young one,” Ollivander said softly, breath barely above a whisper. “Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very much so, and in the right hands, it could have been great. If I’d known what that wand would go on to do, I’d have denied the owner, first thing.”

“Yew is poisonous,” Harry found myself saying. “And if the wand chooses the Magician, then how could you hold it back?”

Ollivander’s eyes glittered knowingly.

“You are going to do great at Hogwarts, young one. Especially once we find your wand. Now, which is your dominant hand?”

Harry held out his right arm and Jaine stepped back. The boys watched as the wand-maker pulled out a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket. He proceeded to measure from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around Harry’s head. He explained the makeup of wands as he continued to measure.

“Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another Magician’s wand.”

Just like in the dream, somewhere along the way the tape-measure had lifted from Ollivander’s hands and continued to measure Harry on its own. He was surprised Jaime was so quiet about this since it was taking all Harry’s strength to be perfectly still as the tape measure did its work. Mr. Ollivander appeared in front of him with four stacks of small slim boxes.

“That will do,” He said, and the tape measure crumpled to the floor like a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut. Before Harry could ask how the tape-measure did that without an incantation, he was handed a long smooth light grey stick.

“Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”

Remembering how McGonagall had freaked out when Harry said a fake curse, he decided to keep silent as he flicked the wand. True to the dreams, Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost immediately and gave him another one.

“Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy.”

This time Harry actually waved his hand as if he were saying hello to someone. Nothing happened with this wand either, but Olivander seemed to need it for something because he hesitated with that one.

“What are you doing?” Harry wondered as he twitched the wand between his fingers.

“Testing this one.”

“What is there to test? The wand didn’t work.”

“You reacted to the phoenix feather more than the maple, but not so much as you would with your true wand.” Ollivander informed Harry as he evaluated the wand he’d just taken back.

“I said before that no two wand cores are alike because no two magical substances are alike. But I can tell if you react to the magical core or the wood more strongly and narrow it down from there.”

“So even though the phoenix might not be my wand’s phoenix, you can see that I’ll need a phoenix feather for the core of my wand.”

Exactly, young one.” Ollivander crowed as he put the wand back in its box. “But just to be sure, we’ll test out a few more.”

A few more turned out to be about a hundred, or so it felt, and with each wand that seemed to be a dud, Harry found himself questioning his worth more. All the things that had happened in Harry’s dreams were extraordinary. He couldn’t imagine even seeing a three-headed dog, much less getting past one. The thought of getting on a broom scared him beyond belief, trolls would be at the school and he already knew he wasn’t capable of saving anyone because all the magic he’d been able to do involved talking to one snake, changing objects, and getting away from Dudley. There was no way the wand that chose Harry in the dream would match him now. If any wand chose him at all.

“What happens if none of the wands here fit me?” Harry wondered, feeling small.

“There are other wand-makers, though not many, that I could consult to have you fitted. You are not the first tricky customer I’ve had and you won’t be the last.” Ollivander assured Harry.

“Look at it this way, Wolf,” Jaime said suddenly. “You’ve got magic, that’s for sure. You have a bank account in a magic mall and you can make coins appear in a bag.”

“That’s stuff the Potters set up when-. When I was born, probably. It would work on any child they had.”

“A non-magical child would not get a letter for Hogwarts,” McGonagall informed us sternly. “Your mother comes from an Assiduan family and she got a letter. Her sister, Petunia, did not. You belong in the Magical World, Mr. Potter.”

“Wolf,” Harry said quickly, almost speaking over her. “I… I don’t like being called by my name,” He admitted. “Everyone who says it acts like I’m some bug they want to crush under their shoe. Except the Alfers and Mrs. Figg. But they don’t mind calling me Wolf either.”

“If that’s truly how you feel about your own name, then it’s no wonder the letter wrote out that moniker.”

“Holly and phoenix feather,” Ollivander cut in suddenly, handing Harry a pale green wand that sparkled red when hit by a patch of sunlight.

“You did say I’d need a phoenix feather.” Harry offered, knowing that this was the wand from the dream.

“Go on, give it a wave.” Ollivander encouraged.

Please, please, if I ever do anything right in this world, let it start here.

