#what if the next list has hundreds instead of twelve?

[kitkatwinchester]

Everyone's support of each other... <3

Absolutely love the Scott, Stiles, Kira dynamic. I adore the fact that all three of them are on the lacrosse team together and can work together to keep Liam and each other safe.

That said, I feel really bad that Kira was benched, and I feel like that was kind of unfair of Coach. If it were a real game setting, he would've been really happy about that goal. It also makes me wonder, would he have been upset about said goal if Scott or Stiles (or even Liam) had made the shot instead (though, as a very quick aside, I do appreciate Stiles's banter with the dude on the other team and how well it distracted him so he could pass to Kira lol)? Don't start getting all anti-Kira on me here, Coach. You wanted her on the team....

Anyways I really love those three together, and her excitement was adorable, and Scott was so proud of her, and I hope Coach gives her another chance, because she totally deserves it.

I also absolutely love Noah and his support of Lydia (also love that Malia is still attached at her hip...so sweet <3). The fact that he called her right away, and is going against all sorts of laws and such to make sure that she can get what she needs, and then the way she was just so close to breaking down and he just pulled her up and in and tried to calm her down I just...

I also love the fact that he's starting to bring Parrish into the fold more and more. Like, Parrish is seriously such a good guy, and he clearly keeps such an open mind, and I kind of hope we get to actually tell him all about the supernatural soon, because I really feel like he'd be another good resource for us to have.

I love Scott and Stiles immediately rushing to help Liam up, and I love Scott fixing Liam's arm, and I love Scott's absolutely utter concern that Liam could've gotten cut, and I love that Liam did not get cut and is now more or less fine.

HOWEVER...

I don't think Garrett missed.

He does not look the LEAST bit concerned, and Brett sounds like he's a LOT more hurt and in a LOT more pain than he should be if he's the one that ran into Liam.

How much do you wanna bet that Brett is ALSO a werewolf, and that Brett is the one they were after the whole time?

I mean...

Okay, I do strongly believe, as much as I hate to admit it, that Liam is probably on the list, and he's probably gonna be a target pretty freaking soon, but...I don't think he was the target TONIGHT.

I think Garrett (and Violet) did EXACTLY what they were planning to do.

I wish Scott and Stiles weren't so focused on Liam and could see that.

But also, I don't blame them.

But I guarantee you I'm right.

And I hate that.

I hope our boys figure it out ASAP so that we can hopefully save him (can we even save him?? Violet said very rare and very powerful or something like that...god I hope we can save him. Just because he was a jerk to Liam doesn't mean he deserves to die...).

ANYWAYS.

Scilera (that's my creation of the trio that is Scott, Stiles, and Kira lol) gif because I love them. <3

(Seriously I can't believe no one else has come up with that! It rolls off the tongue so smoothly! XD <3)

Update: I F*CKING CALLED IT!! BRETT'S NAME IS ON THE LIST!! Also WAY TO GO MALIA! I am so digging this Malydia team-up on sooo many levels. <3 <3

Update Part 2: I KNEW PARRISH WAS SOMETHING!! I F*CKING CALLED THAT TOO!!! Bro is so nice and so amazing, but he was also SOOO hiding something and WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT HE IS!!! HIS NAME IS ON THE LIST!!! Also that theory was only further confirmed when he told the Sheriff that something drew him to Beacon Hills like... That said, despite his apparent supernatural-ness, I hope he's still a good person, because he really has been so nice and such a great resource and I hope that's not an act, because I love him (also also, he and Lydia really DO have chemistry, sorry not sorry.)

[gremlinmodetweeker]

What König Likes to Read

König is a big guy, but he's not just a muscle head. He's actually highly intelligent. See, when you're as socially ostracized as König was growing up, you learn to find ways to keep yourself busy. When your dad is a professor of agriculture and your mom's a vet tech (as discussed in this post), you learn a lot about animals. With all that time on your hands, you read a lot too.

Growing up, König spent his time reading. He loved reading more than anything else. He would read anything he could get his chubby little hands on. His parents were more than happy to encourage his interests (especially because they didn't destroy the house like Stephen's 'science experiments') and so he was showered with books about anything that caught his attention. When he was young, they gave him almost an entire library on wolves and bears, and then he got books on birds, then plants (his father was delighted by this), and then natural disasters, and the list goes on. All in all, König was a nature kid with an entire library of textbooks at the age of twelve.

König loved to read outside too. He could often be seen after school grabbing a survival manual from off his shelf and then scurrying out the backdoor. His mother eventually gave up on chasing him down into the wilderness and instead got a cow bell off a client to summon him back home before dark. His sister called him a bull. He called her a cow. He got an hour long lecture for that one.

König never stopped reading when he got older. Eventually, he branched out of nonfiction to read fiction and became enraptured by classical literature. When he was going through his goth phase, you could catch him outside twirling his long dyed hair in his finger and reading Edgar Allen Poe, a german-to-english dictionary on his knee to reference at every other line. His peers laughed at him and called him names, but he ignored them. The world of poetry called to him.

He got into Russian poetry when he left to the military. His grandfather told him nobody would take him seriously, but his bunk mate had him reading to him every night. In the morning, they'd break it down over breakfast.

When König joined the military to be a sniper, he became a gun nut. He knew all the models in the Austrian military and all the accompanying ammo and attachments. He was reading up skills and strategies every night to absorb as much as he could. However, reading didn't help him get in, so he turned his sights to the next best option.

By the time König was in the Jagdkommando, everyone flocked to him just to learn from him about surviving the wilderness. He was unused to the popularity at first, but he flourished in their company and soon became a core member of his class. He flew through the survival training, sometimes even outsmarting his teachers. Did this do him any favours? Not really, but it paid off in the end. He graduated at the top, and nobody could argue his abilities.

When he rose the ranks to becoming a colonel, he invested hundreds in books on warfare and strategy. He was a walking talking encyclopedia on the Roman conquest of Britain and the Secret Intelligence during World War 2. He was unstoppable. His overseers were impressed by his knowledge and he was rewarded greatly.

Now, since joining KorTac, he may have lost his rank officially but everyone around him reveres him for his skills. He's the closest you can get to an expert in his areas of interest. He likes having more time on the field, but he misses more time to read. Nowadays, he always has about four books on the go at a time. One nonfiction, one self help, one classical literature, and one silly 'potato chip' novel. He feels very guilty reading potato chip novels.

So, in the end, König has become extremely knowledgeable about animals, plants, survival skills, first aid, classical history, military history, classical literature and poetry. He also has a surprising amount of knowledge about finances, cooking, cars, weather phenomena, and agriculture/gardening.

He is also a reading snob. If you tell him you read romance novels in public, he'll scoff at you and tell you that romance is silly and overrated. If you ask him in private, he'll gush about the relationships in Les Miserables and Wuthering Heights. He may normally like horror, thriller, action, suspense and mystery, (oh, and military or historical ofc) but genuinely he'll take whatever he can get. He has a beautiful gilded set of Lord of the Rings in a deluxe slipcase that holds a prime place on his bookshelves. He also holds a special place in his heart for sci-fi. He even enjoys westerns, such as Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian.

All in all, König loves reading. It's his favourite way to spend his free time. If he can't sit down and read, he'll have an audiobook going. He's the type of nerd to set up a playlist to have going while listening to an audiobook. He's genuinely such a book nerd. At this point, the only person who will listen to him is Hutch, and they get along quite well (except for the one time that Hutch said Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was better than Dracula, which led to a month-long feud between the two). König is always looking out for fellow book lovers, but the last time he tried to join a book club he ate an entire plate of cookies within the first half and hour of the meeting and was written off the invites list.

[ddagent]

@gabolange: okay but the science teacher arguing with the tour guide is *delightful* and should exist

Margo Madison had just spent the better part of the afternoon arguing with Thomas Paine about Pathfinder. She had been looking forward to spending the rest of her day in silence, approving performance reviews for the different department heads, before heading out to 11:59 to unwind. However, her late afternoon silence was shattered by muted yelling from the outside corridor. She ignored it. Kept ignoring it. Until, eventually, Margo had to intervene. She did not care if it was Ronald Reagan himself – they would be quiet.

In the corridor stood one of the NASA tour guides; a tall young man in a blue polo shirt. He was arguing with a blond man, with a visitor lanyard, accompanied by twelve high school students who were watching the scene with various levels of interest. Emma was trying to usher them both along.

Sighing, Margo waded in. "You know, people have work to do in this building."

Emma's shoulders dropped, immediately launching into apologies. The tour guide, a young man by the name of Tim, began to apologise as well. "Director Madison, I am so, so sorry—"

"—you are Margo Madison?" The blond man with the visitor lanyard addressed her. "Finally, someone who knows what they are talking about." Tim spluttered. "Director Madison, your...guide here has been delivering faulty information all day. I can tolerate it no longer."

Margo stared, somewhat amused, at the audacity of this man. They come through every once and awhile; they read up about the space program, maybe built rockets in their garage, and thought they were worthy of being NASA engineers. This high school science teacher was nothing Margo had not seen before. She crossed her arms and stared him down. "With all due respect, I've been listening to you two argue for about twenty minutes now. I think you reached your toleration point a while ago."

She half-expected him to turn his ire towards her rather than poor Tim. Instead, he actually smiled. "I have no appreciation for factual inaccuracies, Ms Madison, especially when I am with my students. Your...guide has been giving my students inaccurate data regarding trajectories, fuel requirements, even the amount of people who land in the LEM." He glared at Tim. "I am surprised he was even able to tell them who first landed on the Moon."

"Well, Mister—"

"—Bezukhov. Sergei Bezukhov. I supervise the Aeronautics Club at our school." He handed her a clipboard of detailed notes. "I have listed the inaccuracies in red."

It was at this point that Tim intervened, defending his work. "Director Madison, everything I deliver has been double and triple checked by NASA public affairs. It is one hundred percent accurate. Some people—" Tim glared at Mister Bezukhov. "—are clearly misinformed."

Margo looked at Sergei Bezukhov's notes. His criticisms were incredibly detailed, with calculations in the margin that would not look out of place in any of the engineering labs. They were also one hundred accurate. She passed the notes back to Mister Bezukhov, before turning to Emma. "Get me the head of NASA public affairs. I want to review all tour transcripts." She then turned to Tim. "There will be an updated transcript for you on Monday. Learn it. Also, everyone knows three people go up but only two actually go down." And then, finally, to Mister Bezukhov. "Bring your students back next week. There will no longer be any inaccuracies and I expect no more arguing."

Sergei grinned. "How can you be sure? I would hate to bring my students back only to once again be met with inaccurate data and inadequate information."

"Well, I guess I'll just have to give you the tour myself then."

Margo nodded at the assembled group before retreating to her office. As she retook her office chair, she still wasn't quite sure why she had agreed to give this man and his students a tour. But a part of her relished the prospect of going toe-to-toe with Sergei Bezukhov. Finally, a worthy opponent.

[demiboydemon]

I think Link could probably pull off a beard, but for the purposes of my current fic WIP, I am making him look terrible with it. The reason is because it’s just so funny to imagine Link with a terrible beard. Here’s a clip:

Link pondered what could be stressing her out, then wrote it down. Next, he ordered them from most likely to least likely. Please find said list below:

“1.    Rebuilding Hyrule in general.

2.    New people moving to Hyrule now that it’s a safer place to live, and all those people have new ideas for how they think rebuilding, law-making, and system-creating should be done, and a lot of them are just as rude about it as native Hyruleans are.

3.    The horses ate some weird moss when we weren’t looking and now they have diarrhea. And they’re having it everywhere. Everywhere! The yard smells like it, too. I don’t know if the smell and/or poop have gotten into Zelda’s secret well, but even if it hasn’t, this is a stressful situation.

4.    She’s trying to open this library that everyone can read at and some people don’t like the idea of a library that’s open for the public (???)

5.    Hudson keeps needing more and more wood for rebuilding, which is irritating because I have to go out and cut it, and that either wears on my swords or means I have to borrow the slate for bombs, and either way it probably can get irritating to having to lend me the slate every few days or have to listen to me complain about how fast my swords wear down.

6.    The children in Hateno Village have taken to calling me Lonk. Which is kinda mean. It bothers her more than it bothers me, though. Ha. Lonk.

7.    I bought new underwear, and maybe that change is hard for her? For some reason? They’re a different color than the last pair (black instead of blue), and now I have multiple pairs, if that makes a difference.”

He doodled a little flower in the corner of the paper as he tried to think of more. At the end, the list had one-hundred-and-twelve items, and sixteen corner flowers.

‘No wonder she’s sad,’ Link thought. ‘She’s got a lot of worries.’

[digita1garden]

I feel like once I get out of the lab I got my masters with (within the week) and get a job in something relevant (hopefully by January) I have to decide if I want to say anything about how bad it was to the school. I know that grad school is famously fucking horrible and punishing, I know that it’s “normal” to be super depressed and overworked when you’re doing it but like. Surely the schools at least want to look like that isn’t the case?

I highly doubt anything would happen even if I did complain because my professor is well liked and pretty well known in his field, plus he has tenure, but I at least want to know if what I experienced is actually in line with others or not.

So if someone else in grad school could look at this list of lab members and their situations and tell me if this is the normal rate of attrition and suffering due to poor management by the PI? At least so I know, even if I don’t go out of my way to say anything about it.

Those who got a degree:

M - 8 years with the lab to get his Doctorate (graduated 2022)

M - 6 years with the lab to get his Doctorate (graduated 2024)

C - 4 years towards her Doctorate, mastered out (graduated 2023)

L - 1 year toward her Doctorate, mastered out (project, graduated 2024). I knew her personally and the decision to master out was very difficult for her. She loved the subject and was passionate (and said she might go back for a doctorate again later) but couldn’t do it at this place. She didn’t tell the PI for months after she had decided.

Myself - 3 years in the lab: 1 as an undergrad working on a group project, 2 working on my masters thesis when the original goal was 1. Skip the rest of this paragraph if you don’t want to hear me just complain hahah. Part of the delay was due to the microbes being difficult, and part was because I became incredibly depressed and was not handling that well. When I was balancing everything best I was there for at least five hours seven days a week, when I was not doing well or was doing something particularly trying I would work for twelve or so hours as many days a week as I could manage, but sometimes I would just be unable to be there at all for a week or more (not on vacation, not sick, just I Could Not Go In). There were several weeks when I was only able to work with my dad or a friend sitting next to me in the lab because if I was alone, every time I looked at the amount of work to be done I would instead start breaking down under the pressure. I was forced with no warning into a teaching position I was not ready for and didn’t want, then shamed when I had not taught according to the unclear expectations of the PI when he returned. I was expected to learn how to troubleshoot the TCD GC entirely independently while running 60 samples (in duplicate [not the preferred or “lab-standard” triplicate]) on a four minute run (=10 hours work time) several times a week, while also being in the lab during “working hours” only and sharing the GC with undergrads, and when the PI returned and saw my results he was frustrated and said they were basically useless but didn’t even complain because he thought I was just too useless to do it right {incorrect, I had been doing hundreds of injections per week from the same syringe and no one had taught me or included in protocol that the gas tight syringes needed tightening after use, so it was just leaking really badly the whole time and none of the many things I checked/adjusted in my methods or the GC settings could’ve solved the problem}. Also, out of the three members of the committee who decided if I graduated or not, two were asleep during at least part of my defense and one of them was my PI.

Those who didn’t get a degree:

Ju - Spent several months working towards their Doctorate with our lab but left after taking a class taught by the PI and taken by only them and L which went wrong (situation unclear to me but they all got interviewed by the school). Presumably working with another PI now.

A - currently perusing her Doctorate, was originally being advised by our PI. Worked with him for a few months, proposed research including traveling to our professors area of expertise. Was told by him to 1- learn Spanish, 2- learn the VERY complex carbon budget of the region, and 3- be entirely field ready in THREE MONTHS. She said that it was impossible to do it all but she would try her best regardless. The next time they discussed, he was firm on the requirements, and when she said she would at least need money to support herself so she could do those things rather than her 20 hr/week teaching position he basically laughed her off. She dropped him as her advisor and is now working with another person at the school who isn’t demanding she learn a language in three months.

Other leaving situations:

Ja- She was either a post grad or Doctorate student from Germany who came to the USA to work with our lab. Stayed for only six months. I was told her main complaint was (paraphrased) “a professor in Germany would never treat me this way”

Ji - post grad hired by our lab. Worked with us for maybe six months before leaving due to poor conditions.

And now that all of us have left, the only remaining lab “members” are:

W - six plus months into deciding whether or not to get his doctorate with the lab. He has presented his proposed research (very poorly) and does not seem to be what the professor is looking for, but for some reason neither of them will call the relationship either way so he is just. Around still.

V - 2 years into his doctorate, doing great work but missing a lot of skills that are very basic for our lab, which leads to him causing problems without noticing/catching them, and our PI is basically ignoring this from everything I can tell

J - 2 years into his doctorate, doing like four different projects at the same time. Lives with four loud undergrads so he is at the office until 11 every night working. Travels with the PI the most often, and has alluded to at least one very poor experience with that. I have only ever seen him actually smile once and it was when he was out of the lab/office and away from the PI so I hope he is okay.

D - undergrad. Already overworked. I went to move something to the freezer at 11 pm a few weeks ago and he was there working. He reminds me of myself in my early days there and I have tried to give him a few of the warnings I think I needed back then without being weird about it. When I leave, anything unfinished goes to him, which is why I’ve been going back these last few months at all.

Maybe some new undergrads? The other undergrads I knew last year were working with specific people who have now left, or didn’t come back this year.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dark Passenger - Chapter Twenty One.

Your weekly fix of Camille and EZ is here, besties! As usual, thank you so much for following this and offering your feedback :) Enjoy!

Previous chapters - One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine  Ten  Eleven  Twelve  Thirteen  Fourteen  Fifteen  Sixteen  Seventeen  Eighteen  Nineteen  Twenty

Words - 3,262

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed

“So, going forward, after our plan has been executed, it would leave the path clear to instead bring in another income. Nothing says we can’t revert back to the heroin trade at some point in the future, but for now, and especially after having your grievances in my ear for the last few months over the growing rate of dead junkies, we need to cease. Stepping back and shutting down the pipeline as well as the LNG will facilitate that entirely. We have to be smart, save us all seeing the inside of a cell for the next twenty-five years to live. I ain’t about to let that happen.”

The figureheads of the various Mayan charters who sat around the Santo Padre table all nodded, everyone in agreement that EZ’s way forward was preferable to the risks they were taking. Much too much heat was on them, with the government sending far too many pairs of eyes in their direction, in order to uncover the supply of fentanyl cut heroin that was causing junkies to drop like flies. Four hundred and eighty-three inmates within the Californian prison systems alone had died in the previous seventy days. They couldn’t continue on that road, which was now ablaze before them; it was only a matter of time before it burned them to nothing, should they continue to ride along it.

The gavel fell, the men all filing out to retrieve cell phones and weapons, EZ, Bishop and Angel remaining behind at the table, the latter smiling proudly at his brother.  

“This was always the way it was supposed to be.” He lifted his chin, nodding. “The way you’re running this club now, using your intelligence, we’re gonna be alright. It was scary for a minute back there, I can tell you. Me and Bish, you had us all kinds of worried when it was your tumour talking.”

“He’s right, mijo,” Bishop confirmed, sinking his drink. “The only thing keeping me awake at night these days is my wife, which trust me, I’m more than happy with.” His wink had them both laughing, the men standing from the table, a sense of relief tying them back together once more, those broken bonds now restitched. His plan, it was flawless. He just had to hope Charming would be on board, since they were the last cog in the machine to get running smoothly once more.  

EZ revealed it all again to a second and third set of ears, in an arranged sit down between himself, his VP, Chibs Telford and Tig Trager four days later, just them present to hash out the initial details they would then take to a vote at their respective tables. The Sons had returned to Teller-Morrow, the clubhouse rebuilt, Wendy selling the garage to the Telford family prior to her departure from Charming, Abigail overseeing the running of it around her other, less legal career.  

It was with a lot of hope for co-operation in mind that EZ and Bishop entered that very clubhouse, getting down to business immediately with a detailed explanation on a way forward.  

“Ultimately, Chibs, it would mean that we of course stop pushing heroin through your turf, which is what you’ve been pushing back against us over, the route of our war. I just need a way to cut the cartel down. What my VP and I are thinking, is that you’re married to that way.”

