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jamespotterthefirst · 4 years

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Wish and Command

Pairing: Dr. Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Dr. Lilac Allende) Word count: 2.5K Premise: They have been planning a proper night out after weeks of dating in secret, but she has other ideas in mind.

Warning: Strong Language and NSFW content. Please use discretion and caution when viewing this work. By viewing of this work, you consent that you are 18+

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Ethan knew he was in trouble when his hand lazily trailed down from her hip to the hem of her bathrobe. As he buried his face in the crook of her neck, he realized he was entirely helpless against the effortless power she wielded over him. By the time his fingers skimmed her inner thigh, he accepted and enjoyed being entirely at her mercy.

In response to his movements, Lilac laughed, a breathy sort of knowing laugh that inspired the most inappropriate thoughts.

“We should be getting ready,” she reminded him, already short of breath. The thought that his effect on her was as immediate as hers on him made his body pulse fiercely with lust.

Ethan groaned against her shoulder, begrudgingly acknowledging that she was correct. After weeks of stolen kisses and clandestine trysts in his apartment, he had promised to take her out on a real date.

At that precise moment, however, with Lilac's body pressed flush against him, his hand pushing the tantalizing lace under her robe aside, all he wanted to do was take her to bed.

Again.

The soft, unrestrained moan that escaped her when his fingers reached their target forced him to reconsider the bed. Any surface in their immediate proximity would do.

“We're going to be late,” she whimpered, the sound reverberating off the walls of his lavish bathroom.

Wickedly, he increased the movement of his fingers. “Then you better hurry up and cum, Rookie,” he whispered roughly against her ear.

She quivered violently at that, her body doubling over to press further into his straining hardness.

“Ethan,” she uttered in a broken little moan. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He loved her dirty mouth.

Her body shivered as she finished, his fingers helping her ride out her pleasure. When they both stilled, she turned her hungry mouth on him.

Ethan grinned at her eagerness, but gently pushed her away.

“No time,” he reminded her when she opened her mouth to protest, the lovely flush coloring her cheeks and losing itself down the front of her robe making her that much harder to resist.

“I'll make it quick,” she promised in a heady whisper that tempted him far too easily.

He laughed softly. “I much prefer it when you take your time, Rookie,” he told her with a kiss. “We'll have that time when we return.”

The disappointment in her beautiful face was fleeting, soon replaced with pensiveness. Another emotion quickly flashed and before Ethan could place it, it disappeared.

“Fine,” she agreed, her fingernail trailing slowly down his bare chest as he held her. Ethan stilled, marveling at how that was all it took to be at her disposal. “I'll have my fun with you later.”

His throat went dry at the words, his erection hardening even more so. Just as he began to wonder if they could reschedule their night out in favor of spending the whole evening in bed, she moved away with a deliberate sway of her hips.

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

“Okay, I'm ready,” she informed him fifteen minutes later, emerging from his bedroom.

Ethan almost choked from his place on the couch, where he had patiently waited for her, pushing away all filthy thoughts of her body. Those thoughts flared up with a vengeance at the sight of her.

She stood there, looking like an apparition straight from an Old Hollywood film, a dazzling gold dress clinging to her, accentuating every dip and swell of her body in the most sinful way. More dangerous than the glittering dress itself or the smirk she wore to compliment it was the neckline, plunging low and leaving very little to his overactive imagination. Feeling uncontrollably greedy, his eyes fell to the slit at its side, gracing the world, but especially him, with a view of a long, shapely leg.

Lilac waited, enjoying his stunned silence.

“You look–”

“Adequate?” she finished with a laugh. Ethan rolled his eyes but the effect was lost by the smile she inspired.

“You look pretty damn adequate yourself,” she murmured after kissing his cheek. A dark, lustful look darkened her eyes as she looked him over again. “An all black suit makes you look devastating.”

He chuckled again, not betraying the chill her words sent through him.

“You even matched your pocket square with my dress.” Her fingers skimmed the gold fabric.

“Anything to please you.”

She raised a brow, intrigued. “I'll hold you to that.”

After kissing her until they were both panting for breath, they finally made their way out of the apartment. He could see her throwing furtive glances his way, her lip catching between her teeth occasionally. It was driving him crazy.

“A picture will last longer,” he teased as they waited for the elevator.