Harry raised the wand above his head and brought it down in a fierce arc. A blaze of red and gold sparks followed. They shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls.

“And indeed, you do!” Ollivander whooped eagerly. “It is… rather curious, though, young one.” He offered soberly as he took the wand back and wrapped its box in packaging paper.

“What is?” Harry asked with a knowing sense of dread. He hoped the wand-maker was about to say what he thought…

“I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, young one.” He began slowly. “Every single one. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand only ever gave two feathers. It is extremely curious, young one, that this wand chose you when its brother… dear young one, its brother gave you that scar.”

Harry swallowed loudly, knowing that this was what he expected to heat but somehow, coming from people in this world, it made the news more real.

“Yew is poisonous.” The younger boy choked out. “I guess only a strong rare magical substance could make its home there.”

“That is… almost true, young one. The magical substances are all powerful enough to temper the damaging properties of the woods we use to make our wands. In fact, I’d say they temper each other. But since yew is very poisonous, not many wands can be crafted from it. You are a very insightful young student, Wolf. I look forward to great things from you.”

Harry exhaled shakily, more thrown by this experience than he would like to admit.

“How much do I owe you?” He prompted.

“Seven Galleons, young one. They’re gold and the largest.”

Harry shook the Gringotts key from around his neck and pressed it to the pouch he’d been given.

“Seven Galleons.” He croaked out, hoping the magic wouldn’t fail him now.

He felt the bag grow heavier and shook the coins into Ollivander’s hand.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “for helping me today.”

“Of course, young one, the honor is mine.”

Jaime had to lead Harry around after that. Harry was too busy trying to process the day. Nothing that anyone said reached his ears, something he vowed to change once he settled into Hogwarts. He couldn’t afford to be as unaware as he was. Harry survived in the dreams because he was observant, in his own way. He had to at least get something from those.

McGonagall led the Alfers back home with the same portkey she’d used to bring them to Diagon Alley. After a few cups of tea where McGonagall told the Alfers what to expect on the first day and how to get to Hogwarts, the older woman was gone.

Ameilia, Jack, and Jaime all turned to Harry.

“What do you want to do now?” Jack asked softly.

Harry wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He needed to think. He needed to figure out how much of this was real and when he would wake up.

He could admit to the first part, at least.

“I’m going up to my room,” Harry said. “ I need to think about all this.”

[shastelly]

Ocean - March Klance Prompts from MonthlyKlance - Day 19

Yes, it's April, no I don't care :)

This fic brought to you by Seagram's extra dry Gin…enjoy responsibly...the typos took longer than usual to edit out, perhaps drinking and writing aren’t the best combo

  Day 19 - Ocean

  It didn't happen in slow motion.  He didn't get a time-lapsed forever to weigh his options and make his decision.  It was not like the movies at all, but even now as his air and time were running out, he would not have made a different choice.  Even now he knew that split-second decision had been the right one.

  Three Varga ago…

  The plan was solid.  They would infiltrate the Galra cruiser when it was docked at the fueling station on Alien Waterworld.  Lance did not remember the name it had way too many consonants in it to pronounce properly and besides it was totally alien Waterworld, covered nearly entirely in ocean.  The fueling station was a tower that soared up out of the water into the pink sky.  The water was somewhat surprisingly blue, and Lance really appreciated its resemblance to Earth water. 

  Pidge explained that the tower was converted electrochemical energy produced in the alien ocean to fuel.  It was not ecofriendly, and they were slowly killing the planets ecosystem with the three fueling stations towers.  She had suggested that once they completed the mission with the cruiser data retrieval that the castle blast the other two towers as well.

  The towers were manned primarily by droids according to intel and scans.  The team would use Green and her cloak to get into the tower and then sneak aboard the cruiser as it was docked.  Then Lance, Keith, and Hunk would place a series of detonators in key spots around the ship while Pidge and Shiro hacked the mainframe and copied the prisoner records and troop movement information they needed.   When they had the information they needed, they would take a pod and drop down to the ocean where Green waited and Pidge would set off the detonators.  Easy peasy lemon squeezy.  And Shio had rolled his eyes when Lance said it, but it was, it was supposed to be.