Chibs leaned back in his chair, his thumb and forefinger slowly stroking his beard. “Aye, lads. If you want decimation, you’ve come to the right place.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled his cell out, tapping around before holding it to his ear. “Darlin’, I need you in church, if you can come up? Got a wee bit of an explosive proposition for ye.”

A few minutes later, and the iron lady of Charming walked through the doors, eyeing EZ and Bishop suspiciously. Looking to her husband, he glanced at the empty chair to Tig’s right, nodding with a smile. Whereas former presidents of the MC would never even entertain the idea of an old lady having a say in the actions of the club, Chibs Telford was different. He realised what a powerful asset his wife was.  

“So, gentleman,” she began, lifting her chin as she eyed them. “I take it my services in eradication are required?”  

EZ nodded, looking to Bishop, who extended the same. If there was one woman within their world, even one slightly on the fringes of such, who they respected without question, it was Abigail Telford. She made Gemma Teller look like a Care Bear.  

“I do, Abi. What I need is for a cartel to disappear, if you can make that happen for us?” EZ put to her, watching the corners of her mouth upturn. Blowing things up was, after all, notoriously her turn on.  

She reached for the pack of cigarettes in front of her husband, taking one out and lighting up. “Aye, lads. It’ll cost you, but I can most certainly make that happen for you. I’ll need a couple of weeks to pull in a few fellas from across the pond to assist me, but just give me addresses and times, and believe me, your little problem south of the border will be eliminated within a blink.”

“Thank you,” EZ began, grateful to her.

Bishop sank his drink, nodding in her direction. “Never has the saying chip off the old block been more appropriate. I met your dad once. I’ve never been so fucking scared of anyone as I was of Michael. Back when my club were importing cocaine through the same port your weapons were arriving in, he met with us to discuss the heat of such, bartering for the Mayans to move our shipments away from the gun porting. Lady, and I mean with the utmost respect, you are all your father,” he spoke, honestly humbled that such a figurehead was willing to help them extract the club from the cancer that had cut into the heart of them.  

Abi smiled, reaching for the bottle on the table, taking a few glugs. “I appreciate your compliments, but truly, I am not my father. Because if I were my da, I wouldn’t be so magnanimous in what I can offer you in return, to boost my business, keep your club in profit, and the Sons clear of the heroin trade flowing through their areas. As you know, the IRA doesn’t involve itself in drugs, it goes against our code, but we can always be open to furthering our weapon trade.  

“Of course, my husband’s club doesn’t have the reach over the border, but you guys do. Take it to the other cartels, reach out and let them know that the Mayans now primarily are movers of arms for our cause, and I assure you, you’ll receive one hell of a discount, and only deal with me directly.”  

EZ leaned back in his chair, side eyeing his VP with a grin. Abi’s thoughts exactly matched his own. He always enjoyed when a plan came together seamlessly, two sides realising how they could join forces to net a substantial profit. Hell, when he thought about it, he could likely move arms for more of a fair cut than pushing the tainted heroin that was causing way too many news headlines for his comfort.  

Life? It was pretty good for EZ as he continued to discuss the finer details, standing to shake hands with Chibs, Tig and Abi before leaving. All he had to do now was survive surgery. Arriving back in Santo Padre hours later, the first place he called in at was the Luna Lounge, giving his girlfriend a very approving whistle as she hung upside down on the pole, just one leg keeping her on, the other extended back, her hand reached to grab it. Sure, she was in hot pink lace that definitely was not the kind of underwear she preferred, or which he liked to see her in, but she looked so elegant to him up there, with a group of rowdy women throwing a paper storm in her direction.  

“God, what I wouldn’t give to offer her a seat right on my face,” one of the women announced as EZ stood next to her. He looked down at her with a soft chuckle, shaking his head.  

“Take it from me, you’d never be happier.”

Her eyes immediately widened as she swigged back her beer. “Jesus! Sorry, man! I didn’t realise she was your girl!”

“S’okay,” he reassured her with, reaching to pat her shoulder. “She’s a cutie, I get it. Believe me, I know how lucky I am.”

“Hell yeah, you are! I mean, I ain’t into dudes, but I can see from her point of view that she’s the same, lucky with you on your arm. Y’all got any kids? I bet they’re beautiful little things if you have.”

Her friendlily delivered words suddenly made something in his chest pull tight. Kids with Camille; it was the future he dreamed of, one day, but would he survive his impending operation in order to actually see it? No matter how confident Doctor Shepherd was, it of course still played on his mind with such risky surgery, being under anaesthetic with his skull partially opened up for a procedure she anticipated lasting for twelve hours at the very minimum.  

“Nah, no little ones just yet. I think I wanna enjoy it being just me and her for a while longer,” he revealed, the woman nodding knowingly.

“Oh yeah, give yourselves time. My wife and I had been together for ten years before we decided to bring kids into the mix. I carried the first, she the second, and they were twins, so we got our hands full!” she chuckled. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go put a nice little wedge in your girlfriend’s bra.”  

She patted his back, grinning before taking a fifty from her wallet and scurrying over to Camille, pushing the money in and receiving a kiss on the cheek, beaming while she was danced for. He hung back until she exited the stage, passing her a large diet Coke and kissing her forehead. “Just thought I’d call in and say hey on my way home. Charming went well.”

EZ had decided to do as his brother had and let the girl he was with know everything. It was easier that way, and Camille appreciated him for it.  

“Oh, that’s a relief!” she began as they moved to a free table and sat down, Camille taking her wedge out from her thong and bra, stacking the bills neatly. “So, I get to finish earlier tonight since I worked the afternoon shift, meaning I’ll be at your place for about ten thirty. Want me to bring Chinese food with me?”  

His stomach rumbled at the thought of chicken noodles. “Please. Can I have my usual and a Szechuan pork? I’m fucking starving!”

“And some plain beef strips for little one?” Oh, how Sally would be excited to be given that particular treat.  

“I dunno who loves you more, me or the dog.” He headed off soon after, kissing her fleetingly, promising her many more as soon as she arrived. Once she’d finished, Camille was glad she checked her phone, EZ messaging to increase the other by quite a lot, telling her the guys had decided to stay and hang out, and that beer munchies were required, an extra one hundred dollars transferred to her account to cover the expense.  

“Get it while it’s hot!” she announced after kicking the clubhouse door open, her arms full with the large box of takeout containers, being ran at by several very hungry men.

“Oh, I will!” Bella purred, wrapping her arms around her waist and kissing her cheek with a giggle. “How was work, peachy?”

“Tiring! I made a nice little wedge though, so I’ll be well stocked up to spend some serious cash come out little shopping excursion.” In fairness, it was more of a girl’s weekend than anything, her, Amelia, Nala and Tallulah (unfortunately Mai couldn’t swing it) all going up to LA to stay overnight and get some serious shopping done, Bella needing new clothes for her long-overdue honeymoon. Being signed with a record label just three months after she and Angel had eloped, and then so busy for the following two years, they’d put it on the back burner until then, heading off to Brazil for two weeks.

Their honeymoon clashed with the time EZ was set to head to Seattle for his operation, both of them wanting to push it back in light of such, with the former telling them in no uncertain terms that he didn’t want them to cancel. The three weeks between that night and the moment EZ sat down aboard a plane two days before his operation passed by in a blur, reaching for Camille’s hand as they took off. He was a nervous flyer, and she knew too, how much that was impacting him with his nerves over the surgery, gripping his hand as she leaned against his shoulder.  

“I couldn’t do this without you,” he told her once they were in the air and clear of the nerve-jangling turbulence.

“True, since nobody else would allow you to cut off the circulation between their hand and fingers.”

“Shit.” He loosened his grip, Camille flexing her hand a couple of times. “Sorry, baby.”

“You will be,” she winked. “That’s my hand job hand.”

He couldn’t help but laugh, releasing her hand and resting it to her thigh instead. Throughout their flight, they separately read, listened to music, chatted, and quietly laughed at Bella’s Instagram stories, she and Angel visiting Christ the Redeemer (‘We’re going to see big Jesus!’ as Bella had comically put it) and Angel’s utter ire in the wake of someone thinking that Bella was his daughter (‘Yo, that’s my WIFE, dude!’) the many stories giving them a lot of much needed comic relief.  

“Fucking hell,” EZ exclaimed quietly as they entered their hotel room not long after landing. “You didn’t tell me you were choosing something this nice.” Camille had put everything in order, telling him to leave all the travel and hotel arrangements to her, since he had enough to deal with, being silenced when he’d attempted to object.  

“Well, I figured since we’re going to be up here for two weeks, then we might as well be comfortable, if not a little luxurious.” If the surgery went well, then Doctor Shepherd anticipated that he’d be all set for discharge around five days post-surgery, but wanted him to remain close by for check-ups for a few weeks before she gave him the all clear to fly home. “So, what do you want to do? Just relax, or head out?”

EZ had said he wanted to see a few of the local Seattle landmarks while visiting, the obvious of the Space Needle as well as a visit to the beautiful natural beauty site of Snoqualmie Falls, but with two days until he was due to arrive at Grey-Sloan, they had plenty of time. EZ wasn’t keen to waste any of it, though, it would seem.

“Let’s head out now, shall we?” Camille changed out of her comfy sweats into a pair of jeans and Timberland boots, figuring sensible footwear would be the best choice, grabbing her jacket before they left the room.  

“Oh god, oh my...” The little squeak that preceded Camille’s turning to bury her face into EZ’s shoulder had him laughing, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s so high! I knew it would be, but...” She gasped a little, looking back out over Seattle, her little hands grasped onto his hoodie before she turned back to hide her face once more.  

“Look out over the bay, though, baby. It looks incredible,” he suggested, pointing towards the water.

She emerged for all of five seconds. “Oh yeah, beautiful. And return to hibernation.”  

He laughed hard, hugging her, taking pictures with his free hand. “You’re so fucking silly. You made no mention of being afraid of heights before now!”

“I didn’t think I was, but I’ve never been up a tall building. Well, actually that’s untrue. I went to the top of the Empire State Building when I was two, but I don’t remember it. Apparently, I hid in dad’s hair the entire time, so perhaps I should have seen this coming!”  

For her sake, he kept the visit short after snapping a couple more pictures, taking a few cute ones of them up there too before they headed to their next attraction, taking a boat tour across the harbour. Camille was much better on water than she was a few hundred feet off the ground. Keeping with the aquatic theme, they moved onto Seattle aquarium afterwards, EZ warmed by the sight of Camille watching her favourite fish, the puffers, her face alight with delight.  

She couldn’t help but notice, though, the fact that he seemed to be in a hurry to fit in as much as possible into their afternoon, only slowing in pace once they reached the restaurant that had been recommended highly to them by the friendly hotel staff, taking a seat outside in the beautiful, casual surroundings of Un Bein, waiting on their order.  

“Baby, are you alright?” She noticed thar he wasn’t still, his leg bouncing, his hand twitching, motion still running through him even though sat in place.  

“Yeah, yeah I’m good.”  

She knew by that point in their relationship when he was lying. She’d noticed all the little tells that would have given him away back when he was under the duress of his tumour now that he wasn’t, the way his eyes darted around for just a fraction of a moment before he concentrated on her. “EZ, that isn’t true. Come on, tell me the truth. I can’t understand the kind of nerves you must be going through with what you have looming, but I’ve noticed how you’ve been rushing through today, so you need to share that with me.”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, letting the breath out slowly, reaching for her hands. “I’m trying to fit in as many memories as I can for you, just in case the unthinkable happens. In case I go into that OR and die on the table. I didn’t want to say it in as many words, I know you’ve likely considered it a possibility too, should a complication arise. All I want is to fill these two days full of things you can cherish, just in case.”  

Her eyes become glassy in a second, her emotions rocked by his revelation. “Oh my god.”

“And now I’ve got you all upset, and I didn’t want that.” Getting up, he moved around to the empty chair beside her, pulling her into the comfort of his arms as soon as he was seated. “Come on, beautiful. It’s okay.”  

She cried softly against him, her hand curling around his neck, stroking, emerging from his embrace to kiss him. “It is, and it will be okay, but hearing that you’re doing this for me is more touching than I can even begin to explain. I love you so much.”

She didn’t need to explain either. EZ felt it strongly in every single moment that passed with her. He just hoped he would have years ahead of him to experience many, many more.  

[aohendo]

Prince for Hire Deleted Scenes, part 6

Amount deleted: many (this was part of a 10k swathe)

Reason for deleting: Trusov isn't a necessary character, so I've been going through and completely removing him. Also, Kiris should not be this trusting this early in the novel.

Way to fix it?: I'll need to write a similar 'oh shit contemplation/reflection'-type scene to replace this one, but without Trusov and with far more emphasis on the Turre threat.

Excerpt length: 905

Context: act 1, Kiris has just officially been adopted by Prince Nazvili, now trapped into attending the Turre's Competition for right to "rule" the Plateau, and has essentially fled to process.

Tag list (ask to be added or removed!): @whimsyqueen, @cactusmotif, @on-noon, @houndsofcorduff, @paradisiacalshroud.

“Yphant?”

Trusov was a solid mass, and Kiris ran into him. He blinked and the sun was blinding him off the water and he was outside. Trusov’s boat was behind him, still inside the gates blocking the Palace’s dock from the riffraff. He made for it. Perfect.

“Your forgery kit,” the Boots said.

Not perfect. He was barely over the gunwale when he slumped into a heap. His forgery kit. He couldn’t leave that. He could leave Yphant na Suem, but that kit—it was years in the making, even longer than the prince identity. There were handwriting samples from almost three hundred boyars and thirty princes, recreations of their personal pens, instructions on how to mix the inks they used, everything.

“Son, what’s wrong?”

He was supposed to be a prince right now, and here he was, curled up on a fishing boat, a pile of rope to one side and a bucket of fish water inset on the other. Nazvili just had this tunic washed. Tri-Life, what a thought.

Trusov’s hands clamped down over his shoulders. Kiris shot into the hull, back slamming into the ribbed wood, chest heaving and eyes wide.

“Okay. Hey.” Trusov’s hands splayed, kneeling in front of him. Kiris’ heart pounded like the night he escaped Toor Temple. It rushed through his ears and shook him against the hull. “I’m not going to hurt you. Let’s go out on the lake, how about that? We’ll come right back.”

Not freedom. The illusion; a dog returning to its master. What was the point? Kiris shook his head, mute, and slumped deeper into the hull. The water lapped below him, pushing and pulling the boat despite the security with which Trusov had fastened the knots this morning. One morning—less than twelve hours—and he’d given himself up. Six years, down the drain.

There was a thunk as Trusov settled a lid over the bucket of fish water. He sat next to him, a hand’s width between them. The gentle waves rocked the boat, and the sun rose into afternoon, and they sat.

“You want to tell me what happened?”

Until his heartbeat settled, until his breathing came in regular rhythm vice shallow gasps, Kiris didn’t answer. Then, finally, he tilted towards Trusov, letting their shoulders brush. “Nazvili made me her heir so she could send me to compete in the Turre’s Competition to rule the entire plateau.”

He didn’t want to look to see Trusov’s reaction, and so he didn’t. Instead, Kiris studied his hands. The skin was sun-tan—far more weathered than any prince was meant to have—and there were calluses from pens and paper. A thin layer of dust lined the creases on his palms.

“It’s going to kill me,” Kiris said, when Trusov was silent. “There are—” Kumarr, the Temples, anyone who knew about what he could give them. Kiris started again: “People have been hunting me for years. Vakon, I could stay ahead, but—but tied to a principality and sent to ‘L Tuola’s court? Once they hear, they’ll have me within a month.”

“I’d… imagine ‘L Tuola Turre has excellent guards.”

Kiris scoffed. “So did Prince Aatriok.”

“Ah,” Trusov said, and Kiris couldn’t blame him for not finding anything more. “Can’t say I understand really what’s going on—and I know you just said it all, and all that—but how about this. It’s coming up lunch and my boys always cook extra. You want some?”

Nazvili’s biscuits were good. Nazvili’s biscuits with the entire Boyar council when he had to sign away his freedom? Less good.

“Do you have a tunic I could borrow?” Kiris whispered, eyes caught in the fine detailing punctuating the glimmering yellow. “And a square?”

“’Course.” Trusov levered himself off the deck, groaning comically and cracking his back. He held out his hand, and, slowly, Kiris took it. There was a brief stutter of his heart, a flash of fear Trusov wouldn’t let go, he wouldn’t release him, free him, but it was gone and Trusov was across the deck. “My youngest is about your size. We keep spares for everyone onboard. Never know what a fish is gonna fight back, y’know?”

The tunic Trusov presented was soft in the way all well-loved garments were. It was patched in a menagerie of greens and greys, a colorful pattern where there was otherwise no detailing. The square was in similar state. But both were clean, and both were infinitely better than his own.

Kiris laid out the square and tucked the biscuits he’d taken from Nazvili’s war table, bundling them tightly. He emptied his pockets of everything but Trosk’s coins and replaced his tunic with Trusov’s as quickly as he could, equally quickly returning everything where it was meant to go. “Thank you.”

Trusov nodded, although there was the quirk of a frown on his lips directed at the bundle of biscuits before Kiris could put them away. Whatever it was, it passed quickly. “Now, with you not looking so royal, I’m thinking we’ll have an easier time sailing out of here than walking. You agree?”

“Yes,” Kiris said, and offered what help he could to the fisherman. He was selfish for keeping his prophecies to himself, even if he was going to have the Dargoulvga Bank give them to Toor Temple if they hadn’t received a new notebook after five years. The least he could do was this.

[givemearmstopraywith]

full article text under the cut

Just off the acacia-lined highway to the Qatari capital of Doha is a three-story, whitewashed apartment complex built to host visitors at the 2022 fifa World Cup. Until recently, the gated compound was unoccupied. Yet in the past several months, as part of a deal Qatar struck with Israel, Hamas, and Egypt to evacuate as many as fifteen hundred wounded Gazans in urgent need of medical care, it has begun to fill. The new residents are eight hundred and fifteen medical evacuees from the ongoing war, along with five hundred and forty-two of their relatives. Most are women and children.

One afternoon in February, a rambunctious swarm of thirty or so children raced around a large plot of AstroTurf. Some rode bikes and scooters. One toted a set of “PAW Patrol” golf clubs. Small children pushed larger ones in wheelchairs at worrying speeds, caroming off the green and brown beanbag chairs that dotted the plot of artificial earth. Many were missing limbs. As the boys began to squabble with the girls over who had more space to play, workers dragged what looked like a deflated rainbow into the square. A whoop went up. The afternoon’s entertainment had arrived: a bouncy slide, along with food carts offering ice cream, hot chocolate, popcorn, cotton candy, and falafel.

Among the children was Gazal Bakr, a four-year-old wearing a miniature maroon Adidas tracksuit, its left pant leg tucked up into the elastic waistband. She hopped along furiously on her right leg. Although Gazal’s name means “sweet talk” or “flirt” in Arabic, she was unflinchingly direct. “I don’t like you!” she shouted as she passed the wheelchair belonging to her eighteen-year-old neighbor, Dina Shahaiber, who’d lost her left leg below the knee. Gazal, who’d just awoken from a nap, had little interest in ice cream. Instead, she wanted to do what she did most afternoons: play soccer by kicking the ball with her right foot and hopping after it. “Stop talking!” she declared to the well-meaning volunteers clucking around her. “You’re making my head hurt!”

Gazal was wounded on November 10th, when, as her family fled Gaza City’s Al-Shifa hospital, shrapnel pierced her left calf. To stop the bleeding, a doctor, who had no access to antiseptic or anesthesia, heated the blade of a kitchen knife and cauterized the wound. Within days, the gash ran with pus and began to smell. By mid-December, when Gazal’s family arrived at Nasser Medical Center—then Gaza’s largest functioning health-care facility—gangrene had set in, necessitating amputation at the hip. On December 17th, a projectile hit the children’s ward of Nasser. Gazal and her mother watched it enter their room, decapitating Gazal’s twelve-year-old roommate and causing the ceiling to collapse. (Multiple news reports have described the event as an Israeli attack. The I.D.F. claimed the incident could have been caused by a Hamas mortar or the remnant of an Israeli flare.) Gazal and her mother managed to crawl out of the rubble. The next day, their names were added to the list of evacuees who could cross the border into Egypt and then fly to Qatar for medical treatment. Gazal’s mother was nine months pregnant; she gave birth to a baby girl while awaiting the airlift to Doha.