  Another brilliant plan ruined by stupidity - Galra stupidity.  One of the detonator's was discovered, one on the starboard engine.  The brilliant detective decided to mess with the bomb and set it off blowing himself and the engine to bits.  Lance is sure that's what happened, because Keith apparently saw the bomb go off as he was trying to stop the idiot from setting it off.

  Now, Lance thinks, maybe being next to the bomb going off wasn't Keith's best plan and that they definitely need to get that boy a long-range weapon of some kind.  At this point Lance thinks a sling and some rocks would be better than nothing.

  "Shit!"

  "Keith, are you okay?"  Shiro yells in the com.

  "Yeah, yeah, mostly."  Keith's breathy voice almost echoes.  "Blast busted my helmet.  The visor is cracked.  Stupid patrol set off the bomb.  I think we're going down."

  "No kidding, did the free fall clue you in?"  Lance snarked as he clung to the wall in the hall he was in, not far from Keith. 

  "Everyone to the pod now, we need to get off of here before we hit the water."  Shiro ordered.

  Keith was the furthest away and had to make a detour around damaged sections of the ship as doors were sealed in attempt to keep the thing in the air.  It wasn't working, but it was causing Keith a lot of issues.  Lance wasn't having much more luck as he wasn't much ahead of Keith.  About two dobashes after the ordered retreat they found themselves in the same hall.

  "Pidge?  Help?"  Lance asked.

  "I'm in the pod with Shiro.  I can pull up a map."  Pidge's typing could be heard over the com.

  "I'm almost there.  I see the pods."  Hunk yelled.

  "Shit, we have three dobashes to waterfall."  Pidge yelled frantic.

  "Go then!"  Keith yelled as he and Lance moved faster, still not sure how to get to where they needed to be.

  "Don't wait for us."  Lance echoed.

  "We can give you one more dobash."  Pidge snarled.

  "Won't make it.  Get Hunk and go."  Lance panted.

  "Hunk's on board."  Shiro stated.

  "Go Shiro!"  Keith yelled.

  "Pidge, launch."  Shiro ordered.

  "No, we can give them…"

  "They aren't going to make it in time.  Keith, Lance - You are too far out to get to the pods.  Find a secure location and brace for impact.  We will give you the count."  Shiro commanded, sounding sure that they would be okay.

  "Fuck."  Pidge cursed as she pressed the button to launch the pod.  "You have 2.5 dobashes."

  "On it."  Keith answered, though his voice was weak.

  Lance could see the blackened marks on the red paladin armor and the shattered visor and cracked helmet revealed bleeding cuts on Keith's face.

  "Here?"  Lance nodded to a small room to the left of the hall.  It looked like a dorm room, complete with desk and bed.

  "Yeah."  Keith agreed.

  The bed seemed to be bolted into the wall.  They both crawled under it and braced themselves.

  "This sucks."  Keith growled.  His breathing seemed shallow and Lance worried that there was more wrong with him than he had told.

  "Yeah, I've heard of hiding under the bed from a monster or a tornado or maybe a fire, but not a shipwreck and the others never work out either."

  "Lance, you're babbling."

  "I'm not babbling, I am pretending not to be freaking out about our imminent deaths by talking about random things to distract myself.  Where you aware that cows have four stomachs?"  Lance knew he was babbling, he didn't care.

  "No."

  "They do, it's so they can digest grass and stuff, which humans can't because of just the one stomach.  I had to have my stomach pumped when I was six and drank an entire bottle of tequila that I found in the kitchen cabinet."

  "Really." 

  Lance wasn't entirely sure that Keith was paying attention, but he did seem to be humoring him, "Yeah, I got a popsicle and a night in the hospital.  Hospitals aren't so bad when the nurses are nice.  I went out with a nurse once when I was at the Garrison.  She was like five years older than me.  I'm not sure why she said yes when I asked.  She was a good dancer.  We went to three clubs and did shots of tequila.  Then at like 3 am we went cow tipping."

  "Are all your stories about cows and tequila?"

  "Important hallmarks for my childhood."  Lance snarked, though his voice shook slightly.

  "One dobash, are you guys safe."  Shiro asked over the com.