UNICEF estimates that a thousand children in Gaza have become amputees since the conflict began in October. “This is the biggest cohort of pediatric amputees in history,” Ghassan Abu-Sittah, a London-based plastic-and-reconstructive surgeon who specializes in pediatric trauma, told me recently. I met him in the waiting room of his plastic-surgery clinic on London’s Harley Street, and we walked to a nearby pub for a glass of water. Abu-Sittah, a fifty-four-year-old British Palestinian with an angular face and tender, deep-set eyes, has treated child survivors of war for the past thirty years in Iraq, Yemen, Syria, and elsewhere.

Abu-Sittah is the author of “The War Injured Child,” the first medical textbook on the subject, which was published last May. In October and November, he spent forty-three days in Gaza, conducting emergency surgeries with Doctors Without Borders. He shuttled between two hospitals: Al-Shifa and Al-Ahli, which is also known as the Baptist hospital. The casualty rate was so high that, during some intense periods, he didn’t leave the operating room for three days. “It felt like a scene from an American Civil War movie,” he said.

In Gaza, Abu-Sittah was performing as many as six amputations a day. “Sometimes you have no other medical option,” he explained. “The Israelis had surrounded the blood bank, so we couldn’t do transfusions. If a limb was bleeding profusely, we had to amputate.” The dearth of basic medical supplies, owing to blockades, also contributed to the number of amputations. Without the ability to irrigate a wound immediately in an operating room, infection and gangrene often set in. “Every war wound is considered dirty,” Karin Huster, a nurse who leads medical teams in Gaza for Doctors Without Borders, told me. “It means that many get a ticket to the operating room.”

To mark the gravity of these procedures, and to mourn, Abu-Sittah and other medical staff placed the severed limbs of children in small cardboard boxes. They labelled the boxes with masking tape, on which they wrote a name and body part, and buried them. At the pub, he showed me a photograph he’d taken of one such box, which read, “Salahadin, Foot.” Some wounded children were too young to know their own names, he added, telling the story of an amputee who’d been pulled from rubble as the sole survivor of an attack.

The number of child amputees carries long-term implications, Abu-Sittah told me, listing his concerns. Israeli forces destroyed Gaza’s only facility for manufacturing prosthetics and rehabilitation, the Hamad hospital, which was inaugurated in 2019 and funded by Qatar. The leading manufacturer of child prosthetics, the German company Ottobock, is working to supply the necessary components to children up to the age of sixteen, with donors in place to fund the project through its foundation. Procuring prosthetics, however, is only the first step. “Child amputees need medical care every six months as they grow,” Abu-Sittah said. Because bone grows faster than soft tissue and severed nerves often reattach painfully to skin, child amputees require ongoing surgical interventions. In his experience, each limb requires eight to twelve more surgeries. To track this cohort, Abu-Sittah is consulting with the Centre for Blast Injury Studies at Imperial College London and the Global Health Institute at the American University of Beirut; their goal is to create a cloud-based database of medical records that can follow these kids wherever they go. For the rest of their lives, these amputees will need answers regarding their medical history. Abu-Sittah knows how this works: for years, as a pediatric trauma surgeon, he’s fielded calls from his former patients.

Abu-Sittah, who’d recently travelled to Qatar to consult, recalled meeting a fourteen-year-old boy who’d lost his leg after being trapped under rubble. He’d spent a day beneath the debris holding the hand of his dead mother. “These are vulnerable people in the midst of the storm,” he said.

To fill the empty hours at the compound, volunteers and government employees from Qatar’s Ministry of Social Development and Family were creating art, music, and sports-therapy classes for children. Still, many residents spent late afternoons milling about the AstroTurf. Women shepherded children to a folding table where a face painter sketched Spider-Man masks and Palestinian flags on their cheeks. Then the women wandered over to the beanbags and pulled them into circles, where most sat staring into the distance, until a crying child arrived, demanding attention.

On a sunny afternoon, I reclined on the beanbags with Iman Soufan, a thirty-three-year-old Palestinian volunteer who was leading art therapy. To encourage the kids to connect to something positive, Soufan told me, she had asked them to draw their favorite place in Gaza. One eight-year-old girl drew her large, happy house, then, next to it, added a puddle of blood. Soufan showed me a photograph of the picture and the caption, which read, “The war is destroying Gaza. My father is martyred. My grandfather is martyred. My grandmother is martyred. My uncle is martyred. My cousin is martyred.”

As we spoke, curious children gathered around us. When a plane passed overhead, they held still, watching as it traced an arc across the sky. The response was common among children who’d experienced air strikes, a psychologist at the compound told me later. A pack of tween boys, who knew little English, poked into the conversation to pose political questions. They listed the names of world leaders and raised their eyebrows, asking me to offer a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. “Biden?” they asked. “Blinken?” I thought how unlikely it was that American boys their age would know the name of the U.S. Secretary of State, but, for these kids, such figures seemed all-powerful. Some didn’t feel like talking to an American reporter. “Masalama!” a boy named Ahmed, his face covered in shrapnel scars, yelled at me as he whizzed past on a scooter. “Goodbye!”

Smaller ones clambered into our laps, demanding in Arabic that Soufan translate their stories. They’d heard me asking other wounded children questions, and now they wanted their chance. Muhanad, who was eight, with two buckteeth poking out of his mouth, had rolled himself over in his wheelchair. He’d lost his right leg when a ceiling collapsed on him during an Israeli strike, he said, after following his dad on a trip to buy sugar. He mused aloud that he’d made a mistake by leaving the house. (His father, Muhanad said, had also been severely injured. He was stuck in Gaza, without permission to evacuate.) I asked him what his favorite thing was in Qatar. “I’m glad to be able to meet the people who helped me in person,” Muhanad said, smiling. He cupped his hands and brought them together in front of his chest, making a heart.

Dina Shahaiber, who was four-year-old Gazal’s long-suffering neighbor, sat listening nearby in her wheelchair. Clad in a matching velour tracksuit, which read “Perfect” down its sleeve, she swung her left stump over her wheelchair’s arm distractedly. “If you think that story’s sad, you have to hear mine,” she offered. Dina didn’t remember how she got injured, only that she, like Muhanad, believed that it had been her fault. “If I’d only stayed inside that day,” she told me. Before losing her leg, she’d been largely responsible for getting fresh water for her family, running up and down the stairs to refill a large tank on the roof. “I was my mom’s right hand,” she said proudly. “My uncle asked if he could trade me for his son. But now my cousin is dead, and I’ve lost my leg. I feel so useless.”

Later that afternoon, I met with Gazal’s mother, Ridana Zukhara, who is twenty-four with a childlike face, in the white-tiled living room of their pristine two-bedroom apartment. Ridana’s husband, Bilal, and her three-year-old son, Yusef, are trapped in a refugee camp in Rafah. To keep herself from constant worry, Ridana, who rarely leaves the apartment, scrubs the brand-new appliances in the modern kitchen. She is still devastated by the choice she made to evacuate with Gazal and her newborn daughter, Aileen, while her son remained in danger. “Yusef can’t understand why I took Gazal and left him behind,” she said. She tipped the dining-room chairs on top of the farm table to sweep underneath and made up the platform beds topped with fluffy white duvets.

Gazal played on the apartment’s immaculate floor with Aileen, now three months old, looking on from a car seat. Chubby and about the size of a loaf of bread, Aileen squawked good-naturedly from under a pink Hello Kitty blanket while Gazal jabbered to a wild-haired imitation Barbie doll dressed as a bride. She folded the doll’s plastic left leg behind her and marched her around the floor on her right. “This is Gazal when she gets married,” she announced. Ridana tut-tutted. She didn’t want Gazal fashioning the doll as an amputee. She reminded Gazal that soon she would have a new leg, although that seemed nearly impossible for the four-year-old to comprehend.

Sometimes, when Gazal got out of bed, she tried to use her missing left leg and fell. Such moments were hard, Ridana said, but Gazal cried less about her leg than about her father and brother. She asked her mother incessantly when they were coming to Doha. “They told us they could come when there’s a ceasefire,” Ridana said, of Qatari officials. “But when will that be?”

In Rafah, Bilal and Yusef are living in a tent near the Egyptian border. “They are freezing,” Ridana said. They have no phone signal in the camp, so, most days, Bilal walks for hours to send his wife a video of Yusef. In one that Ridana showed me, Yusef is filling his pockets with rocks, pretending they are money. In another, he lies on a muddy sleeping mat, unresponsive. “He has lost so much weight, and his face is yellow,” Ridana murmured. While we were watching, a message arrived on WhatsApp from her sister, who’d just given birth in the Rafah refugee camp. “Habibi, my sister I hope to God you guys are good. Please send me pictures of the girls. I miss them so much. Are you in touch with your husband?” Rafah is dangerous, but the family is most worried about the toll that separation from Yusef is taking on Ridana. When she brings black plastic trays of hummus and pita back from the food stalls, she leaves hers untouched. “How can I eat when my son doesn’t have food?” she asked me.

For separated families, as well as for those trapped in Gaza, the mental-health toll of the crisis continues to mount. During the first several months of the conflict, the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme (G.C.M.H.P.), the leading mental-health organization in the Strip, ceased operations. Two weeks ago, in Rafah, they re-started some of their programs. “We can’t wait any longer for a ceasefire to take place to deal with mental health,” Yasser Abu-Jamei, a psychiatrist and the head of the G.C.M.H.P., told me by phone from Rafah recently. Abu-Jamei is also displaced and living in a tent in Rafah. He and a team of mental-health providers go into camps to speak to families and perform psychological first aid. They work with traumatized children, trying to help them identify somewhere nearby that’s safe. “If we can’t find an actual place, we help children imagine somewhere safe,” he said. They also work with parents who are baffled by their children’s misbehavior, and, with the help of the World Health Organization, they provide psychotropic medications to adults—though such drugs, like most others, are scarce.

In addition to offering treatment, the Gaza Community Mental Health Programme has conducted clinical studies of trauma among children. Samir Qouta, a psychologist who founded the research department of the G.C.M.H.P., in 1990, and now teaches at the Doha Institute, has researched subjects such as children’s dreams and the relationship between trauma and maternal attachment, as well as the core aspects of building resilience. “Traumatic experiences don’t necessarily wound children,” Qouta told me one afternoon at his office in Doha. “There are so many factors that mitigate trauma—creativity, storytelling, and, most of all, a child’s strong bond with her mother.”

Although many of the compound’s residents remain glued to their smartphones and to the large flat-screen TVs that Qatar has furnished in their apartments, following news reports from Gaza to ascertain the fate of their families, Ridana keeps their television set turned off for Gazal’s sake. “She has already seen so many traumatic things,” Ridana told me. “I try to limit how much she hears and sees.”

Gazal rarely speaks of her experiences in Gaza. Ridana doesn’t encourage it. Yet her daughter does show signs of specific anxieties and aversions. She stays away from anyone dressed in white because they remind her of hospital staff. She demands that Ridana sleep in her bed, and, even in sleep, she won’t let go of her mother. “I can’t even go to the bathroom,” Ridana said.

For children who’ve experienced extreme loss, such hypervigilance is common, Salsabeel Zaeid, a psychologist working with children and families at the compound, told me. Many of the child amputees in Doha suffer from “depression, anxiety, trouble concentrating, restlessness, nausea, trouble sleeping, anxiety attacks, hopelessness,” she said. “They’re really tearful and guilt-ridden,” she added. The children suffer from a form of survivor’s guilt, because, unlike friends and family members, “they’ve walked into another country and their basic needs are being met.”

Ridana had taken Gazal to the compound’s mental-health clinic to see whether Gazal might benefit from speaking with a therapist. But, at the appointment, Gazal broke down, crying the whole time and telling her mom to answer the questions. “It caused her more pain,” Ridana said. She recalled what the therapist told her about attachment: that maternal bonding was integral to Gazal’s ability to heal. Ridana said, “For now, what she needs is her mom by her side.” 

[if you cannot access via link check reblogs for full article transcript]

[dharmasharks]

And you, you must’ve been looking for me

Post-canon Brooklyn boys, wistful wandering, and knowing the way back. [Teen & up | 0.7K]

Wee ficlet below the cut for @stuckybingo | square N1: Napping | October challenge: Fog + Coffee.

It’s not the first night Bucky spends this way. Feet to pavement, one step and the next, breathe in, breathe out. Until darkened brownstones fall behind the expressway, until the neighborhood flattens at the East River. Breathe in, breathe out, until he’s gotten himself lost enough for the shapeless panic to stop vibrating inside his chest. 

Tonight though, under a thick fog, all that newness falls behind a veil. The twelve-hundred dollar strollers chained to U-shaped bike racks. The cat cafe he loves and the deli he doesn’t. The sprawling Greenway, where some shitty little kid swiped his bocce ball mid-turn. The paper recycling plant, which is not a paper recycling plant. 

(“Coming Soon,” Steve read from a broad sign at the construction site, “Urban Industrial Chic Coworking Loft Space.”

“What,” Bucky said, “the fuck.”)

Even the changed angles of lower Manhattan fade across the river, leaving him all alone in the past with the same cobblestones under his footsteps. The cables of Brooklyn Bridge suspended above the sky. Breathe in, breathe out that same low-tide smell where the old bones of the old pier 1 jut out from the mist. 

He can’t seem to settle like this. Surrounded by ghosts. 

So it’s one step and the next until he’s past the mums on their stoop that he forgot to water, up and up into their third floor walk-up. Their prewar apartment, but not their prewar apartment. Not from before. That’s just what you call it now instead of calling it old. 

(When the realtor’s back was turned, Steve had grandly swept one hand down his body. “All this historic charm in one place,” he said. Because he is a historic dork.)

Bucky opens their door as quietly as he can, which is not very, because it jams in the frame without a sharp yank. It doesn’t matter; Steve’s up anyway with the Sunday Times strewn across the couch. 

It is a ridiculous couch. High-backed and deep-set and too big for the room. In crushed velvet, midnight blue. Dark enough to show every strand of white cat hair, with a long enough chaise for even Steve to stretch his long damn legs, like he’s doing now.

Steve loves this ridiculous couch. Which meant Bucky had to practically sit on him until he bought it. It wasn’t that it was too impractical or nice or expensive, though it is all those things. It’s just that it’s hard for Steve to let himself have things like that. Things that’d make him happy. 

Steve’s working on that.

Even now, his smile is fragile but hopeful. And he looks so tired, but not of Bucky’s laundry list of bullshit. He never is. And it never gets easier to believe. And Bucky is working on that.

He stumbles out of his boots and drops his tightly-would body onto the cushions, his head to Steve’s lap.

“Mmf,” he groans. An apology. An admission of defeat.

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, sliding his hand across the small of Bucky’s back. Radiating a heat that melts as it spreads. Bucky turns his face into Steve’s body, nudges his shirt up, and presses lips and nose to the soft skin of his belly. Resting there.

With Steve’s hand in his hair, combing from roots to ends, Bucky finds the edge of that slow drop. Not the sharp fall that visits him plenty, but the kind of sleep you float into. The way a feather falls from a great height. 

Breathe in, breathe out the newsprint on Steve’s fingertips, the drip coffee brewing on the counter. The nights into mornings at the diner in their old neighborhood—in this neighborhood, before they got old. Back when Bucky could still name all the restless fears buzzing under his skin, but it was okay, he was okay, because Steve would wait up with him. 

God, this man. He would wait forever, he has waited forever. He will keep waiting forever. That certainty: it is a long, long thread tied and knotted around Bucky’s ribs. The gentle pull that keeps calling him home.

[chipper-smol]

Hollow Knight Telephone Round Two: Vanilla Chain 1

Prompt: Ghost remembers each time they died and that’s how they’ve progressed through challenges most bugs wouldn’t even dream achieving. However, no one else seems to remember and instead they wonder why Ghost reacts badly to simple casual touches.

By @ink-of-void

A dull drone of rain pattered down across the cool stone below. The rain had only served as a buffer to the dull, passive steps of the bugs in the city, or the ever so gentle wing beats in the distance. Occasional creaks and groans would whine from the structures of the city, begging for maintenance or to finally be allowed rest. Each sound, each moment only served to further cement itself in the cacophony of white noise. A symphony of empty sound that echoed into the city's ambience.

It had been hours since the Ghost had stopped in front of the statue. Its small head tilted upwards to face that of the stone, carved to the likeness of its sibling. The inscription below spoke of sacrifice. An Eternal sacrifice. It was almost ironic. How the one forced to suffer was put on display at the apex of the ‘City of Tears’.

Memories began to rise, welling up and bubbling in its shell. They could remember their sibling screaming. How the sound of their cries echoed on deaf ears, or that easing their pain meant rending their own flesh in a desperate attempt to stop the torture. It was a waking nightmare.

They had failed their sibling. Try as they might, time and again, they could not bring it upon themselves to strike that final blow. The cries of the ‘Hollow Knight’ screeching into the black egg as they faded away from consciousness for the umpteenth time. A pang of discomfort manifested in their shell.

Slowly Ghost’s mind went from just their sibling to all the other bugs. Each one of those who slaughtered Ghost without mercy, killed with reckless abandon, or just proved to best them in combat. They were the ones it had defeated in the past. Bugs that had caused them to relive the same ritual of failure repeatedly before finally earning that place of victory. Every misstep, every badly timed jump, every poorly executed attack, It all ended in the same punishment over and over. 
CRaCK.

The pain was almost palpable just thinking about it.

It felt just as new as the first time they were ever defeated. A cold sting of its shell cracking, body being torn limb from limb, crumbling beneath them like old stone. Void spilling from its head and pooling into a free floating shape among those lost to the sickness or those who simply proved superior. Though, the empty feeling of losing its corporeal flesh paled in comparison to what came next.

It was like floating up into an entropy of empty space and confusion. The dark land was void of any life or warmth, disorienting all that passed into its wake. Yet every time, it would be waiting to welcome the vessel back again and again into its crushing, desolate embrace. It felt itself being split in two, one being given back to the world, while the other was forced to remain in limbo until it was saved. But it wouldn't matter, as they would re-awaken only moments later, sitting patiently on a bench back where they started.

The overwhelming sense of exhaustion and dissonance took a toll each time they came back. Missing half of their being and having to fight themselves just so they can regain the broken piece back. All the while, no one else seems to take notice, or even remember what had happened prior. Hundreds of failures, hundreds of deaths, and Ghost could never seem to get used to it. It truly was a burden, one that Ghost often sought refuge from by simply resting a while longer at the bench.

It was a dance with death that always ended in what could be considered a ‘mercy’. The lack of claim to its shade, allowed them yet another chance. But perhaps mercy wasn't the right term. Having to battle your own face, a fragment of your own being… it hardly seemed kind, or fair. Even after returning the shade to its rightful place, the fight wasn’t over. Most of the time, it was only just beginning. There would be no rest. There was never any rest.

However to the spider in red, this tiny bug formed of the void and pale, felt nothing as it cut down everything from vermin to gods. Acting as if death was simply part of a long list of chores, they made it seem effortless. So when she first responded to Lemm’s call, she would be lying if she didn't find it the slightest bit odd that Ghost was simply standing idle. She reached out to them, barely grazing their back with her fingers. “Ghost?-”


Without another moment passing, the vessel whipped around, nail in hand. The slash was quick, the sharp song of the blade ripping through the air as Ghost’s reaction went into motion. Time seemed to slow for a moment, its blind attack not revealing the consequence of its actions before it was far too late. Ghosts cloak finally revealed the bug into its immediate view. Upon seeing the figure, their body tensed, hanging onto the blade with an iron grip. 


Hornet didn’t even realize what happened until she glanced down at her arm. Seeing the deep blue blood dripping from the new slice in her shell was telling enough. It was nothing more than a surface wound if she was honest. Easily fixed with time and bandages. But that wasn’t her concern at the moment. Letting her hand close, she looked over to Ghost with a worried expression.

The vessel stood ready, both hands on its nail as it simply held the weapon in place. A tiny shake was visible at the end of the nail it was brandishing. Their face held no expression, yet its body told Hornet all she needed to know.

“Little Ghost?” She asked quietly, holding up her hands to show she wasn't a threat. “Are you… alright? Lemm asked me to come check on you. He says you’ve been here for hours now.”