  "We found a good spot.  Riding this thing in."  Lance came back trying to sound confident.

  "Okay.  Hold tight.  Get to an outer area of the ship as soon as possible and we will get you out if we have to make a door."  Shiro responded.

  Something about their leader's voice seemed to fill him with a sense of safe.  Shiro wouldn't let anything happen to them.

  "Okay, Shiro, be careful yourselves."  Keith responded.  He was well aware that Shiro would throw himself into fire if he thought it would save his team.

  Pidge's voice shaking came over the com, "Ten, nine, I love you guys, five, four, three, two, one."

  At one the world shook.  The sound was like a thousand trains running into a thousand cliffs and blowing up.  The paladins were bounced hard against the bed and back down to the floor several times.  Clutching desperately to the bed and each other they tried to minimize the impact and stay contained in their little corner.  They didn't realize they were both screaming at first, the sound covered by the monstrous noise of the crash.

  When Lance came to, he was pressed between the wall and Keith, clutching the former like his life depended on it.  The bed had apparently come loose at some point and Keith was clutching the bed in front of them like a shield.  All in all, Lance decided he wasn't doing too bad.  He felt stiff, his back hurt and his arms and hands were so stiff he had trouble convincing his fingers to let go.

  "Keith?"  Lance jostled him a little as he tried to remove his arms from around the Red Paladin.

  Keith groaned and apparently let go of the bed as it went crashing to the floor.

  "LANCE!" Pidge's scream left his ears ringing.

  "We're here Pidgie.  I'm okay, a little stiff but no damage.  Checking on Keith now."  Lance answered.

  "Quiznak don’t scare me like that again!"  She growled.

  "'m 'kay” Keith slurred.

  "Yeah, not convincing, mullet."  Lance carefully climbed around so that he could see Keith's face and the rest of him.  He didn't see anything new, but that didn't mean he was okay.  Keith blinked a couple of times and then managed to focus on Lance.  "Okay, so head injury from explosion or crash?"

  "Um…both?  I think my helmet's damaged or maybe my headache is just getting worse."  Keith answered squinting at Lance.

  "Okay, well, definite helmet damage because the explosion blew out your visor.  Can you sit up?"  Lance reached out to steady him when Keith wobbled, but he managed to sit.  He closed his eyes and then snapped them open.

  "Dizzy."  He muttered.

  "Okay, you guys get that?"  Lance asked.

  "Yeah, we hear you."  Shiro answered.

  "Lance, we need you guys to get out of the ship, Pidge is sending you the quickest route to an exist.  The blast left a pretty big hole and the ship is starting to sink heavily on that end."  Hunk came over the coms nervously.

  "Route sent."  Pidge returned almost immediately.

  "Okay, Keith, we gotta go."  Lance helped him up.  The fact that he didn't say a word and just did as Lance asked kind of freaked him out a little.  "Moving."

  "We read you.  I'm monitoring your progress."  Pidge offered.

  "Okay."  Lance was nearly carrying Keith by the time they got to the second hallway.  He wasn't sure if it was the head wound or something else, but he was worried.

  "Guys!  You need to hurry!"  Hunk's panic bled through the com.  "The ship is breaking up."

  "What?!"  Lance leaned down and managed to lift Keith up over a shoulder.  "Quiznak you are heavier than you look!"

  "Lance?"  Worry colored Shiro's voice.

  "Keith's too slow, I'm going to try to move us faster."  Lance panted managing to move to a jog.  Keith growled from his back but broke off into a whimper.  Lance tried to move faster.

  The sounds the ship had been making were getting louder.  The rocking from the waves made on impact had accompanied groans and creaks, but now there were louder metallic noises that filled Lance with a kind of dread.

  "LANCE!"  Hunk called out just as the floor in front of him split open with a shriek.

  Lance may have joined the floor in shrieking as he scrambled backwards.  The ship in front of him split and tilted forward, falling away and forward.  He scrambled as the ship rocked hard sliding them back and forth across the hall.  Lance clung to Keith.

  "LANCE?!"  Hunk cried.

  "Ow!  Quiznak!"  Lance slammed hard into the wall and the two section of the ship separated.  The far section moved farther away bobbing like a cork in the ocean.  While the section they were in shifted and started tilting forward, trying to drop them into the ocean below. 

  "No, no, no."  Lance tried to push them back away from the edge, Keith was clinging weakly to him and despite his efforts they were sliding forward. 

  "Lance?!"  Hunk yelled again.

  "Falling, falling, shit."  Lance's outstretched arm managed to grab the corner of a door, but the jolting stop caused Keith to slide out of his arm and he was now clinging to his legs.  "Stopped," he grunted.

  "Lance, where are you?"  Shiro called.

  Lance couldn't focus enough to answer, his arm burned, and Keith was slipping.  He saw another hand hold further down and letting his one go, he managed to get a grip on Keith again and grab the next door.  This time expected the jolt he was able to brace himself and keep his grip on Keith.  Keith groaned.

  "Hanging on."  Lance muttered.  The water was rising.  They were about thirty feet above it.  Their part of the ship was continuing to tilt, and Lance wondered if it would go completely upright and if he could hold on if it did.

  "We are coming to you."  Pidge gritted out.  "We've made it to Green."

  The ship jolted and it was as though an entire level disappeared into the deep blue ocean.  The ship shuddered and shook, and Lance found his grip loosened again and they were sliding and Keith was sliding faster.  Lance gave up all pretense of trying to stop their fall and desperately grabbed for Keith.

  They were almost to the edge and Lance almost had him.  He saw Keith reach out his hand and Lance reached out his.  They were less than an inch apart when Lance's armor hung up on debris from the hall and he was jerked to a stop and Keith slid off the edge and out of site.

  "NOOOO!"  Lance jerked himself free of the debris and slid to the edge.  Keith was just visible sinking into the water almost thirty feet down.

  "LANCE?!"  This time it was Shiro that yelled.

  "Lance, Keith isn't showing up on the scan!"  Pidge shrieked.

  "Water must block the scan, Pidge, you'll have to fix that."  Lance spoke calmly and stepped off the edge.  He crossed his arms over his chest and kept his legs tightly together trying to aim himself after Keith.  That was the moment.  No slow motion, no questions about their fate, no thoughts other than "go".

  "What?  Lance?  Water?" Hunk sputtered.

  It hurt hitting the water that fast, but he his armor protected him.  He searched for Keith and spotting him began swimming for all he was worth.  Keith was sinking further into darkness.  His eyes closed and face slack.

  "nonnonnononnonononononono…" Lance didn't even realize he was talking until another voice answered.

  "Lance.  What's going on?  Talk to us, buddy."

  "nonononononononnonononnonononononono…."  Lance finally reached Keith hands grasping his armor and pulling his body to him.  As he did the water around him darkened like night falling.

  "Lance, the ship!"  Hunk yelled.  "Please!"

  Lance looked up to find the ship and tilted on over and was now coming his way at an unfortunate speed.  He grabbed Keith and began trying to swim away, but the water displaced from the ship was pulling them back.  He had to get Keith air, he had to get him out of the water.

  "nonononononono.." Lance panted breathlessly.  The ship was getting closer.  Soon Lance was swimming up into the ship, dodging between halls.  He realized about two ticks later that the ship had stopped moving.  He just needed to find some air.

  "Need air."  He growled.

  "Air?  There are pockets in the ship, try to reach one.  I don't know where you are because you are in the water."  Pidge fretted.

  "Keith?" Shiro uttered his name like a prayer.

  "Needs air."  Lance gritted out.  He broke the surface of the water in a hallway.  Up and to the right was a doorway.  Lance managed to pull Keith up with him and hauled him out of the water.  Later he would wonder how he managed it, but at the time it was just what needed to happen.

  He pulled Keith's helmet off and his hair spread around wet and dark behind him.  His face pale and unmoving.  A sound came out of Lance like a wounded animal before his lifeguard training kicked in and he began CPR.

  "Breathe damnit!"  Lance hissed as he felt Keith's ribs crack under the pressure.  "Breathe, you stupid mullet!"  Lance wailed.  "BREATHE, PLEASE KEITH!"