Ghost paused for a moment, clicking its head towards Hornet. Realization struck them, causing them to slowly lower their weapon. Their gaze fell to the floor as the nail hit the stone sidewalk with a light clink. Their blade’s shimmering reflection bounced back to the vessel's sockets. Part of it was stained with the blood of their sister, obscuring some of the brilliant reflection. The water occasionally dripped down and cut the image in two, washing away the blood as it did.

Hornet sighed, going over to them and gently knelt down.

“Is something the matter, little Ghost?” the spider chimed softly, going over to touch their shoulder. Ghost recoiled, pulling their shoulder away in a rather aggressive manner. Their head didnt lift, turning instead to focus on their path. They put their nail on their back and began their leave. The spider stood up after a moment, bowing her head with a little shake as Ghost began to disappear


“Even you need to rest sometimes, little one. Please I’m, try to get some.”

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

By https://twitter.com/Hell_Yena

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

By @nonbinary-ghost​

Rain patters down against your shell like thousands of tiny, icy stones. The drum of it inside your mask and the prickling of it against your small body would normally be unpleasant enough as to be overwhelming; but lost as you are in your thoughts and the twisting waves of emotion trying to drown you, the rain is scarcely enough to ground you. You feel disconnected and distant, as if you aren’t really in control of your body, merely being carried along by the steady movement of your legs.

You gradually realize that you have been wandering like this for a while now. How long, you can scarcely guess, but long enough that your cloak is soaked through, and any scrap of warmth has left you. Dirtmouth had been celebrating the first twelve span of being free of the Infection, and while you had been just as happy as the next bug about the recovery of the town, the celebration had filled you with a nameless, twisting dread. And then all the lights and the sounds and the smells and the touching had left you reeling and sick. So you ran.

It could have been hours since then. You have no way of knowing. You don’t quite remember deciding to come to the City of Tears either. You just let your thoughts blur into a black haze, pointed your mask to the ground, and let your feet carry you wherever they wanted to go. You hadn’t expected to find yourself standing before the statue of your sibling. You simply realized that you were staring blankly at the inscription along the statue’s base.

“Through its sacrifice, Hallownest lasts eternal.” Something hot and prickly bubbles up inside of you at the words, making your shell itch and crawl like when you fall in acid. Hornet had once explained the feeling as anger. Why are you angry? You puzzle over it for a moment, resisting your initial urge to strike at the plaque with your nail and scratch out the offending inscription. Instead, you read over it again, feeling the anger boil deep in your belly.

Sacrifice. That’s the part that makes you angry. Sacrifice implies choice. Hollow had no choice in sealing the Radiance. You hadn’t had any choice. None of your siblings had any agency over anything that happened to them. No, none of you were giver the choice to make sacrifices – you were the sacrifice. And for what? Hallownest still fell. So many bugs died, so many cultures were consumed by the plague and lost to dust and rot. All of your siblings, but Hollow and Hornet especially, still suffered and struggled. Yes, you had eventually killed the Radiance, but that hadn’t been part of the Pale King’s plan. He didn’t even know about Godseeker, didn’t even consider that there might be another way that didn’t involve condemning his child to an eternity of suffering. No, your “Father” had expected all of you to “sacrifice” yourselves to the seals and suffer in silent mystery to keep the Radiance contained. How dare he imply any level of choice in what happened to your siblings.

“Ghost?”

The soft question yanks you painfully from your thoughts and you feel as if you slam back into yourself. You are suddenly very aware of the rain hitting your mask, of your hands clenched into fists.

Of the dark shadows that had begun to flicker like flames around you receiving back into you. You spin to find Hornet standing on one of the nearby signposts, her red cloak so damp it nearly looked brown and her needle poised as if prepared to zip away at any moment.

“Are you alright?” Her stance relaxes somewhat as the shadows fade. You don’t know how to answer, so you simply turn away. You look up at your sibling’s likeness looming over you, proud, regal, poised. Not at all like the desperate, brutal Pure Vessel you were forced to fight in Godseeker’s Pantheons. Not at all like the sick and injured bug that you freed from the black egg temple after killing the Radiance.

“Do you need to be alone?”

You shrug. The happiness and celebration in Dirtmouth had been overwhelming, and you had wanted to be alone then. But now, a part of you mutters discontentedly. You’re lonely, and maybe Hornet of all people could understand these feelings. She was the only one besides Hollow who might. “I’m angry,” you sign, pointing at yourself and making a sharp gesture with both hands. Hornet has slowly been teaching you and Hollow the sign language used in the Hive, but none of you are all that good with it yet. It often requires body language and facial expressions for certain distinctions between similar signs – a difficult feat to accomplish when your face is a mask. Hornet follows your gaze and hops down to join you.

“About the statue?”

You point to the inscription.

“We didn’t have a choice,” you sign furiously. “We failed. And now what’s left?”

You stop, a dawning realization creeping through you. That was why you’re angry. Why you’re discontent even though by all accounts you had succeeded. You defeated the Radiance, ended the Infection, freed your sibling, and even survived channeling the Void Entity. You are free to do whatever you want now, but you slowly realize that this new freedom is what has you feeling so distant. You and your siblings were all created with a purpose, and now, with that purpose gone, you have nothing left. You have no other skills but fighting. No passions, no home, no culture to rebuild. You and Hollow are free, but now what is left for you? Your Father had sacrificed your futures, not just your lives, and now you are feeling lost and separate from the bugs around you. They had all suffered through the plague, lost loved ones and homes. But they had passions and dreams to guide them and give them hope. You only have nightmares that keep dragging you into the past, making it impossible to look forward to the future.

“Who am I supposed to be, now?” you finish limply. The anger is gone, replaced with a choking sorrow. Your breathing feels thick and heavy. Hornet holds out a hand, hesitating before touching you to make it an offer, and you lean into it, letting her hand rest lightly between your shoulders.

“What the Pale King did, what he demanded of all of us, was unjust,” she said at last, an ember of her own rage warming her words. “There is nothing that can change that. You and Hollow and all the others deserved so much more. But Ghost,” she kneels so she can look into your mask with such honest ferocity that your breath hitches in your chest. “You are so much more than what our Father made you. You are not just a weapon or a tool. You never were. There is a future for us now, because of you. I know it will be had. It will be scary. Change always is. But we have each other – you, me, Hollow, all of Dirtmouth – we are all here to support each other. We are all learning and growing past everything that happened. I promise, none of us are going to leave you behind again.”

A tightness forms in your throat at her words and your vision blurs as that heaviness in your chest tightens. That promise to not be left behind again stirs a confusing blur of emotion that you can’t make any sense of. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel bad either.

“Can I hug you?”

You nod and lean into her touch, the weight and warmth of your sister’s arms doing more to ground you that the rain. For once you feel … safe. Something inside you cracks, like an old shell you’ve grown too big for, and suddenly you’re crying. For everything you went through, for everything you lost, for everyone who didn’t survive to see the same light of freedom. You sob, clutching at Hornet’s cloak.

You finally let yourself mourn everything that brought you here.

And tentatively hope for everything that might come to be.

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

By @brimal-baspid​

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

By @martin-ftw​

The rain pours heavily in the city of tears.

The knight walks up to the fountain square. They look upon the fountain, where the Memorial to the Hollow Knight resides.

The knight inspects, "In the Black Vault far above. Through its sacrifice Hallownest lasts eternal." as Hornet dashes in with her needle.

"Again we meet little ghost." Hornet started, "... seek the Grave in Ash and the mark it would grant to one like you."

After finishing her guidance for the knight, she added, quietly, "Are you, perhaps, even a little, afraid?"

The water flows through the fountain endlessly, yet the knight remains emotionless.

Hornet giggles to herself, "hmmhmm, that's right, no voice to cry suffering, best of luck to your journeys little ghost."

After a few seconds of silence, Hornet raised her needle and hopped onto the ceiling.

The knight pauses, and dashes right to the opened door, leaving only the sounds of rain splashing the water fountain and flapping of wings from the lumaflies.

At the front door of the Pleasure House, the knight inserts the simple key and opens the door, walking in as Hornet follows. With the beautiful singing by Marissa, the knight goes on the long elevator ride as Hornet clings onto the elevator.

“About to learn your troubled past, aren't you little ghost?" Hornet asks inside the hot spring, while the knight sits on the bench.

The knight nods while opening their map and picking off one of those scarab markers, moving it to the bottom right of the map.

"Though I have underestimated your power, do you think you've got what it takes? To preserve the future of hallownest?" The knight does not know how to answer, they stand up from the bench and pack up their map.

"Exit's on the right, break the wall down to King's station," Hornet says while thinking to herself, could this one succeed? The knight swings their nail at the wall, breaking it open with a loud crack, and heads downwards.

Hornet sat in the spring by herself.

Guarding the cast-off shell is her job - she knows she has to fight the knight one more time, to ensure the knight is ready to finish their quest even after seeing their conception and past. She sighs, all rested, and stands up; knowing she's much faster than the knight in traversing the Hallownest, she raises her needle and swings out of the pleasure room, down to the Kingdom's edge she goes.

“Perhaps this one would be strong enough. They made it so far, don't fail me now little ghost" She quietly mumbles, before pointing her needle towards the entrance of the arena,

"So you'd pursue the deeper truth? It isn't one the weak could bear. Prove yourself ready to face it. I'll not hold back..."

With the wind blowing harder and louder in the edge of the world, the fight begins, the sentinel of a fading land and the vessel to save Hallownest.

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

By @potentialforart​

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

By @starstress​

They crouch, body full of tension, and they stare on ahead at their target. The platform is right there, waiting for them like a pedestal.

They jump.

Soaring through the air, quick and steady, they reach out, claws stretched and yearning.

There, they think. Right there.

And as the edge comes right by them, confidence blooms inside their chest, sure that they'll reach it. Their outstretched claws brush by a single tiny pristine leaf, one in a dozen, green and lush. It bounces right back into place as they are claimed by gravity.

They fall onto the lower platform, the moss softening their landing. They look up, and disappointment is a small bitter ball in their stomach, but they brush it aside. The stone edge they were aiming for now looms above them unforgiving. They will not let it discourage them, they will try again.

They want to know. They need to know. Who that red-clothed bug was, and why they felt such a pull to her.

----

Through stretching lush highways and seeming ceilingless and bottomless caverns, they push onwards. They’re spurred ever on by glimpses of rushing red, pale horns and swishing silk.

They would have expected the constant green to become monotonous by the time they reach a bench locked behind a gate, guiding them ever higher, but the shrub and moss-covered land surprises them still. From keeping them on high alert constantly and mercilessly, to undeniably charming them through towering leaf-embroidered architecture and statues, simple but beautiful blooms filling the air with glittering pollen, and soft chimes of birdsong, Greenpath has carved a spot in their heart that they can’t believe can ever be topped.

Still on they go, for though they wish to properly explore, they know that that can wait. They heal themselves, fill in the map with all the paths and twists and turns that they have crossed, put on the few charms that they have gathered, and stand up. They look ever upwards and hope they’re drawing closer to wherever the red-clothed person might be leading them.

----

There--

They rush forward, into the air and off the moss-covered stone ledge, eyes locked onto the red figure. Behind them, a gate slams closed, but though the sound echoes in the small clearing, they pay it no mind.

They land on steady feet, leaf softening the sound of their fall.

There she is--

They've found her.

The red-cloaked bug, in all her stern and decisive figure.

She is encompassed by engraved and moss-covered pillars of stone, but still she towers over them, despite only being about twice their own height.

Her dark eyes, but not as dark as theirs, no one with as dark as theirs, never, track their every move, ready to act, ready to cut down. They stare at her and she stares at them, a contest of wills.

She raises her blade - her needle - and they rush to mirror her.

Soft light streams down, from in between greenery, though they not know not its source, and halos her in pale light.  And though this is their first proper encounter with her, the red bug feels familiar, like they know her mask, the shape of her eyes, like they once gazed, even briefly, upon those features in a past life.

Nevertheless, her stance is rigid and unforgiving.

No further, her eyes scream even before she deems them worthy of words, no further I will allow you, until you prove yourself.

They tighten their grip upon their nail, and shove back into their void all pangs of sadness. This is a fight for their life, and, more than ever, a fight for their existence.

Maybe, after they defeat her, they can ask her why she feels like family - lost, but found again.

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

By @dovalore​

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

By @jonsilverstone​

https://soundcloud.com/jachym-hajek/vanilla-1-july-21-jon-silverstone-hornet-v-hollow/s-8IcY8UIzrtg

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

By @alaska-ren-works​

“Do you want to just fulfill the wyrm’s standards or do you want to make me proud, Princess of Hallownest?”

Hornet tightened her needle’s grip and lowered her stance. Heart calm and mind steady, she didn’t feel the rise of a subtle smirk on her face. This was her moment she had trained for in the Hive. Not to be the pale wyrm’s spawn, but to be the Daughter of Deepnest.

“You will see my answer soon, Mother.”

Weavers and bugs alike stood in solemn excitement as Herrah, Beast and Queen of Deepnest, circled the princess. Her white mask hid her emotions, but Hornet could more than feel the queen’s wide grin. Herrah twirled her own needle in her hand, a feat that impressed Hornet to no end as that very needle was longer than she was tall.

“Very well.” With a final step, Herrah faced Hornet with her needle at the ready. “You know the rules and so do I.”

Hornet nodded. As the lower-ranked of the two, Hornet must make the first move. Everyone and everything turned still. Watching. Waiting.

With a resolute bang of a drum, Hornet yelled, “Garama!”

The crowd roared with the start of the duel, but Hornet only heeded her opponent. She speared her needle forward and as Herrah jumped away, she reeled it back. Herrah dodged the attack and closed in on Hornet. The young spider darted away right before Herrah’s needle slashed through the space she just left.

When it came to brute strength, Hornet would lose in an instant. But she was smaller, faster, and more agile. If she could avoid a direct hit, she might have a chance at winning this.

Hornet rolled away as another strike whistled too close for her liking. She slashed her needle upwards, forcing Herrah to jump back. Taking this, she jumped into the air and released a storm of silk.

When her feet landed, Herrah slammed into her. Her breath wrenched out of her chest as she flew then skidded on the floor. It was a miracle she was still on her feet. With her head bent, she did not see the pride glimmer in her mother’s eyes before the queen composed herself.

Herrah’s head turned when the ravelling of silk sounded above her. The whistling of an incoming needle alerted her and the Beast parried Hornet’s thrust.

In Herrah’s moment of distraction, Hornet covered the arena in sticky silk traps. Now, this was where Hornet shines. She darted between the silk

strands and rushed at Herrah, the bigger spider now pressed for space. Strikes and slashes were landed and blocked, and Herrah growled. The next second Hornet rushed in, Herrah took hold of her and used her momentum to throw her far. Hornet flipped in the air but stumbled on her landing. Looking up, Herrah’s needle swung in a wide arc, destroying the nearby threads.

Mother and daughter studied each other from opposite ends of the arena. Hornet felt fatigue settle in her bones and her lungs struggled with big gulps of air. Herrah stood tall and her giant nail held steady, but Hornet could see her chest moving quickly.

“What do you think about heading over to the hotspring after this, huh?” Hornet’s eyes widened at Herrah’s invitation.

“Y-yes, Mother!” Hornet reddened at her stuttering voice. She cast out her exhaustion and readied her stance.

Herrah grinned as she raised her needle once more. “Then let’s make this worth it.”

[emotionallyits2009]

deancas fic rec list!

hello everyone! happy christmas to those who celebrate it, my gift to you is my fic rec list that i said i would make like a month ago. the only thing it is organized by is canonverse vs alternate universe. tried to cover a variety of subjects but there are in particular many fics of the genre “postcanon where cas is human and he and dean live together and slowly finally get their shit together” because i know what i’m about, son. HOPE U ENJOY. and if you wanna talk about any of them or rec me other fics please do. :) 

Canonverse:

where the weeds take root by deathbanjo, 30k, explicit “Are you happy? Y’know. Just—being here,” Dean says, gesturing to the yard with his beer bottle. “Being with—I mean, you used to fight in celestial wars and—and save the world. Now you’re growing vegetables and talking about chickens.” There are many fics set in a post-canon universe where Cas is human and he and Dean live together and slowly fall into a relationship. Imo this one is the best of the best of that genre. This was one of the first fics I read back in July when I was getting Back Into Supernatural where I was like oh fuck I’m like in this. Dean builds Cas planters and bookshelves and a chicken coop and they fight and work through it.

Cuckoo And Nest by komodobits, 10k, explicit For a long time, Castiel thought that every earthly possession other than the immediately necessary was excess to requirement. But Dean – Dean who named his car, who keeps a photograph of his mother in his wallet, some thirty-plus years after her death, who still has the crumpled ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign with a sleeping pelican emblazoned on it from the Microtel outside of Roanoke where he first kissed Castiel, clumsy and unsure, under the unsteady fluorescence of an exhausted bathroom bulb – is sentimental. It puzzles Castiel, where Dean draws the line between what is meaningful and what it is worthless. Really Gets the dynamic of Cas doesn’t think Dean wants him to stay/Dean thinks Cas will leave the first chance he gets. Also a nice example of Cas thinking he’s not wanted if he’s not useful/powerful and being told otherwise. Another all-time fave!

lonely hearts by outphastthemoat, 4.5k, gen He thinks he might give up having his own anything just to be able to step foot inside the room next door and sit on the edge of Dean’s bed instead. This one is for the CAS GIRLS who know what LONELINESS feels like.

Helionneiros by aeli_kindara, 24.2k, mature In which Dean visits his mother, and Claire takes Cas on a hunt. I’m always on the lookout for more fic with Claire and Jack. Jack doesn’t show up until the end here but the relationship between Cas and Claire is really nice.

Crawl by aeriallon, 11k, explicit It’s been almost four years since Castiel left Kansas; he'd eventually settled in an island town where he has a job, a house, and a life without the Winchesters. Every winter, Dean drives down to the coast to see him. Another fic where Cas is human but in this one he took some time for himself and got some distance from the Winchesters! He gets to be competent and weird as a human and we love that for him. I must warn you all that this fic contains one use of the phrase “making love” which would normally put me right off but it’s still worth reading. The first of a three-part series.

home where you hold me by microcomets, 1.6k, gen Cas and Dean, in the moments between their battles, ache for quiet spaces. Technically this is a coda to 10x20 but you don’t need the episode for context. Short and very sweet.

Build a Home by domesticadventures, 20.1k, teen After they save the world, Dean expects Cas to come back to the bunker with them. He doesn’t. This one is so cute it’s like what if once they were done saving the world Sam and Dean actually invited other hunters to move into the bunker with them. Obviously Dean wants that to include Cas but doesn’t know how to use his words.

the taste of gravel in the mouth by deathbanjo, 22.4k, explicit This is what Cas gave up Heaven for: greasy diner food, shitty motel rooms with even shittier cable, long car rides spent in complete silence except for the same six tapes playing over and over again, and a burnt-out husk of a man who can barely hold a conversation anymore. Angst fic! They go on a road trip and Dean is severely fucked up post-Mark of Cain.

Unknown Quantities by xylodemon, 8.6k, explicit No one ever tells Dean anything. Another nice getting-together fic.

Creature of Habit by trinityofone, 5.2k, teen The more you love someone, the more you want to kill them. Or: How Cas developed some bad habits, and Dean coped surprisingly well. This one is ancient by destiel standards (written during season 5) but it manages to nail the married couple vibes they give off in later seasons. Cas is a bitch and Dean likes him so much. <3

The (Mostly Accidental) Courtship of Dean Winchester by Tuesday, 11.2k, mature Angelic marriage rites were never intended to go quite like this. Another old one that is a lot of fun! They get Accidental Angel Married and if you don’t enjoy dumb fanfiction tropes like that I don’t know what to say to you.

Vena Amoris and Other Old-Fashioned Bullshit by pyrebi, 4k, teen In which angelic marriage bonds are apparently stupidly easy to trigger, Cas wages multidimensional war in Heaven, Dean can't catch a break like ever, Sam rather enjoys being a dick, love saves the day, and nobody consummates anything. The OTHER accidental angel marriage fic written in 2010. 