  And then he was sputtering and spitting out water, his body jerking and moving, and Lance rolled him to his side sobbing in relief.

  "Lance?"  Shiro begged.

  "Breathing, he's breathing."  Lance choked out.

  "Thank you."  Shiro whispered, Lance wasn't sure if he was talking to him or Keith, but it didn't matter at least the idiot was breathing.

  To be continued in Day 23 Hands

[exceptionally0unexceptional]

The surrounding air is wonderfully clean, outrageously so, filtered so incessantly that it Ruben’s chest aches; lungs flowering open to absorb more of that sanitary oxygen, a tongue akin to rubber smacking across the roof of his mouth. Everything in this facility feels so unnaturally pure – a retouched image of civilization which never seems to pop! into focus despite how he rubs astronomy into his eyes. Here, like everywhere else, his unkempt boredom is a fickle mistress.

Pushing his lips out beyond their limit – simply to hear the minuscule squelch the movement causes – and smacking them in time to an unknown (yet to be established) rhythm, Ruben’s eyes flicker lazily throughout his sibling’s tidy office. The décor is mystifying, if lazy, a collision of stained oak and rusted embellishments. Certainly not the tastes reflected in his patchwork memory. James was always a plastic over steel type of person. Economy be damned.

Ruben finds his fingertips curling around a rather odd-looking sphere sitting nonchalantly on the center of James’ vast desk. The object bursts with energy, a vortex of brilliant neon light swirling around one and other in a tangle which causes Ruben’s eyes to twist over one together. He shakes the feeling of nausea easily and places the peculiar ball back onto its pedestal; that luminescent spectrum floating in front of his eyes in the minutes which follow. His fingers drum pointless syllables amidst forgotten papers and uncapped stationery and his eyes trace amidst the madness for a flash of anything even remotely Delgado related; a single semblance of the person Ruben used to know – that same being who would get high off sunshine and loathed the color black.

All he can find is a stack of unopened mail and a collection of neatly stacked manila folders. Folders which have been stamped scarlet and wrapped in a loose bow of twine. Each file houses a name, written in beautiful cursive scrawl, which he does not recognize. Curiosity tends to bring out the worst in him – a feline urgency which rattles at the barrier of his bones and has his palms trembling with the urge to explore; his very fingertips are the tools which can excavate an entire realm of unknowns. Even if they do not belong to him. Glancing swiftly over his shoulder as a precautionary measure, Ruben presses his thumb underneath the lip of the top folder and peers cautiously inside in search of someth-

The door swings open with far more momentum than Ruben could have anticipated, handle bouncing forcefully moulded wallpaper, causing him to leap back as though his fingertips had been submerged within sapphire flame. He straightens his posture almost instantaneously – save for the natural buckle of his knees, toes pointed in toward one and other. Porcelain and silver illuminate the entirety of his grin – genuine glee captured within boyish features.

Despite the downward angle of James’ face, eyes transfixed on polished linoleum and ill-fitting shoes, it feels incredible to witness a likeness which has not been seen for years. They have developed a few fair lines around hauntingly tired eyes since their last meeting. Their lashes are fuller, longer and darker. Their cheeks have swollen considerably since that final winter. They look surprisingly healthy despite how their lips pinch hotly in stress, fingertips wrapped around steaming Styrofoam and struggling to balance an oversized binder beneath their arm.

It’s still them. It’s still James.

And that notion alone is enough to bring forth a triumphant “Hi!” from Ruben’s glowing lips.

James flinches temporarily, their coffee wavering in unsteady fingertips while their binder is kept impeccably close. They pause, suck in a tepid breath, and sigh.

“Ruben… What’re you doing here?”

“Uh,” Ruben bounces forward, knotting his fingertips throughout each other until they creak in utmost protest. “I know you said you’d contact me when you’re free, but I’ve been here for a few weeks now and you haven’t given me a call. Or a text. Or anything, really.”

The sight of their younger brother sucking helplessly at the rotund swell of his lower lip is horrifyingly familiar; warmth spills forth like honey into the slender expanse of a previously hollow chest. James fights to keep their patience at bay, pushing a sand of sun-soaked hair behind their ear. They tut – just once – but it is enough to wilt Ruben’s charismatic smile.