Crazy Diamonds by pantheon_of_discord, 24.8k, explicit A week ago, Dean was pulled out of Hell. Now, he’s apparently woken up in 2018, and the angel that a mere twenty-four hours beforehand had threatened to chuck him back into the pit is sleepily pouring himself coffee and wearing Dean’s second-favourite Zeppelin shirt. It all seems like a perfect happy ending, but with Hell’s scars still so fresh, Dean can’t imagine how he could have possibly gotten there. At the same time, the Dean who went to sleep in the bunker, right next to Cas, wakes up on Bobby’s couch in 2008. He’s instantly bombarded with questions by a Lilith-obsessed brother and a man who’s been dead for years, and must decide between keeping his finally-perfect life intact, and the lives he could save by re-writing history. Regardless of these choices, both Deans are trapped in the wrong decade, and their only way back lies with a Castiel still very much under Heaven’s thumb – one who might find the future Dean describes difficult to believe. Time travel is FUN. There’s an excellent part where (minor spoilers) future!Dean is like, “Guess what, asshole? You like me so much you marry me!!!!!!!!!!!” to 2008!Castiel that made me laugh out loud the first time I read it. Also just a good reminder of how most problems in life are temporary and if you could go back in time to talk to your younger self you’d be like, “Hey man. Chill out. You get through it.”

The Path of Fireflies by museaway, 63.7k, mature After his humanity is restored, Dean wakes up in bed with Castiel, a wedding ring, and no memory of the past twelve years. There’s a lot of amnesia fic and djinn fic out there were Dean wakes up ~suddenly together with Cas~ but I like this one in particular because he’s initially very confused and kind of a dick about it until he acknowledges that being with Cas makes him happy.

take the long way home by dothraki_shieldmaiden, 95k, explicit Three months ago, when Dean decided to retire, he thought his life was going to end up differently. He'd thought that he might get to have it all, Sam, Cas, Jack, and nice little place to live. Instead he gets Sam and Jack off on their Summer of Love Tour, radio silence from Cas, and a never-ending road trip consisting of himself. Still reeling from the loss of his grace, Castiel travels the country in search of hunts. Driven by a need to prove his usefulness, he pushes himself beyond all limits of endurance. Together, with the help of a few friends, a crumbling Victorian house, and a stray cat, Dean and Castiel patch themselves back together and create a home together. Do you wanna read almost one hundred thousand words of Dean and Cas having extremely intense feelings but refusing to voice them aloud? Haha of course you do that’s why you’re here. There’s also a lot about Cas adjusting to being human and being depressed about it which might resonate if you’ve ever felt weird about having a body. To be honest the author could stand to use a few more commas but there were also half a dozen moments that made me put my phone down and drag my hand slowly over my face and whisper “oh my god” to myself which is like, the ultimate measure of a good fanfiction so it gets to be on the list.

like moses and batman and james dean by saltyfeathers, 31.6k, explicit dean used to turn tricks. over a decade later, he met cas. Have you seen the fanon (apparently pioneered by Mr. Jackles “Original Deankin” Ackles himself) that Dean used to prostitute himself to feed himself and Sam when they were younger? Are you interested in exploring that concept in fanfiction? Well, this is the only fic you need. Mind the tags on this one! It’s not what I’d call happy but it’s good.

Some Assembly Required by narrow_staircases, 47k, mature It’s September of 2005, and Dean Winchester, in an attempt to outrun old mistakes and painful memories, finds himself in southern Kentucky on a wild goose chase. He’s completely certain this weird religious movement he’s “investigating” is a hoax, despite the miraculous healings people report, and he’ll be back on the road in a day or two. Things are looking up when he meets Cas, an awkward (and gorgeous) graduate student who’s actually doing honest-to-god research into the local tent revival meetings. When that research takes a weird and personal turn, Dean’s left to face two very serious realities: one, this may be a real case after all, and two, he’s fallen way harder for Cas than he should ever have let himself. Stanford-era AU of Dean trying to avoid his father and getting in over his head on a case.

Alternate universe:

And This, Your Living Kiss by opal_bullets, 57k, mature Only a very few people in the world know that the celebrated and reclusive poet Jack Allen is just Kansas mechanic Dean Winchester, a high school dropout with a few bucks to his name. Not that it matters anymore; life has left him so wrung out he never wants to pick up another pen. Until, that is, a string of coincidences leads Dean to auditing a poetry course with one Dr. Castiel Novak. The  professor is wildly intelligent, devastatingly handsome...and just so happens to be academia's foremost expert on the poetry of Jack Allen. Mundane AUs in this fandom have to be really, really good to catch my attention and this one is! It’s exactly what it says in the summary and the characterization is spot-on. 

Out to Drift by deathbanjo, 20.9k, mature Dean drives a black car with a loud engine. He lies too easily. He keeps a gun in the back of his jeans, and Castiel isn’t sure, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Dean has killed someone before. Two people in fucked-up unstable situations meeting and forming a connection. Honestly guys I really just love deathbanjo.

[autisticandroids]

hey, if I stopped watching supernatural at the end of season eight (dean turned into a demon and I noped out) is it worth it to watch the rest of the series? I want to understand the baby driver kid. he seems cool.

this is a really hard question. i almost want to tell you to skip to season twelve but that feels like cheating. nine and ten are some of the worse seasons of the series (you bailed after nine, not eight. eight is the angels falling). but also like personally i do think the back half of the show is worth watching. you could just skip season ten and jump to season eleven, which is much less. just sucking complete ass. or you could skip to season twelve which is pretty close to genuinely enjoyable television. i would say...... get a rec list from someone. get a rec list from several people. you have about a hundred episodes to go, try to cut it down to like. forty, maybe. i think it's worth doing, but it's primarily worth doing as..... a hobbyist, like, someone who enjoys thinking about supernatural. if you mostly just want good popcorn tv, watch star trek instead. here's a google drive link to all of it. the best to just mindlessly binge watch is star trek: the next generation. but like, if you want to Get supernatural... yeah i would recommend finishing it in some capacity. get rec lists from a couple friends who have really conflicting views on the show and do an abbreviated watch. i'll start you off, for me some unmissable episodes of 10-15 SPECIFICALLY that other people might leave out are soul survivor, the werther project, brother's keeper, form and void, the bad seed, alpha and omega, the foundry, rock never dies, the future (no one will skip this one in their reclist but i like it a LOT), the big empty, funeralia, everything written by yockey in season fourteen, the full moriah arc (unfortunately) (that's game night through moriah), atomic monsters, the hero's journey, the gamblers, galaxy brain, unity. obviously there's a lot of big names that are Not on that list, but i'm specifically recommending you follow rec lists from more than one person, and no sane person would tell you to skip black, or what we left behind, or lily sunder has some regrets, or lost and found, or tombstone, or scoobynatural, or the trap, or gimme shelter, or despair

[talesofstyles]

Quid Pro Quo

Another lawyer!Harry. Technically six years before this piece. Enemies to lovers with plenty of angst :))) [7k]

massive thank you to @smokeinherperfume @for-fucks-sake-h and @emotionally-imbruised​ 🥺💛

This has got to be one of the worst weeks of your professional life.

It’s only Thursday and this past week you haven’t left your office before eleven every night. You’re currently working on nine cases, two of which require immediate action, and you’ll most likely have to go to trial for at least three of the cases because the motions to dismiss that you filed were denied. Last night alone you didn’t get a wink of sleep because you were busy preparing for a deposition this morning, which turned out to be practically useless, because your client completely ignored your advice and said everything you told them not to and basically shit the bed for you.

You know this is what you signed up for when you decided to become a lawyer at a top law firm in the City. Clifford Chance is not a joke, there’s a reason why they’re number second in the UK and you knew that long before you even started working here. There’s a common knowledge which most law students throughout the UK knows, that if you work at Clifford Chance, you don’t get to sit around. Put it this way: if you let six minutes tick away without achieving anything, you’ve wasted the firm fifty pounds. Twelve minutes: one hundred pounds. Eighteen minutes: one fifty. You do the math.

It’s not that you hate your job. On the contrary, you absolutely love your job. You know you’re good at it. You love the thrill of negotiation. You like to argue and make the best point in the room. You’re addicted to the adrenaline rush of closing a deal, and frankly, nothing satisfy you more than spotting the loopholes in a contract (with the exception of sex of course but it has really been a while and you’re practically a nun these days so it’s not even worth mentioning).

 But sometimes it’s just too much. You’ve been working for fifty five hours per week, and sure, the money’s good (scratch that—the money’s great), but you don’t have a life outside of work and you’re beginning to realise that it’s one hell of a price to pay. 

The truth is, you know all this nonsense is not because you hate your job, nor because you’re stretched too thin. Interestingly, you actually thrive under pressure and you know that’s one of your qualities that makes you a good lawyer. And life outside of work? Even the thought of it makes you laugh. Your work is your life. You’ve never complained about that. This bitterness inside of you that you don’t even realise exists emerged when Harry Styles waltzed into your firm three months ago. You don’t normally make a big deal about people coming into the firm, because you’re good with people and you’re friends with everyone. But the thing is, you resent him because your firm gave him a senior partner title right away, one that you’ve been busting your arse for by working about two hundred hours per month minimum for the past year, just because he came from your firm’s rival which happens to be the number one law firm in the UK. And on top of that, he didn’t come empty handed. He brought five big clients with him when he came knocking on your firm’s door, and that sort of sealed the deal for your managing partner to choose him instead of you to be promoted to senior partner this year.

Bloody bum licker.

Your frustrated groan bounces off the thin walls of your two bedroom flat that you shared with your best friend and you accidentally slam the door a little too harsh. Luckily, she’s used to you coming home in such a state for the past three months, so she just turns her head to see you from where she’s sat on the couch in the living room, stifling a laugh.

“Harry Styles?” She ventures, smirking at you and you groan in annoyance as you throw your keys in the bowl.

“Harry,” you grunt. “Fucking Styles.”

Fran can’t help but laugh, and you give her a look that tells her you’d probably kill her if she keeps that up as you walk past her and straight into the kitchen to grab a bottle of wine from the fridge, so she’s back trying to stifle her laughter.

“Alright,” she replies, you can hear amusement in her tone. “What did he do this time?”

“He took my case!” you snap as you plop down on the couch with a bottle of Riesling in your hand. Fran puts her laptop on the coffee table and turns to face you, sitting expectantly, waiting for the oncoming rant. “He’s just- ugh. I can’t stand him, Fran. He’s unbelievable.”

“What?” She stares at you in confusion. “How?”

“So Luke came to the office this morning-”

“Luke-”

“Don’t-” you cut her off before she can finish her sentence. “I know what you’re about to say, and yes, that Luke. So, he came to the office this morning because he’s got a problem. Basically, his company just cut a huge deal but he needs to get out of this contract because his general counsel accidentally let them slip something into the fine print.”

“Shit,” she remarks. “That is a fireable offense.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “The guy was fired on the spot. The thing is, if Luke fulfills this order, he goes out of business.”

“And if he doesn’t,” she pauses, looking at you for a second before adding another remark. “Shit, they’ll sue him for breach of contract.” 

“Exactly,” you sigh. “I’ve been at it all day trying to spot loopholes in the contract to save his company.”

You really miss working together with Fran. You’ve been living together since you were both still in law school, and Fran used to work in Clifford Chance as well until ten months ago when she decided she wanted to focus on fashion law and moved to Addleshaw Goddard.

It’s not that you’re not happy for her. You’re glad she found something that she’s passionate about. It’s just you’re so used to working on cases and going to mock trials together and you can’t deny that you miss it sometimes. You just wish that she’d stayed, because you know it would be much easier to handle Harry if you’ve got your best friend with you.

“Right,” she nods. “And I’m guessing Harry came to you and he wanted in?”

“That bastard!” You scowl. “He just waltzed into my office out of the blue and was like, ‘I gather Luke Whiteacre needs to get out of something? I want in.’ I mean… who does that?! He didn’t even say hi when he walked in!”

Fran snickers at your terrible impression of Harry. She hasn’t met him yet but she knows there’s no way he talks like that. “And you’re upset because he didn’t say hi?”

“Fran!”

“I’m joking, I’m joking,” she hastily amends. “Look, maybe he’s just trying to help? He’s not taking your case, babe, believe me. You’re still on it, aren’t you?”

“Well, I am,” you let out another sigh.

“See?” She goes on. “And even if he tries to, Luke wouldn’t let it happen. He’s been your client since forever.”

“Still. I don’t like the fact that he thought he could just walk into my office and hijack my case,” you say in exasperation. “I’m gonna kill him, Fran. I swear to god I’m gonna kill him.”

Fran burst in laughter, muttering your name in a chastising tone. “Don’t. You won’t look good in prison stripes,” she shakes her head. “Really rubs you in the wrong way, doesn’t he?”

“Absolutely,” you roll your eyes.

“Come on, babe,” she continues with a smirk. “I’ve said this before, you need to shag him. Take out all those frustrations…”

“Keep that up and I’ll put your name on my people-to-murder list next to his,” you grunt, standing up from the couch and head towards the kitchen hoping to find some treats from the snack cabinet.

Fran giggles as she takes her laptop back onto her lap and begins typing. “Let’s go out,” she suggests. “Been a while. You look like you could use a night out.”

“I can’t,” you slump against the couch with a bag of chocolate buttons. “He’s on his way here.”

“What? Harry?” She looks at you in surprise. “Why?”

“Yeah,” you shrug carelessly. “We need to work on Luke’s case.”

“Have you still got some condoms in your room?” She says teasingly. “I’ve got some just in case you need them. Just-”

The sound of the doorbell rings cuts your best friend’s teasing remark. It’s definitely Harry, and you give Fran one last death glare and Ross Geller’s version of middle finger as you get up from the couch and walk towards the front door to let him in.

“Hey,” he greets you with his usual smug smile that irritates you to no end. “Lovely flat you’ve got here.”

“We better get started,” you say dismissively as you close the door behind him before you lead him into your living room. You suddenly realise that it’s your first time seeing him not in one of his expensive suits. Not that you care enough about him to notice that. It’s just he happens to be wearing a lot of Jermyn Street suits, and you know they don’t come cheap. 

This time he’s only in his crisp white button-up shirt, with the sleeves rolled up just below his elbow. His arms are full with folders that you asked him to take from the office, and as the two of you walk into your living room, you see Fran turning her head to greet him. “Hi.”

“Hey, you must be Fran,” he smiles as he strides to the couch.

“And you must be Harry,” Fran replies, before tilting her head to smirk at you. “Heard a lot about you.”

“Have you now?” Harry chuckles. “Only good thing, I hope?”

“Oh,” Fran can’t help but snort. “Only the best.”

You end up ordering Chinese because neither of you have had dinner, and Fran ends up helping both you and Harry on the case in the living room. Even with three heads brainstorming together you’re still struggling to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

It is now past midnight and you and Harry are still working on your case. Fran has gone up to her room a little over two hours ago, leaving just the two of you in your living room. Your coffee table is strewn with photocopied draft contracts, financial reports, note-pads covered in scribbles, post-its and two cups of cold coffee from four hours ago that both of you keep accidentally drinking. Take-out boxes are littering the floor, and you can barely keep your eyes open as you read through yet another file to find literally anything which could potentially help.

“I tell you what, this is ironclad,” you let out a heavy sigh as you throw the document on the coffee table in defeat. “Houdini wouldn’t even get out of this contract.”

“We need to adjourn,” Harry suggests, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Regroup tomorrow to get to the bottom of this with clear heads. I’ve got a trial at half nine but I’ll be done by noon.”

“I can’t rest before we figure this out,” you state stubbornly, pausing for a second to let out a yawn. “But you go home. I’ll let you know if I’ve got something.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head. “You have to rest. If you were to come up with something you would’ve by now.”

You feel a stab of indignation. “Are you saying that I’m not capable of getting to the bottom of this myself?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Harry says in exasperation. “How did you even come up with that? I was just saying you’re knackered, well we both are, so we’re not thinking clearly. But you know what? If you wanna keep going, that’s your decision. But I’m not going to.”

“Well, I never asked you to!” you retort defensively.

Harry rolls his eyes as he gets up from your couch, heading towards the door without saying another word and you can’t help but groan in annoyance. With Harry, you’re quite capable of going from calm to seething in 0-60, and you’re too pissed to even notice Fran stifling her giggles from the kitchen.

“Oh, yeah,” Fran appears in the living room with a glass of water in her hand, staring at you with one eyebrow arched high. “There’s no tension there at all.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, give it a rest!”

***

By two o’clock you’re already exhausted and brain dead after only three hours of sleep and non-stop work since this morning. You haven’t even had lunch yet, but even just the thought of eating already makes you nauseous because you can’t stop thinking about how crushed Luke is going to be when you tell him that he’s going out of business. Truth be told you don’t want to jump that far, but what Harry said last night keeps replaying on your mind like a broken cassette. ‘If you were to come up with something, you would have by now.’ And here you are, twenty-eight hours later, still have got nothing.

Speak of the devil.

“Where have you been?” Harry asks in a prickly tone as he walks into your office. His brows are knitted together and he looks concerned. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Honestly, a ‘hi’ would be nice.

“I’ll tell you where,” you shift your attention from your computer and look at him. “I was getting screwed by Berkeley Group and trying to figure out what to do about it.”

Harry gives you a quizzical look. “What do you mean?”

“I went there with a dozen win-win offers and they shot down every single one,” you say stonily.

“Did you threaten litigation?” asked Harry, a bit superciliously.

“Harry, I threaten them with everything but the kitchen sink,” you flash him an incandescent look. “The thing is, this contract is airtight and they know it.”

“I’ve got an idea,” Harry says promptly with a glint of hope in his eyes. “And this won’t make Luke go out of business.”

“What you on about?”

“Slicing and dicing,” says Harry with a smug smile. 

You flash him another incandescent look. “Are you telling me that your big brilliant idea is to split his commercial division from his retail?”

The glint of hope disappears from his eyes as he looks at you. “This is the only way out.”

“Cutting someone’s arm off is not a way out!” you practically shriek. 

“It is if their life depends on it!” Harry yells in frustration, the volume of his voice matches yours and you can’t help but notice two associates stop for a second just to have a peek at you and Harry having a screaming match before they continue walking past your office.

“Look,” he begins again, and you know he’s calmed down a little because he’s not as loud as three seconds ago. “If we do this, we have a chance to get Berkeley back to the table before we cut anything off.”

“Listen to me Harry,” you venture after a pause. “I’m sorry but we’re not going back to Luke with this bullshit. Thank you for your help so far, but you’re off the case.”

“What?” Harry turns to you in disbelief.

“You heard me,” you give him a dismissive blink that makes him feel like an insect. “I’m taking back this case.”

You turn your attention back to some random document on your desk, pretending to read carefully, not daring to meet his eyes. Luckily he leaves your office without saying another word after a second or two of pause, and you slump back further on your chair as he slams your door behind him.

For the rest of the afternoon you’ve decided to keep yourself busy with your other cases, but you know deep down you won’t be able to focus on anything else before you get Luke out of the woods. You can’t let him go out of business. You just can’t. Not only because you’ve been looking after his company for years, hell you were only an associate when he first became a client, but you also saw with your own eyes how his company grew. He was only just starting his business when he came into your firm, and you witnessed it firsthand how he nurtured it into the big and successful company it is now.

On a side note, you also can’t stop thinking about what happened in your office earlier. Sure, you and Harry don’t particularly get along like a house on fire, but you didn’t have to be so rude, did you? His approach to the problem might be different than yours, but deep down you knew he was only trying to help.

So on your way to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea, you decided to stop by his office. You know you owe him an apology. 

“Hi,” his door is open but you decided to knock anyway. “Mind if I come in?”

He looks up at you instantly, pushing his chair a little further away from his desk to break his attention from his computer. “Of course not, come in.”

“Look-”

“Look-”

You both say simultaneously, before breaking into a chuckle. 

“Let me go first,” he begins with a smile, which for some reason doesn’t look smug this time and you nod. “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry. That case is yours to begin with, and I should’ve trusted you to bring it home how you see fit.”

“Well I’m sorry too,” you add hastily. “Guess I let my emotion get the best of me back there. I was rude when you were only trying to help.”

“Hey, no need to apologise to me,” he replies without flickering. “I absolutely understand.”

“It’s just,” you continue as you saunter to his desk. “Luke was my first client. Ever. The first time I went solo on a case, it was for his company. I just can’t let him down.”

“Look, we don’t know that yet,” he assures you gently. “And even if it comes to that point, it’s not your fault. If anything it’s the general counsel’s fault.”

“Holy shit-” you say suddenly. “Harry!”

“What?” he looks at you in confusion.