“I told you – I’m busy.” Coffee spills like morphine across a dry tongue, allowing James a moment to gather himself; to keep the thorns of his altered psyche from protruding outward. “I’m glad you’re here, Rubie. You look well.”

Rubie. The vowels and consonants flood Ruben’s hyperactive mind with a certain ecstasy he had forgotten could exist; swaddling a heartbeat which had already begun to erupt in thunderous applause for such recognition. His vision dips down toward himself, traces across the loose stripes of an oversized sweater and drops to faded undersized cargo shorts. He is hardly the picture of modern adulthood and yet here is sibling is – passing out compliments as though they were crimson roses. Encore encore.

“You think?”

“Mhm..”

Something feels off. A collision of obsessive lines and organized chaos suddenly knocked into a world of disastrous carelessness. James’ eyes dart lazily across their desk in search of that one thing causing such a sense of disruption. Their throat feels full – so dangerously full – for a rat has been gnawing those wiry little whiskers into business which does not deserve to be caked in sewage. Something is wrong.

There. A file, sitting precariously atop its cousins, has been knocked askew. It does not belong. It has been touched.

“You know,” James begins, straightening the offending envelope. “My job is extremely boring. This isn’t the best place for us to spend time together.”

Ruben’s eyes trace his sibling’s articulation, glossing over fascinating manila and gargantuan binder; his stomach flutters terribly with the fantasy of the unknown. What a thrill.

“It’s probably cooler than you thi-“

“No. It’s not.”

James stands abruptly with their chair sliding nosily from under their weight. Their approach is deliberately slow, almost cautious, as they bring their palm to a rest against the intricate notches of Ruben’s spine. Affection spills with translucent mirth across the younger sibling’s heightened senses. To be touched by someone you love so dearly; to reattach severed strands after such an imposing separation. Ruben cannot help the way his lashes glitter.

“I still have quite a lot I need to do today, brother. But how about I take you out to dinner on Saturday? We can even get your favourite – nothing but chilli dogs and curly fries!”

Ruben doesn’t have the heart to tell them about his developed tastes.

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot!”

“Good!” Returning to their chair, James takes another sip of their rapidly cooling caffeine. You can tell me all about yourself. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to tell me.”

Visions of technicolour penmanship, bold and intricate and oh so vivid, overwhelm Ruben’s easily infatuated senses. His sketches had always been messy but important – characters summoned from a susceptible imagination and transformed into fully-realized beings. His fingers flex around the throat of an invisible guitar, plucking at well-worn strings and across tuneless chords he had sewn together to make his own master mixes yet unheard of. He thinks to the small collection of skateboards left untouched inside a cardboard box yet to be unpacked, the peculiar shapes and light-up wheels he had fought to win over Ebay despite his sincere lack of balance and dedication. All these projects and passions left unfinished that he absolutely worships because they were crafted by his own palms.

And now he has finally been given the opportunity to share such majesty with his estranged sibling.

“Yes! I-I mean, it sounds good. I’ll see you on Saturday, then?”

“Saturday. It really is great to see you, little bro.”

Ruben finds his spidery arms wrapping around James’ nape before he can halt himself, his stomach spilling across the mountainous paperwork scattered around a busy desk, nose buried amidst structured collarbones and grin utterly infallible.

“It’s so good to see you, too.”

He lingers there for a moment. Then another. Then another. Before finally parting from James with another one of those ludicrously vibrant grins. He stumbles from the office on loose ankles, skidding pathetically out the door as he trips on his own oversized feet. Typical Ruben.

Some things never change no matter how gracious time can be.

James, however, does not take the opportunity to laugh. Not when their fingertips are spilling over their intercom to signal their assistant.

“Yes, boss?”

“Courtney. I need you to bring all the footage recorded in my office today. Right away, please.”

“Of course. Right away.”

Thick fingertips press like pebbles across James’ knotted temple, worrying against miniscule tangles which have begun to throb enthusiastically underneath the surface. Through tinted lashes, they rotate their vision toward the large black binder taking pride of place on their desk; focusing on the imposing logo polished prettily on the cover.

H

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