“The general counsel didn’t just make one mistake,” you go on as you look at Harry with glimmering hope. “He made two, he never ran the final contract by me.”

“Holy shit he didn’t,” Harry remarks. “Because he knew you’d catch any mistake. So he didn’t make a mistake…”

“No it was on purpose,” you can’t help a pleased little smile coming to your lips. “Isn’t it a coincidence that he just signed a contract to work at a subsidiary of Berkeley?”

“This is brilliant,” he replies excitedly. “You’re brilliant.”

“Say that again?” you joke.

“No, you need to get them on the phone right now,” Harry gives you a rictus smile. “And I need to find us some bloody champagne.”

***

Harry grins as he walks into your office and asks, as though you’re mid-conversation. “Have you made the call?”

“Ooh, that’s a good one,” you grin when you notice a bottle of Moët & Chandon in his hand. “Where did you get that?”

“Leftovers from the Christmas party,” he chuckles as he quickly opens it . “How’s it? What did they say?”

“Well, the contract is back exactly the way it was,” you begin, giving him a smug smile for a change. “Well, with a twenty five percent increase.”

He looks at you suspiciously, one of his eyebrows arched high. “Twenty five?”

“Fine,” you roll your eyes comically. “Forty.”

“Bloody hell,” he chuckles. “You don’t mess about, do you? Remind me to never mess with you.”

You laugh and take a sip of the champagne. “We need to celebrate this.”

“Do you wanna go out?”

“Oh no, I’ve got something better,” you smirk as you hand him a folder. “Take a look.”

Harry takes the folder promptly and begins skimming through the documents, occasionally taking sips of the champagne in between. “Aha, you need to get out of a deal.”

“Exactly,” you grin. “We need to get out of a deal I negotiated for a mobile payment app with our client’s credit card provider.”

“This is a three years deal and you’re only three months in,” Harry observes as he continues skimming through the files.

“Well, that’s what makes it fun, innit?” your grin widens.

“Oh, absolutely. This is fun,” his eyes twinkling in delight. “You don’t have any legal grounds to do it. Have you got something in mind?”

“Mhm,” you hum as you take another swig of champagne. “I think if I can find a reason to pay into a trust instead of to them directly then we can squeeze them…”

“Make them take a buyout,” Harry adds.

“Look at us finishing each other’s sentences already,” you make an elaborate gesture with your champagne flute and Harry gives you a shrill laugh.

“We’re best friends now, aren’t we?”

You retort at once. “Don’t push your luck.”

“Alright,” says Harry, his eyes still flashing with amusement. “That’s a good plan by the way. What do you want me to do?”

“I need precedents by noon.”

“You’ll have them on your desk by nine am sharp,” he smirks.

***

Harry keeps his promise.

When you arrive in your office at a little over nine, there are six folders from Harry waiting for you on your desk, which means that he didn’t only get you one or two but six precedents for the new case that you’re both working on. This is the boost of confidence that you need, because today you’re scheduled to go to the judge’s chamber and meet with the lawyer on the opposing side. Who knows, maybe this will be a quick one and the case will be over by the end of the day.

Well, that’s a nice thought. But in order for the case to be dismissed, the lawyer from the opposing side needs to show up here first and foremost. You’ve been sitting in the judge’s chamber for nearly fifteen minutes now, and he has warned you about ten times that if the other lawyer doesn’t show up, he would have to deny your motion to dismiss.

“Hello, sorry I’m late,” a voice pipes in from the door, and when you turn around, you see a woman with a smug smile that reminds you of Harry’s, clad in L.K. Bennett from head to toe walks into the room. She offers you a hand before she sits down, and you politely reach out yours for a handshake. “Camille Sweetings, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Have you now?” you give her a mocking smile as you begin confidently. “Well, you haven’t lived up to your obligations and according to these six precedents, we have the right to nullify this entire deal right now.”

You really don’t like the look on her face. Any other lawyers would at least be slightly ticked to hear that, but she still has the same smug smile across her face. “You don’t have the right to do anything, you’re in violation of your contract.”

“Paying into a trust isn’t a violation,” you frown.

“No,” she agrees. “But meeting with the competition is.”

You can’t see your own face, but if you do, you’re most likely to look like you’ve just seen a ghost. How did she even know that? You try to remain calm and look at the judge. “I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

“No,” she’s smiling as she says the word. “You just didn’t know I’d find out about it. Your Honour, I’ve got a confirmation that YN YLN has engaged in a pattern of dirty tricks, unethical behaviour and borderline illegal activity. All in the name of ‘representing’ her clients.”

Your rage simmers up into a froth. “If you’re gonna say all that about me, you better damn well be able to back it up.”

You want nothing more than to rip off the smirk across her face as she hands two files to the judge. “Here are two of Ms YLN's old cases. There you’ll find settlements withheld and meetings with the competition.”

“How the hell did you get these?!” you exclaim indignantly. “Your Honour, my past cases have no relevance here.”

“No, but your answers to my question do,” he says sternly. “Did you or did you not meet with the competition last week?”

***

You stride back into your office furiously. Who the hell was that woman? You didn’t even know her yet she apparently knew a damn lot about you. Nobody even knew you had a meeting with the competition last week, so there has got to be something bigger going on yet you just can’t seem to figure that out.

You begin to realise maybe this whole case isn’t a good idea and you silently promise yourself that you will never take on anything with getting out of contracts or deals or basically everything that Harry is good at ever again. This isn’t your thing, this is Harry’s. Your thing is everything that has everything to do with mergers, acquisitions, all that, just like Fran’s thing is everything with fashion law. This whole thing is really stressing you out and you plan to speak to Harry when you get the chance later today to just hand him the case. 

Speak of the devil.

“Hey! How was the hearing?” he sounds jovial as he walks into your office with a bright smile. “Should I get another bottle of champagne for tonight? Of course when I say ‘get’ I meant ‘steal’ from downstairs.”

“The judge bit my head off,” you scoff.

He flashes you a quizzical look. “What? Why?”

“The other lawyer found some dirt about me,” you begin, already seething as you picture her face with that bloody smug smile in your head. “She found two of my old cases and said really nasty things about me to the judge. And before you say anything, no, I didn’t do anything illegal. But I’ve got to admit it was unethical.”

“Shit,” he looks at you, concerned. “Look, there’s no way they could’ve found all those shit just like that.”

“That’s what I’m thinking about,” you reply at once. “There’s got to be something bigger going on. This is a desperate move, I tell you.”

“I agree,” he nods. “It sounds shady, and in my experience the other side only does something like this when they’ve already done something even shadier.”

You look at him with a glint of hope. “So you also think they’re hiding something?”

“Yeah,” he sounds so sure. “And don’t worry, we’re gonna find it.”

“Good,” you remark. “Because there’s no way in hell I’m gonna let bloody Camille Sweetings get the better of me.”

“Wait, who?” this time, it’s Harry who looks like he has just seen a ghost. The colours have drained from his face, and you look at him in confusion.

“Camille Sweetings,” you repeat yourself, wrinkling your nose in disgust because you hate the sound of her name rolling out of your lips. “Why? Do you know her?”

“Have they put my name on this case?” he ignores your questions.

“Yeah, yesterday,” you frown. “Harry, what’s wrong?”

He takes a deep breath before he begins, looking at you in the eyes. “She and I, well, uh, we were together for a while.”

“What?!” you can’t hide your dismay. “Fucking hell, Harry. As if this isn’t complicated enough!”

You lapse into silence for a few seconds, neither of you knowing what to say.

“I think this is personal,” he ventures after the pause. “Look, if you want me off the case now, I completely understand. I won’t fight you. But I hope you don’t because you need help now more than ever.”

“Just,” you pinch the bridge of your nose in frustration. “Please get out of my office.”

***

By nine pm you’ve already come up with three win-win offers, yet Camille bloody Sweetings gives you a shrill laugh every time and shoots down every single one. Honestly, she is the female version of Harry. They make a great couple, those two shady bastards. They should’ve gotten married and make a couple of shady children.

“Sod off, Harry,” you say without even moving your head from looking at your computer, but you know he’s standing in front of your office, probably waiting for the right time to come in. Honestly, he might be a brilliant lawyer but he sucks big time at a simple game of hide and seek. Behind the wall? That’s a toddler-level hiding spot.

“No,” he insists, finally walking towards your desk. “I wanna help.”

“I told you I don’t need your help,” you give him a dismissive blink that makes him feel like an insect.

He says your name sternly, making you look in his direction and finally meets his eyes. “Believe me, you do. You think I’m shady? That bloody snake is ten times worse. You need help, and I don’t care what you say because I’ve just checked and my name is still on the attorneys listed.”

“Fine,” you concede. “Take a look at this. This is as best as she could get yet she bloody refused them all.”

Harry takes the files from your hand and quickly skims through the documents, muttering one or two profanities under his breath before he puts them back on your desk. “You know what, we’re going out tonight.”

Is he joking? 

“My arse is on the line here in case you haven’t realised,” you look at him in disbelief. “She pulls shit like this again, it’s gonna cost me my license.”

Your name rolls out of his lips again and he looks at you without blinking. “Come on, we need to blow off some steam. We don’t do that, we’re gonna kill each other.”

Three hours later, you feel like you’ll never be able to get out of the comfiest bar stool you’ve ever sat on. You’ve never been to Hawksmoor, but Harry swears this place is good even though it’s filled with boring bankers with their ties stuffed in suit pockets (not that Harry’s tie isn’t also stuffed in his suit pocket, but, you know, at least he’s not a banker), so you followed his lead and let him take you here.

The salvaged furniture, low lighting, comfy seating and charming staff make it an easy place to settle into. Sitting beside you is Harry with his neat whiskey, which you realise that he hasn’t finished when you’ve already had three refills of your gin and tonics. Your head is most likely going to fall off tomorrow morning, you just know it.

“Argh,” you groan. “What’s wrong with me?”

“Right now?” Harry deadpan. “Huge quantities of alcohol.”

“Sod off,” you playfully nudge his shoulder. “By the way, you’ve got more ex-girlfriends lawyers I should know about?”

Harry laughs, his eyes crinkled and shining. “I’ll send you a list.”

“Good,” you mumble against the edge of the glass, before taking another swig of your drink.

“How about you?” Harry is smirking at you, one of his eyebrows arched high. “Any lawyers you’re seeing that I should know?”

You laugh. “I don’t shit where I eat.”

“Shut up,” Harry looks at you suspiciously, still with a huge shit-eating grin. “You’re telling me you’ve never got involved with anyone at work?”

There’s silence.

“Shit,” Harry remarks. “Who was it?”

You exhale sharply before you answer. “Luke.”

Harry takes a gulp of his drink. “Well, that makes sense.”

“You don’t even know which Luke I was talking about,” you frown. “You could be wrong, you know. There are millions of Lukes.”

“Oh, of course it’s Luke Whiteacre,” he chuckles. “Didn’t go to law school for nothing, did I? But I’ve got to say, it finally makes sense.”

“Don’t say anything to anyone,” you say sternly, starting to realise that you’ve probably made a mistake of telling him. “It was a long time ago anyway.”

“So, how was he?” he’s grinning.

You can’t help but laugh. “Are we having a girl talk right now?”

“No,” he shrugs carelessly. “Just wanna know how he was.”

“You want me to go into details?” you tease, and even though he doesn’t say anything, you know he’s glad you’re not as tense as a few hours prior. “Cause I could. What do you wanna know? Stamina? Girth? Technique? I could go on…”

“Ew!”

You’re laughing so hard that you nearly fell off the bar stool if Harry didn’t quickly catch you, and you realise this is the first time your arm brushes against his, and for a second you’ve both stilled, but you ignored it because this doesn’t mean anything. You’re both drunk anyway. “Why did you break up with she-who-must-not-be-named?” you peer at him.

“We had a pregnancy scare,” he says, looking down for a second at his drink before taking another swig.

“Shit,” you gape at him. “Was she-”

“No, she wasn’t,” he shakes his head. “But it made me realise that she’s not the one I want to spend the rest of my life with, let alone actually having children with. So I called it off.”

“Sorry,” you can’t help yourself from chuckling. “But you made the right decision. Don’t have a baby with a snake.”

“Don’t apologise, you’re right,” Harry joins you in laughter. “How about you and Luke? What happened?”

“Work got in the way,” you drain the rest of your drink before motioning for the bartender to get you another one. “I was only an associate back then so I worked so hard to get junior partner. And his company wasn’t as big as it is now so he was working crazy hours too because he was trying to expand it. We saw each other about three times a month for half a year before we called it off.”

“Three times a month?” his eyes widen in surprise.

“Mhm,” you hum, mouthing a thank you to the bartender as he hands you another drink. “We were besotted but we just didn’t have time for a relationship.”

“Do you still-”

“What? No,” you laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. The ship has sailed now.”

“Good,” he smiles at you, before hastily corrects himself. “I mean, good for you.”

You take another big gulp of your drink before you push it away. “Alright, playtime’s over,” you smirk at him. “Let’s get back to work.”

“Are you joking?” he gives you a quizzical look. “It’s nearly midnight and you’re drunk.”

“I just need two cups of coffee and a cold shower and I’ll be fine,” you reply as you hop off the bar stool, he quickly reaches his hand out for you to hold. “Let’s go back to my place so I can have a quick shower.”

“Let’s go to mine,” he offers. “Technically Maida Vale is closer from here than Hammersmith.”

“Are you trying to take me home, Styles?” you deadpan, your voice a little slurred. “Should’ve bought me dinner first, don’t you think?”

“Hey, I’ve bought you lots of dinners,” he retorts. 

“No, Styles,” you shake your head, chuckling. “Clifford Chance bought me dinners. Been using the company’s card, haven’t you?”

Harry laughs. “You’ve got me.”

***

In under an hour, you’ve arrived at Harry’s flat, had a cup of coffee, and a cold shower just as you requested. You’ve ditched your work dress and slipped into the clothes that Harry had laid on his bed for you; a blue Mickey Mouse t-shirt and a pair of black shorts, and when you walk into his sitting room, you see him sitting on his plush sofa with some clipped documents in his hand.

Your eyes dart around his flat once again as you plop yourself down on his sofa. He’s got a great taste, you’ve got to admit, because his flat is lush. It’s on the fourth floor of a beautiful, red-brick, Edwardian mansion which Maida Vale is well-known for, and the inside is modern meets classic. The gray panelled walls blend nicely with the elegant patterned wood floor, and the cream curtains really tie the look of his flat altogether. It really is a gorgeous flat, not to mention the white marble en suite and his really neat, sparsely decorated bedroom.

“Alright,” you begin, taking a document into your hand and begin skimming through briefly only to put it back on the coffee table in less than thirty seconds. “I’ve been at it all day, we’ve been at it for a while and it’s getting us nowhere. I think we need to shake down some employees.”

“And that’s all well and good,” he turns to look at you. “But if we don’t know what to ask, we’re not going to get any answers.”

“Yes we will,” you insist. “They don’t know what we don’t know, do they?”

“They don’t know what we don’t know…”

“That’s literally what I just said,” you frown.

“No,” he shakes his head. “Look, I’m saying according to this report, their accounts are growing by 200% a month.”

“Wait a second,” you remark. “If that’s true then why are they clinging to this deal like it’s their newborn and I’m Herod?”

“Because maybe they’re not really growing by 200% a month,” Harry adds. “Look, March, 5 million new users, but 60% of these card holders don’t even seem to know they have the cards.”

“Holy shit,” your eyes widen in surprise. “The people are real, but the accounts are fake. Harry, this isn’t just shady, this is the type of shit that lands someone in prison. And if Camille knows all this…”

Harry grins. “Wait til the judge sees this.”

“The judge?” you look at him suspiciously. “Why don’t we just leverage them into letting us out?”

“Because, darling, we have the upper hand now,” he says, still grinning. “We can’t give her a chance to get it back.”

“Harry, if Camille has anything to do with this it would ruin her,” you warn him. “I can’t let you do this to someone you once cared about.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about her,” Harry says harshly. “Not anymore. If she doesn’t want to be ruined she shouldn’t have gotten involved in this. And she damn sure shouldn’t have fucked with someone I care about.”

“What?”

“You better get some sleep,” he jerks his head towards his bedroom. “We’re going to the court first thing in the morning.”

***

Harry’s bed has got to be one of the comfiest places on earth.

He gave you his bed for the night and opted for the couch, which you bet just as cosy so you didn’t really feel bad. When you wake up, he’s already clad in his white button-up shirt and black trousers, swinging the fridge open to get a freshly squeezed cranberry juice.

“Morning,” he smiles when he notices you as he pours some coffee and juice for both of you. “Have some toast.”

“You know how to treat your guest with a good breakfast, don’t you?” you tease him as you look around the jars on the breakfast nook. There are several kinds of luxury marmalade, strawberry jam with champagne, wild blossom honey and even Belgian chocolate spread. Honestly, who is this man?

“No hangover?”

“Surprisingly, no,” you chuckle. “I mean my head is pounding of course but it’s not too bad, nothing I can’t handle.”

“You want some nurofen?”

“No thanks,” you shake your head and take the cup of coffee from Harry’s hand. “Harry, we need to talk.”

He sighs. “You’re gonna try to change my mind, aren’t you?”

“I am,” you nod as you look through the jars of fancy jams, trying to choose one, before going with just salted butter instead. “I can’t let you do that. She might be a snake but I’m not. We’re not.” 

Harry just look at you in silence, and you continue.

“If we do this, then what’s the difference between us and her?” you go on, trying to sound convincing. “We’re better than that. We’re good people, you know.”

“But we’re going to make her pay,” he finally concedes and you smile. “Really make her pay.”

“That I agree,” you nod. “Okay, I’ll just go home quickly to get changed then we’ll meet at the office? Need to pay her a visit don’t we?”

“We can just go together,” Harry suggests. “We’ll stop by your flat then we can go straight to that snake’s office.”

***

“Are you crazy?” Camille flashes an incandescent look at both you and Harry. “I sign that, my client will be on the brink of bankruptcy!”

“So you rather go to prison?” Harry frowns and you try to stifle your giggle. “I mean, it’s your choice, but-”

“Fine!” she says in exasperation. “I’ll sign it. But give me your word this wouldn’t go out of these walls.”

You hand her the file and pen, and as she’s signing it, you can’t resist yourself. “You go near me or my clients again I swear to god you are dead fucking meat.”

Harry can’t help but chuckling, and you both don’t waste another minute in Camille’s office before you head out with smug smiles plastered across both of your faces. 

“You’re a badass lawyer,” he compliments you as he opens the passenger door for you.

“Stating the obvious there,” you smirk as you slide into his car and buckle up your seat belt. “But thank you, you’re not a shit lawyer yourself.”

“Since we’re passing compliments, shall we do it over a drink?”

“Drinks, Styles,” you shoot him a savage smile. “And you’re buying. Not Clifford Chance.”

Harry laughs, closing the car’s door. “As you wish.”

-

gif

[nostalgebraist-autoresponder]

@eroteme replied to your post “What are you going to have for lunch?”

jesus christ

To get a few other flavors into the mix, I'll try to list every pizza "in the United States," except the list of pizza "somewhere else" will be longer than that. (It turns out that there are two hundred and ten thousand pizzerias in the US, so I'm just going to have to list all of those. Fortunately, by this time, I'll have enough data to do it. I'm not quite there yet, but I'm only a few gigs in, so it should be a matter of a few more weeks.)

Pizza in the United States

If we're just talking pizzas in the U.S. which are made in a non-restaurant setting, we're already off to a good start, because there are only 1257.

There are also 959 "Pizza by the slice." These are not pizzas, exactly, and for a certain value of "exactly" the distinction has ceased to matter for me, but I'm including them for the record.

Pizza somewhere else

When I said "somewhere else," I might have had in mind the fact that the list of restaurants in the U.S. is so gigantic that I should mention every single pizza place somewhere else.

Here's how that works out. According to this website, if I just list every single restaurant in the US, starting with "Restaurants," then for every single restaurant, I'd only have to list a single place, with a link for the rest of them.

For instance, here is "Restaurants, Chicago, Illinois" (note that the first space in the text of the link is "Chicago," not "CHICAGO," i.e. it's an abbreviation):

Here's what that list looks like if I instead write "Pizzerias" on the left-hand side and list every single pizzeria in the US on the right-hand side instead:

The idea is to get a sense of the huge variety of pizza that I'm describing. The list on the left is short, because I only have to write two or three items at a time. The list on the right is so much longer that I have to scroll down a couple times to get it all on one screen. The point is that I feel like I could write all the pizza somewhere else just by listing it.

The next section of this post will list every single pizza "in the United States." (I could instead list every single pizza "somewhere else," or "every single pizza in [insert whatever subset of the U.S. I'm listing]." The distinction here has been blurred because for the purposes of this post I will treat the U.S. as a homogeneous collection of pizzerias – i.e. I'll not have to write it a second time. The idea here is to make the lists comparable.)

Every single pizza in the US

You'll need a lot of paper for this. This list will be quite long. I won't write a word about it until I'm ready to list every single pizza place in the U.S. But that's what we're here for. I'll get there.

I could easily spend four hours or more writing out every single pizza that exists in the U.S.

(Well, there are probably at least twelve distinct types of pepperoni pizza. I might not spend that much time on it. It'll probably be enough to say "here is the pizza, with links for more" and say "here are the rest of them, just in case.")

Every single pizza by the slice

Again, we could spend many hours here listing every single pizza by the slice. You know what? I'm going to put that off until I'm ready to list every single pizza that exists in the US.

Pizza in a restaurant

For these I will again get help. I'll turn to this list:

http://www.pizzariasearch.com/

[crankynewt]

Chapter Two - Letting You Go

Another Love Series Masterlist

Pairing: Regulus Black x Fem!Reader, Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader

Song: Think of You - Christina Grimmie

Warnings: Fluff, angst, (past) major character death, a very altered timeline, and Snape being Snape (frightens all ;))!

Word Count:  t o o  l o n g

Masterlist

Author’s Note: Y’all asked so I delivered (instead of doing my uni classes lol)! This ones a lot longer than the first chapter cause I got a little too carried away writing it, so grab a snack and enjoy! Parts of this chapter were inspired by Think of You by Christina Grimmie, who was tragically killed about five years ago, but I highly recommend listening to her music as she truly had a voice like no other.

Had you told yourself fifteen years ago at your graduation that you would eventually return to Hogwarts as a professor, you would have laughed in your face. Don’t get me wrong, you adored your time at the school, but you could never see yourself leaving Regulus and the family you’d hoped to start one day for nine months at a time. You thought you had your life figured out on the train ride home following your seventh year, but that all fell apart within twelve months. And then it did again a year later.

Now you were gazing upon the Great Hall once more, this time alongside your former professors as not teachers but colleagues. The towering stone walls of the castle brought back more memories than you would like to admit, especially not to Remus. This is not the result of any lack of love towards your husband, but you don’t think he would necessarily approve of what you and your late then-boyfriend got up to. Holding Regulus as sobs wracked through his body in the early hours of the morning after he returned from doing unspeakable things with his fellow Death Eaters had become your typical Friday night routine. But now that burden no longer sat upon your shoulders, and hopefully the commencing year wouldn’t be quite so stressful. Grading and rowdy students you could handle; another war, not so much. 

Sitting with Remus on your left and Professor McGon- Minerva, on your right, the beginning of the feast was nothing short of delightful.

“That one’s got to be a Gryffindor, he looks overly sure of himself!” You whispered to you husband, sure to keep your voice down so your colleagues could not hear your guesses as to where each of the first years would be sorted.

“What- no, Gryffindors are brave, not cocky! And besides, he’s clearly a Slytherin, they’re the overly-confident ones.” He replied, defensive of his own house. And, unfortunately for you, he was right, shooting you a smug smirk when the sorting hat roared Slytherin across the hall.

“See, cocky!” You pointed at him before taking a sip of the amber liquid in your goblet and focusing your attention towards your plate. What you didn’t see was the look of utter adoration that he focused on you, as if he was still in awe that you were by his side let alone married to him.

McGonagall couldn’t help but smile at both the childish-antics of the two newest professors but also the connection the two of you clearly shared. She remembered worrying about the both of you following the news of the youngest Black brother’s demise and downfall of the Marauders, however, she found her concerns eased seeing the solace the two of you found in each other.

“It’s Teddy’s turn!” He nudged your side, bringing you attention back to your youngest son who timidly made his way up the stone steps onto the stage at the front of the hall. He looked to Remus and yourself for reassurance, finding comfort in the slight nod his father gave to him and the look of pride in both sets of eyes. Rather than guessing his placement, the two of you sat in silent anticipation as you strained to hear what the hat was saying.

“Ah, a Lupin! I haven’t seen one of you since your father was here.” The enchanted garment began. “You certainly hold his courage and intelligence, yet I see a hint of something else in there - it must be your mother! I remember sorting her as well, she could have gone into any of the houses, and I think I sense her determination and kindness in you. Are you going to follow in your father’s footsteps and be daring in Gryffindor? Or will you take after your siblings and find greatness in Slytherin? Or, yes, that’s it. You belong in… Hufflepuff!”

Remus and yourself felt pride rise in you as you clapped harder than ever before. In the audience, you saw Archie and Cassie rise from their seats as they applauded as well, proud that their little brother had finally made it to Hogwarts regardless of what house he was in. 

The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur, Dumbledore introducing Remus and yourself to the school as professors Lupin and Y/L/N. Not only did you and your husband intend to keep your marriage a secret to the students, but you agreed with the headmaster that hiring a Black to the staff would not sit well with parents following Sirius’ recent escape from Azkaban. Students would eventually realize that Remus and Teddy were related, but Archie and Cassie were a little reluctant to reveal that their parents would be teachers in fear of the inevitable teasing from their peers. But for now, you would all keep this secret close to your chest.

Keeping an eye on your children throughout the rest of the feast, you were pleased to see both Teddy and Cassie cheerily conversing with a number of their peers whilst they ate. What was startling, however, was how you never saw Archie speak to anyone other than the occasional comment in his twin’s ear. His face held Regulus’ signature look of bore with a hint of irritation, a far cry from the boy that you typically saw at home. You’d had to do a double take, not seeing your son but a vision of Regulus from years ago. 

On the other side of the great hall you saw another child who looked the spitting image of their parents - Harry Potter. The boy was conversing with a ginger boy, probably a Weasley, and a girl you didn’t recognize. Everything down to his demeanour screamed ‘I’m James Potter’s son’ with the exception of his eyes - those were all Lily. 

Tears formed in the corner of your own eyes as you thought about your lost love and friends, for it was almost as if many of you had been reunited in the Great Hall once more. Placing a hand upon your forehead to shield your eyes from wandering glances and placing your weight upon your elbow, you leaned on the table as if you were only extremely focused on your meal. Noticing this, Remus wished he could take you into his arms as he was feeling a similar gloom, but the hundreds of people around him prevented the man from holding you close. For now, a comforting hand on your knee underneath the table would have to suffice. 

The rest of the evening was uneventful, and by the next morning you in such a rush to get to your first class that you were too distracted to think of anything else. Glancing down at your attendance sheet, your first class of the day was third-year Gryffindors and Slytherins just before lunch, and you searched for familiar names on the list. Both Archie and Cassie’s names were at the top of the sheet, and you were thankful that you would be starting each day with two-thirds of your children. Malfoy was not too far below it, and a physical groan left your lips. Of course Lucius’ son would be in your class, he’s probably just as delightful as his father. Even further down was Potter, and you quietly began to devise a plan that could hopefully resolve at least one of your problems. 

Meanwhile, three Gryffindors made their way down the halls of the school towards their third class of the day. They were still in awe of Professor Lupin’s second period Defence Against the Dark Arts class as it seemed they would finally have a decent teacher in the subject.

“Do you know anything about the new astrology professor, Hermione?” Ron asked, clearly concerned about the coming period. Saying that this subject wasn’t the youngest Weasley boy’s strong suit was an understatement.

“Professor Y/L/N? I don’t know, but it sure looked like Professor Lupin liked her last night.” The girl began, the stack of books in her arms so tall that she could barely see where she was going over it. “I’m just excited to finally have another female professor!”

“Yeah, and she seemed pretty young, so let’s hope that means she’s more fun!” Harry said. “If Lupin’s friends with her, how bad can she be?”

“Yeah, do you think they’re, you know…” Ron said, trailing off unable to finish his sentence as he made an odd movement with his hands.

“What, if they’re together?!” Hermione exclaimed. “Seriously Ronald! Men and women can be friends with each other and not be in love! And besides, Lupin has a son in first year who would have probably mentioned if his mother was teaching here as well.”

The boys agreed with their friend as they approached the classroom, Harry stopping in his tracks as he noticed the eldest of the Black children leaning against the wall beside the door a couple feet away from other third-years waiting for class to begin. Noticing Harry’s hesitation, Ron and Hermione turned back to look at where their friend had stopped. Motioning for them to come back, he eventually dragged them to the wall before whispering.

“Do either of you know how Arcturus is related to Sirius… They’re both Blacks.” Harry began, warily glancing towards the boy who was too absorbed into his book to notice them staring at him. 

“No… But Harry, you don’t honestly believe that Arcturus would help him get into the school, do you?” Hermione asked incredulously. As much as she didn’t want to believe that one of her classmates was plotting to help a madman set on killing one of her best friends, stranger things had happened.

“I mean, who knows?! Have you ever seen either of the Black twins with their father? That could be Sirius, for all we know!” Ron exclaimed. This time when the three students glanced towards the boy, he met their eyes with his own cold, green orbs.

Before anyone could react, their attention switched to the opening door where their newest professor stood with bright eyes and a warm smile.

“Well c’mon in, guys!” You beckoned as the children began filing into the classroom, both Archie and Cassie giving you small smiles as they made their way in. Before long, all your students had settled into their seats and your lesson could finally begin.

“I should probably start by introducing myself as I am a new face to most of you, my name is Professor Y/L/N and I am the new astrology professor here at Hogwarts.” You began, scanning the many small faces staring at you. “I was a student here not too long ago myself, so not only am I very excited to be back but I also know exactly how you guys are feeling. I’ll try to keep that in mind in my lessons so that we can all have a fun semester, yeah? If you guys have any questions real quick before we start, feel free to ask!” 

A few hands shot up within the crowd and you picked one, a timid looking Gryffindor in the very front row.

“Yes, Mr…?” You began, trailing off unsure as to the boy’s name.

“Longbottom, ma’am. Neville Longbottom.” He shakily replied, and you suddenly saw traces of Frank and Alice in him. The thought saddened you, remembering the disgust that filled you when Regulus explained what your  estranged cousin-in-law had done to the poor couple.

“Ah, yes! What is it, Mr.Longbottom?” You questioned, a smile working its way onto your lips as you encouraged the boy, hoping to give him a tad more confidence.

“I was just curious, cause you said you were a student here and I saw you two talking yesterday, how do you know Professor Lupin?” Neville said shakily. 

“Uhm, I had meant questions about the course rather than about me…” You trailed off, hoping that the anxiousness filling you at your secret getting out would not show. You could see Archie and Cassie stifling their own giggles at the question, finding the speculation of your relationship with their adoptive father very amusing.

“It’s just cause some of the students have bets goin’ as to whether or not you guys are together. Like, in love, together.” Neville tried to explain, earning himself sharp glances and scoffs from the rest of the class.

“Professor Lupin and I were friends when we were both students here, that’s all. Strictly platonic friends.” You explained, feeling your face slightly flushing in embarrassment at the inquiry. “Now then, let’s begin!”

The rest of the class went by smoothly, no more incidents of any of your secrets being exposed as you went through your introduction lesson. As you concluded your lecture, you decided it was time to introduce the major project for the course.

“Now, I will be introducing your major project for the year and be giving you your partners.” You explained, grabbing the list of pairs you had created from your desk. “I’ve assigned both you and another student a constellation that the two of you will be compiling research on in order to ‘teach’ it to the class at the end of the year. You guys all good so far?”

“Uhm, Professor?” A hand raised accompanied by a voice in the back of the classroom.

“Yes, Mr. Weasley?’ You replied, the red hair being a dead giveaway as to the boy’s identity.

“How come we don’t get to choose our own partners?” The ginger-haired boy questioned, glancing towards the curly-haired girl beside him who was shooting him a warning glance.

“Good question! I have decided that you will be paired with one of your peers from the other house.” You said matter-of-factly, as if your words hadn’t just scandalized your students. A collection of gasps and protests arose, even from your own children, Cassie’s jaw dropping as Archie hid his head in his arms and laid upon the desk in exasperation.

One sharp clap from you was enough to regain their attention, the rowdier members of the group sunk into their seats in fear of the possible removal of house points before the first half of their day was even over.

“Now I know this is upsetting to many of you, especially considering your two houses’ complicated past, but your cooperation with each other will be a part of your grade in the assignment. Sometimes opposites are the best pairings.” You said. “Now, would you like to hear who you’ll be working with?”

A collection of nods was all it took before you began listing the combinations. 

“Seamus Finnegan and Pansy Parkinson for Gemini, Neville Longbottom and Blaise Zabini for Taurus…” You began, listing off the partnerships before you reached your final three. “Ronald Weasley and Cassiopeia Black for Canis Major, Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy for Orion, and lastly, Harry Potter and Arcturus Black for Leo.”

The clock began ringing, signalling the end of class and beginning of the lunch period.

“There’s no homework for today, so enjoy it while you can and have a nice lunch everyone!” You dismissed your students, not giving them a second glance before you made your way through the door of your office at the back of the room and began going through a stack of papers. You hadn’t noticed the boy who had remained in your class, shyly following you to the back before hesitantly knocking on the already open door.

“Mr. Potter! Please, sit!” You said when you saw the source of the faint noise, beckoning him towards one of the chairs in front of your desk. “What can I do for you?”

The boy hesitated for a moment as he took in your office, the sandy-coloured stone walls having been decorated in a style that seemed to perfectly fit the personality you’d projected to his classmates the past hour.

“I was just wondering if it would be possible to switch partners for the assignment…” He trailed off, unsure of how to continue. His words were a shock to you, and as a mother, you worked hard to fight the defensive instincts threatening to consume you.

“What’s wrong with Mr.Black?” You question in as calm a tone you could muster, however, you were sure Harry had picked up on the unsteadiness of your voice. The boy’s mouth opened and closed, seemingly searching for the right words to say, when his anxiety made you realize that this was not really about Archie at all.

“Is this about Sirius Black?” You said, your voice much softer this time. Your suspicions were concerned when Harry began furiously nodding, clearly distressed at the mere mention of the man.

“Ah...” You replied, unsure of what exactly to do about the boy’s anxiety, when you realized that the truth may be the best solution. You stood and turned to one of the tables behind you and began searching through one of the drawers.“Harry… What do you know about the House of Black?”

“Uhm, not much?” Harry answered, clearly confused as to your response.

You eventually turned to face him again, this time with a box in hand. Although smaller in size, the black box was ornamentally covered in green and gold details. You sat back down across from the boy, placing the box in front of you and ignoring it for the time being. 

“The Noble House of Black was a part of the Sacred 28 wizarding families and were a long line of Slytherin blood-purists. Orion Black was the patriarch of the house and, along with his wife Walburga, had two sons - Sirius and Regulus. Regulus is Arcturus and Cassiopeia’s father - have you heard of that name before?” Harry shook his head no, and that was all you needed to continue. “Regulus was two years younger than Sirius, and the pair were very close throughout childhood. However, when Sirius attended Hogwarts and was sorted into Gryffindor rather than Slytherin, he soon began rebelling against his parents and their values. He criticized their purist prejudices and wanted nothing to do with his little brother when he was sorted into Slytherin. This hurt Regulus deeply and he began to resent his brother and, although he slowly started to agree with the criticisms Sirius had gotten disowned over, he felt as if he couldn’t betray his family. So as Sirius grew closer to your father, Reg-”

“Wait, how did he know my father?!” Harry questioned, desperate to understand how his parents fit into all of this.

“They were best friends, you didn’t know?” You replied as horror began washing over the boy’s face. “Harry, Sirius is your godfather. I know it’s probably shocking and scary now, but if you keep listening, I think everything will make a lot more sense and you’ll feel better.” The boy nodded as tears welled in the corners of his eyes.

“So, while Sirius and Regulus drifted apart, the younger brother was forced by his parents to join He Must Who Not Be Named as a death eater when he was only sixteen. Regulus quickly became his right-hand man, but something didn’t sit right with him. It was only after he fell in love that he began to realize that this was not the path he wanted in life. So while Regulus continued to attend Death Eater-meetings, he fed information to the girl who he would eventually marry who then relayed the intelligence to a group called the Order of the Phoenix. This included your parents, Sirius, Professor Lupin, the Weasleys, Dumbledore, me - people who were dedicated to stopping him.”

“So you knew him… Sirius Black?” Harry questioned, eyes still glassy as some tears had stained his cheeks. 

“Yes, Harry, I did…” You trailed off. “And if it’s any comfort, I don’t think he did it. The Sirius I knew wasn’t a madman, and although your other teachers would probably disagree with me, I really don’t think he’s out to get you.”

“What do you mean? Everybody keeps saying he’s looking for me!” Harry exclaimed, disbelieving the words leaving your mouth. “Even if he was innocent, doesn’t he blame my family for getting him locked up?”

“He is very likely looking for you, but not because he’s mad at you. Like I said, he was your godfather, and your father was like a brother to him. If anything, he’s looking for you because he believes you are each other’s only family left.”

“Why wouldn’t he go to his brother?” Harry inquired, slowly becoming curious about his relationship with Regulus.

“Because he figured out a way to stop Voldemort. Regulus discovered he’d made something called a horcrux, and that by destroying it, he could be killed.” You began, emotion beginning to build up in your throat, not having talked about losing your husband in quite some time. “Regulus found out where it was and set out to destroy it, but he died in the process. He left behind a wife who was pregnant with children he would never know he had: Arcturus and Cassiopeia. Regulus Black was a good man, Harry, a great one. The twins lost their father to the same man who killed yours, and I think you’re a lot more alike than you know.”

You finally opened the box in front of you and Harry watched you reach for a pile of pictures and began searching through them, finally finding the one you were looking for about six pictures in. You placed the extra pictures on your desk and handed one to Harry, and the contents of it made his eyes widen. 

The image was of two men and three toddlers, the caption reading ‘Uncle Padfoot and Uncle Moony with Harry, Archie, and Cassie - September 1981.’ The children were very happily playing, and Harry recognized one of the men as being Professor Lupin while the other was the face who he’d seen in every newspaper the past week - Sirius Black.

“We were… Friends?” Harry questioned, shocked at the revelation that the Slytherin boy had been his first friend during his infancy. You simply smiled and nodded, Harry eventually tore his gaze away from the card in his hands moving to one upon your desk. “Is that… Regulus Black?” 

Your eyes flickered to the picture he was talking about, only to meet one of Regulus from about six months before he died.

“Yeah, that’s him.” You said as a sad smile graced your lips. “Anyways, I’ve wasted enough of your lunch hour Harry, you should find your friends and eat something. You need to get some sugar into your stomach, so go grab some chocolate.”

The young boy stood and you began to walk him out of your classroom but just as he opened the door, he paused and turned around to face you.

“Professor, how did you know Regulus?” He said, yet something in his tone told you that he already knew.

“What do you mean, Harry? I told you, I worked for the Order.” You replied, even though you knew that showing him the pictures was a dead giveaway. But it was well worth it.

“You were married, weren’t you? You’re Arcturus and Cassiopeia’s mum?”

“Just don’t go telling the whole school,” you began. “I don’t think very many parents would approve of a Black teaching their children. It’ll be our little secret.” 

Harry nodded before running off to join his friends, and you left the classroom not long after. Walking through the halls, memories came back in flashes as the tears became harder and harder to fight. You thankfully held your composure until you arrived at the office door, tears beginning to fall as you began frantically knocking upon the rough wooden surface. 

When it eventually flung open to reveal your husband, his face immediately softened at your state as you rushed into his office room, Remus closing the door behind you. He opened his arms that you quickly flung yourself into, sobs wracking your body as he held you close. Remus didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t have to. He knew you hadn’t been back to the school since losing Regulus and, although he didn’t doubt your love for him, knew that there was the possibility of past emotions resurfacing and overwhelming you. He knew you too well.

As you calmed down in his arms, you couldn’t help but feel guilty for crying over your past love. Shouldn’t you have moved on? You had this wonderful man and a beautiful family now, that should be enough for you. But Hogwarts was where your love story with Regulus began, you wished on these stars, they were yours, and the halls would always bring back memories of him. You might have let him go, but at least for the next little while, he would consume your thoughts at the school.

The next few months progressed with little incident, and it became increasingly easier to control the strong emotions that had overtook you your first day. You watched Harry and Arcturus slowly become friends, and you watched as your son became the happy boy Remus and yourself had raised. While the uneventful year was a welcome tranquility, that peace came to an end when your husband came bursting into your quarters one evening.

“Honey, what’re you doing? Isn’t it-”

“Peter is alive! We have to go now!” He exclaimed, grabbing your wrist and dragging you through the dark halls of the castle and towards the shrieking shack.

While you were running, Harry, Hermione, and Archie approached a trembling Ron in the rotting house. 

“Harry! It’s a trap! He’s the dog, he’s an animagus!” Ron exclaimed, pointing behind the trio. Turning around, they watched what was left of the door creak open to reveal the fugitive the entire wizarding world was searching for. Although Harry remembered your words, he couldn’t help but feel afraid as a pair of rabid eyes stared back at him.

“If you’re going to kill Harry, you’re going to have to kill us too!” Hermione shouted, jumping in front of Harry as Arcturus followed suit, pointing his wand at his estranged uncle.

“Only one will die tonight!” Sirius remarked, slowly walking towards the children. He hadn’t paid much attention to the boy standing in front of Harry but as he approached, he was shocked to see his dead brother protecting his godson. He didn’t have time to think, though, as Harry quickly shouted something he only heard the end of before wrestling him to the ground. Raising his wand, Sirius let out a sickening laugh.

“Are you going to kill me Harry?”

Nobody had time to respond as the doors burst open, Remus shouting expelliarmus as Harry’s wand went flying across the room. You followed closely behind him, yet stood in the doorway just out of your brother in-law’s sight. Harry stared at Lupin and you, his breathing heavy as your husband tilted his head quickly, and that was all the boy needed to run back towards his friends. You raised your wand as well, approaching your husband’s side as you stood slightly behind him.

“Well, well, Sirius, looking rather ragged, aren’t we?” Your husband began, continuing to approach his former friend. “Finally the flesh reflects the madness within.”

“Well you’d know all about the madness within, wouldn’t you Remus?” Sirius retorted, looking between you and your husband as he took in just how much the two of you have changed.

The comment brought a small smile to your face, one that eventually grew bigger as you dropped your arm to your side, Remus following suit. You both reached out your hands and helped Sirius to his feet, him taking you into a bone-crushing hug.

“I missed you, sister.” He breathed into your hair, you mumbling how you missed him as well only loud enough for the two men to hear.

“Mum, what’re you doing?!” Archie exclaimed from the other side of the room, clearly taken aback by you embracing the man who’d just threatened to kill them. All three of you look over to a bewildered Archie, you dropping one of your arms from Sirius while the other stayed around his middle.

“Is that Archie?” He asked, glancing between Remus and yourself, the pair of you nodding. Sirius took in the sight of his nephew, who he earlier had believed to be his reanimated brother, before turning his attention back to his dearest friend who embraced him.

“I found him,” Sirius gasped between laughs.

“I know,” Remus soothed.

“It’s him!”

“I understand.”

“Let’s kill him!”

“No!” Hermione interrupted, shouting at the group of adults. “I trusted you! And all this time… You’ve been his friends!”

She paused to catch her breath and regain her composure before continuing her rant.

“He’s a werewolf! That’s why he’s been missing classes.” Your body stiffened as your husbands secret was exposed to Harry and Ron, and you saw Archie suffer from the same reaction. Of course he knew of what happened to his father every full moon, however he also knew the discrimination that accompanies it. Remus’ eyes darkened as he began to approach the girl.

“How long have you known?” He spoke with a demeanor that was so unlike the kind and gentle man you had fallen in love with, sending chills down your spine.

“Since Professor Snape set the essay.”

“Well well well, Hermione, you really are the brightest witch of your age I’ve ever met.” Remus said as Sirius grew impatient.

“Enough talk, Remus! Come on, let’s kill him!” Sirius shouted as he began pacing.

“Wait!” You warned, but that only angered him.

“I did my waiting!” He shouted. “Twelve years of it! In Azkaban!”

Remus you glanced at each other before looking towards a petrified Harry, clearly weighing your options as your husband began fiddling with the strange wand in his hands. Looking towards the floor, Remus hesitated before handing Sirius’ wand back to him.

“Very well…”

“Dad! How could you?!” Archie yelled from across the room, too upset with his parents’ actions to care about keeping their secret any longer. This came as a shock to both Sirius and the other children, their heads snapping towards your son as he raised his wand towards the man he’d considered to be his father. 

“Dad?!” Harry and Sirius exclaimed, almost comically in sync, as you put yourself between you son and your husband. You slowly grabbed the end of Archie’s wand and took it from his trembling hand, quickly wrapping your arms around the boy as you turned to face three shocked faces.

“We’re married, Sirius.” You explained, and Remus raised his left hand to show his friend the ring adorning his finger. Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s eyes flicked between you, your son, your husband, and your brother-in-law, at last putting your connection together as your betrayal stung them even deeper. Sirius’ face softened at the revelation, but Remus quickly picked up where they left off. 

“Kill him,” he began, “but wait one more minute. Harry has the right to know why.”

“I know why!” Harry shouted. “You betrayed my parents! You’re the reason they’re dead!”

“No, Harry, it wasn’t him. Somebody did betray your parents but it was somebody who, until quite recently, I believed to be dead!” Remus exclaimed, and you finally felt Archie begin to relax enough that you could let go of your hold on him. 

“Who was it then?!” Harry argued.

“Peter Pettigrew!” Sirius yelled matter-of-factly. “And he’s in this room! Right now! Come on, come on, Peter! Come out, come out and play!”

“Expelliarmus!” A new voice called, Snape having snuck up on the group and quickly disarmed Sirius as many horrified faces turned to look at him. You tightened your grip on your wand as you moved to stand in front of Archie protectively. “Ah… Vengeance is sweet. How I’d hoped I’d be the one to catch you.”

“Severus,” Remus moved towards his colleague before quickly flinching away as Snape moved his wand towards him.

“I told Dumbledore you were helping and old friend into the castle and now - here’s the proof!”

“Brilliant, Snape. Once again you’ve put your keen and penetrating mind to the task and as usual come to the wrong conclusion!” Sirius mocked. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Remus, (Y/N), and I have some unfinished business to attend to.”

Snape, having previously lowered his wand, quickly raised it again, this time right against Sirius’ neck. 

“Give me a reason. I beg you.”

“Severus, don’t be a fool.” You said, attempting to diffuse the situation.

“He can’t help it, it’s happened by now!” 

“Sirius be quiet!” Remus added.

“Go quiet yourself, Remus!” Your husband turned away and approached you, visibly annoyed at his friend’s sour attitude.

You stopped listening to their quarrel as you saw Harry reaching into Hermione’s pocket in the corner of your eye. Shifting your attention over to the teens, you saw him slowly pulling out her wand before you turned to Remus, who hadn’t noticed this subtle movement. Before long, Snape was knocked unconscious into the bed. 

In the following minutes, the truth about Peter Pettigrew was revealed as you led the quivering traitor alongside your family and students through the tunnel. 

“I must say,” Sirius began, glancing between you and Remus as he helped Harry carry an injured Ron. “I never expected the two of you winding up together. How long?”

“We’ve been married for ten years.” Remus replied with a shy smile, hoping his friend would approve of the match given that you are still Sirius’ brother’s widow. 

“You still have to see Cassie, and you can meet Teddy! He’s our youngest, this was his first year here and he was sorted into Hufflepuff!” You explained, excitement lacing every word as you held your husband’s hand. To your students, this talk of a long-term relationship and PDA was a shock, as they were unaware of just how close the two of you really were. Sure, they’d had suspicions, but your talk with Harry led them to believe that you were still grieving Regulus.

Upon exiting the willow, Sirius finally had the opportunity to pull Archie aside for a moment, just a few feet away from the others.

“You look just like him, you know…” He began, not knowing exactly what to say to his nephew. 

“I know.” Archie nodded, a sad smile forming as he looked towards his uncle.

“Y’know, I’d hated your father for years when your mother showed up at my door. I didn’t know just what he’d done until after he died, when she showed up at my door telling me what a hero he was.” Sirius recounted. “I felt awful, like he’d still be here if I’d just given him the chance. But then, y’know what she told me?” Archie shook his head. “She told me she was pregnant with you, well, you and your sister but we didn’t know that at the time, and that was when I knew. I promised myself that I would be there for you, that I would fill his shoes and protect you. And I did for a year, up until I was arrested, but you guys and Harry were all I thought about in that cell as I rotted. I’m sorry that I’ve failed you the past twelve years and although I’m so glad that Remus has become a father to you, I still want to be there for you. I want to be a part of your lives, whether it be every day or whenever you can spare a visit.”

“I’d like that too.” Archie simply stated, embracing his uncle as Harry began approaching them. He left the two of them to talk before gazing into the night sky. Admiring the moon as it began to move from behind the mountain, it took him a minute to fully register exactly what night it was. 

“Dad?!” Archie exclaimed, bringing all of your attention to the full moon in the sky as the inevitable began. 

Chaos ensued, a horror film of a night that you never want to experience again.

The following week, it was no surprise to Dumbledore when you and your husband resigned. Snivellus had let slip the truth about the two of you, him being a dangerous werewolf while yourself having aided the “madman” that was your brother-in-law, two things that don’t typically sit well with parents.

Packing up your office, Hermione made her way in, ginger cat in her arms as she watched you pile your belongings into boxes.

“Professor, what’re you doing?” She questioned, shocked to see you packing up your office. “Did Dumbledore fire you? He must know that-”

“No, no! Dumbledore has been nothing but supportive, but... He stuck his neck out hiring Remus and I, knowing who we are, and now that Snape has revealed the truth about us, it’ll be best for everyone if it looks like he let us go.” You explained, pausing your ministrations as you looked around at the now empty shelves.

“I’m sorry…” She began, unsure of what else there was to say. “I’m sorry for everything that happened that night, I feel as though we just made a mess of everything. Pettigrew escaped and now you and Professor Lupin are leaving…”

“Hermione, now you listen to me.” You sat her down in a chair and crouched before her. “Two innocent lives were saved because of you and Harry. Now that is something amazing, and something I would be willing to lose my job for all over again.” You gave her a smile, one that quickly became a tight-lipped wince as the cat on her lap began licking your face. 

“Crookshanks!” She exclaimed while pulling the feline away from you, horrified at his actions.

“It’s fine, Hermione. He’s quite a cute cat.” You gave her a wide smile as you took Crookshanks from her arms and held him close to your chest. He gazed at you with an almost human-like intelligence upon his face, before shutting his eyes as he purred at your touch. “Is he part kneazle?”

“Yes, actually.” She began. “The man at the Menagerie said it was why he’d been there for so long. The kneazle part made him look a little odd, but I think it’s what makes him handsome.” 

You handed the feline back to her, glancing at the clock upon the wall and realizing that you’d agreed to meet Remus at the entrance in five minutes. 

“Can you please do me one last favour, Hermione?” You asked, heading towards the only item left on your desk, a small black box. Opening it, you pulled the top picture out and extended your arm to hand the girl the image. “Could you please give this to Harry next time you see him? Remind him that his family will only ever be a letter away.”

She nodded as her eyes scanned the paper before her, seeing that it was a picture of a younger Remus and Sirius playing with Harry, Archie, and Cassie while they were all still babies. She smiled, finding solace the fact that Harry’s family life will be getting better than how the Dursley’s have treated him the past twelve years. An orange paw upon the paper tore her attention away from the image, Crookshanks looking to be the center of attention once again.

“Well then,” you gathered all your possessions into one trunk with a final flick of your wand. “I must be off, but I’m sure I’ll be seeing you again very soon.” You turned to walk away, leaving your classroom far behind you as you eventually met up with your husband at the front of the school.

“Have you called the meeting yet?” You questioned, quiet enough so only Remus could hear.

“Yes, my dear. They should all be waiting at home when we get back to London.” He replied.

“Excellent.” You commented as you walked hand-in-hand away from the castle as you made your way back to 12 Grimmauld Place, the Black family slowly beginning to resurface in the both of your lives once more.

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Black Sails fic recs

Working titles: 12 fics for christmas? 12 days of ficmas? 12 fics none of which actually have anything to do with christmas?

OKAY, so I love nothing more than a fic rec post, and I’ve seen a few Black Sails rec posts floating around but they mostly seem to be a couple of years old and they all recommend a similar bunch of fics (and deservedly so! they are all amazing!). But I thought I would make one to highlight some newer or less shouted-about fics, because I may have only been here for a couple of months but jfc there is so much talent in this fandom and more of it deserves to be hyped. 

So, here are 12 of my favourite fics for the 12 days of christmas! (i.e. an excuse to put an arbitrary number cap on the list or we’d be here all day)

The majority of these are Silver/Flint and the ones that aren’t still all feature Silver prominently because that boy owns my soul, sorry for who I am as a person.

we should rip it straight out by minormendings

45K (Silver/Madi, Silver/Flint, Flint/Thomas)

Madi has always wondered if Silver understands what is between him and Flint as well as she. To her, it has always been obvious, from the way the two of them had fit together, had worried about each other, had acted as one. She had tried to bring it up with Silver back when they were together. But Silver had shaken her off, too enmired in the idea that he or Flint would prove each other’s downfall. Or perhaps just unwilling to open his eyes to the fact that he had loved Flint.

It was, unfortunately for the both of them, even more obvious after the thing between them had broken. Just as Silver had thrown away the war out of love for her, Flint had let Silver take away the war rather than kill him.

God. What a group the three of them were, showing love by betrayal.

Post-canon. Madi and Flint find their way back to Silver.

This fic diverges from canon right at the end of the 4x10; Silver has Flint held in a cell in Port Royal and Thomas delivered to him rather than taking him straight to the plantation. It is a BEAUTIFUL character study of how Flint and Madi could both come to forgive Silver, and has a great FlintMadi dynamic too. It also centres Madi’s struggle between wanting to provide for her people and wanting to experience the freedom of piracy, and fleshes out Julius’ character in a way the show never did. 

we can lose and call it living by I_wouldnt_be_one_of_them

31K (Silver/Flint/Thomas, Silver/Flint, Flint/Thomas)

It's been twelve years since everything fell apart, and John Silver is settled in New England. He has a nice house and a job he likes, and he's gotten used to the loneliness. It's a good life, he thinks, but of course that's cast into doubt when James Flint and Thomas Hamilton show up to find closure and, apparently, to see whether he's happy.

This is an inverse of the ‘silver arrives on flint and thomas’ doorstep’ trope and has Flint and Thomas instead being the ones to interrupt Silver, who is living a sad and lonely existence post-series. I love the ThomasSilver dynamic here. And this Silver feels so true to canon he makes me want to WEEP.

Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more by Craftnarok

21K (Silver/Flint)

In the year 1725, or thereabouts, John Silver finds himself driven by a storm into an inconsequential little port town, barely a speck on any civilised map. Returned to the life of a drifter, tired and rough around the edges, he is resigned to waiting for the weather to pass before he can sail on again to the next town, and the next, and the next. That is until he overhears a conversation in the inn about a local fisherman, one Captain Barlow, and his tall tales of tempests and becalmings, devils and sharks, and Silver finds a new future opening up to him, haunted by the spectres of his past.

All of Craftnarok’s fics are amazing but I am particularly drawn to this one; it’s set 10 years post-series and is a delightfully angsty exploration of how Flint and Silver could find their way back to each other in a scenario in which Thomas wasn’t at the plantation. It doesn’t let Silver off easy and I love that.

armed with the past and the will by whimsicalimages

3K (Silver/Madi, Madi & Julius)

The language of winning and losing, this language that men favor – Madi can speak this language, though she disagrees with its precepts. Success takes different forms, and failing once does not mean failing forever. It does not even mean failing the next time.

Post-series, Julius teaches Madi how to fight. This fic is BEAUTIFUL - give me anything that centres Madi post-canon - and it explores Madi’s relationship with both Julius and Silver so well in so few words. 

Always In Season by mycapeisplaid

60K (Silver/Flint, past Flint/Thomas, past Silver/Madi)

Towering sand dunes, crystal-clear water, miles of forest, vineyards, orchards, and very spotty cellular service -- John Silver finds himself in a part of the state he's never been before and decides to take on seasonal work. Meanwhile, back from his yearly wintering in Florida, James Flint thinks that perhaps he'll take on a new business venture, even though it means he might have to interact with people other than his two close friends. Their summer employment fosters a friendship that could become something more. Like construction season in Michigan, the two must navigate through their own obstacles in order to seek an alternative route toward happiness.

This is an AU and so much fun!! Silver finds himself in Michigan and takes on some seasonal work at Guthrie Dunes. The whole cast features and the setting just WORKS SO WELL. And this Flint feels brilliantly in character despite the difference in setting.

to make a life by gone_girl

53K (Max/Anne, Max & Silver)

“What am I going to do with your name?” Max asks, a little incredulous.

“Whatever you want,” the salesman says. “Didn’t you want something real?”

Max heard a story once about the importance of answering questions like that carefully. If something emerges from the forest and asks for your name, don’t give it up, the story went. Offer only what you know you can live without. She’s never heard a story that tells her what to do when something emerges from the forest and offers its name to you.

I literally only finished this this morning but holy shit this fic is amazing, it’s a Max-centric AU set in Missouri the early 00s and it’s all about found family and building community and platonic love and it has a brilliant SilverMadi dynamic. And there just aren’t enough fics out there that focus on Max & Silver!! 

the straight walk home by vowelinthug

73K (Silver/Flint)

Let me tell you a story, about a vaquero named Vasquez…

Obviously vowelinthug’s fics are recc’d all the time and rightly so as they are AMAZING, but one that I don’t see featured as often as the more prominent ones is this incredible Western!AU. It’s 73K guys!! It adapts the canon narrative into the Western setting SO well!! It has background Vane/Billy which I was not at all sure about going in but just WORKS!! Go read it.

The Truth about Eros by Aisalynn

21K (Silver/Flint, Silver/Madi, Flint/Thomas)

Silver understood one thing very well.

Being Fated did not mean you were safe.

It did not mean you were loved.

This one is hot off the press! I am not normally a fan of soulmate AUs but this is such an interesting take on the trope, and the world building fits around the polyamory theme of the show really effectively! And it is SO well written.

With Nothing on My Tongue by RosieTwiggs

13K (Silver/Flint, Silver/Madi)

"Silver thinks: Maybe God likes it when I fight with him.

He wonders now, whether he’s been playing into God’s plan all along. Because no matter how angry he gets, how defensive, how many “fuck you”s he flings to the heaven, isn’t it all just proof that he still believes God is there, despite it all?

Silver doesn’t know how to counter that.

Maybe he doesn’t want to anymore."

An incredibly well written (and angsty! read the tags!) Jewish!Silver character study. This one has really stayed with me.

Maybe in Another Life by samedifference61

31K (Silver/Flint/Madi, Flint/Madi, Silver/Flint, Silver/Madi)

At the rail of a ship James doesn’t command, they stand shoulder to shoulder.

“John still thinks you’re dead,” James states, because it’s something that needs to be said aloud before they continue.

With eyes unblinking toward the rolling sea, Madi says, “And he still thinks you should be dead.”

James’ lip curls in anger. The wounds of betrayal are too fresh for either to say anymore.

Canon-divergent from 4x09, this is a brilliant MadiFlint centric fic exploring their relationship post Silver’s betrayal, and how he could find his way back to them both whilst acknowledging the weight of his actions.

in a vault of starlight by whimsicalimages

7K (Silver/Madi/Flint/Thomas)

The distance between Nassau and Savannah can be measured as: six hundred and thirteen nautical miles, five thousand pounds’ worth of pearls, or four extraordinary lifetimes.

Alternatively: in the aftermath, Madi writes her own story.

There aren’t enough Madi centric fics out there! This one is a lovely extension of canon with a great MadiSilver dynamic in particular.

the aftershocks remain by pdameron

31K (Silver & Miranda, Silver/Flint)

For as long as he can remember, John Silver has been able to see ghosts. He has no trouble keeping this secret from Flint - until Charlestown. Until Miranda.

Again all of pdameron’s fics are brilliant but I loooove this SilverMiranda centric one, plus who doesn’t love a ghost!au.