Lilac smiled at him, without any shame at being caught. “It's not my fault my boyfriend is so unfairly hot.”

Fuck.

Ethan was entirely weak-willed for her on a regular day. The raspy little drop of her voice and the way her eyes drank him in, insatiable, vanquished the last of his rationality.

Without missing a beat, he kissed her in the empty hallway, his hands hungrily sliding everywhere they could touch, the sequin of her dress pleasantly rough against his skin. When the elevator announced its arrival, Ethan backed her inside without breaking the kiss. Lips at her neck, he pressed the lobby button.

Lilac, however, had other ideas for she broke away from him. Face flushed and lips swollen from his kiss, she stepped backward to the control panel. Before he realized what she was doing, she cast him a wicked grin and slammed on the “Emergency Stop” button.

The elevator cart jolted to a stop somewhere between the tenth and ninth floors.

“Lilac, what are you–”

“Shhh,” she said as she sauntered towards him with the sexiest sway of her hips. “It's my turn.”

The heady whisper awoke every inch of him instantly.

“Here?”

She was pressed against him already, a crimson fingernail tracing his chest in a deliberate line. “We can stop,” she offered in a would be innocent whisper.

“No,” he replied much quicker than he would have liked.

A languid kiss against his jaw gave way to a hot whisper in his ear. “Good answer.”

The effect was immediate. His erection strained insistently against his pants, desperate for her attention.

“Fuck, Lilac,” he growled, his hands guiding her to one corner of the elevator by the hips. Too impatient to adore only one part of her immaculate body, they moved to her sides, fingers soon skimming the exposed skin of her neckline. He reached the swell of her breasts, eager to cast the fabric of her dress aside.

“No,” she informed him, placing a hand over his to halt him. “I told you it's my turn. Your only job is to follow directions.”

The assertiveness behind the words had to be the most erotic thing he had ever heard. The wholly immoral way she looked at him, eyes hooded and dark, didn't help his case either. With a lustful smirk of his own, he said, “Tell me what to do, Allende.”

“Against the wall,” she commanded with ease. The intoxicating scent of her perfume enveloped him in the small space. “And hands to yourself.”

Ethan complied with the first but found the second was much more difficult to obey, particularly when her teeth grazed softly at the column of his neck. As her fingers worked on the buttons of his shirt, her crimson lips closely followed, pressing searing kisses on the newly exposed skin of his chest. When she reached the last button, her long fingernails raked against his abs, the muscles straining against her touch.

“Mmm,” she hummed against the skin right above his waistband, tongue tracing the hard plane of his stomach. She was kneeling before him, eyes glancing up at him through dark lashes.

Ethan was hard as a rock already, throbbing painfully for her touch. He felt his back press against the cold wall of the elevator, breath catching at his throat, the ache to touch her almost painful. When her hands finally moved to grip him through his trousers, he let out a low, harsh groan from deep in his throat.

“Like that?” she asked, unrestrained need evident in her voice too.

A growl was the only response he could offer.

Too soon, Lilac stopped her ministrations. Before he could lament the loss of her touch, however, she worked the button of his pants, then the zipper, roughly pulling down enough of the fabric of his boxer briefs. When she finally released him, she moaned in response, as she always did at the sight of him, the sound making him grow impossibly harder.

Lilac wasted no time in stroking him, her grip expertly moving along the hilt.

“Fuck.” His curse was a heady hiss that fueled her enthusiasm.

Soon, her movements slowed until they ceased altogether. The disappointment must have been obvious in his face because she smiled deviously up at him.

“I want you in my mouth,” she all but moaned up at him.

His cock twitched.

“Do you want that too, Ramsey?”

“Yes.”

“How badly?”

“Very.”

Single word answers were all he could manage in his current state. Incredible how she could reduce an articulate man with years of higher education to an incoherent mess.

Satisfied, she wrapped her lips around the tip, making his hips buck slightly. Her responding little hum vibrated through his length.

“Lilac,” he hissed.

The single word was all the fuel she needed. Eyes locked on his, she took him fully in her mouth, her lips sliding studiously down the length. Her movements started slow and measured at first, her hands working what her mouth couldn't reach. Determined to kill him, it seemed, she added her tongue to her movements. His hips jerked against her mouth in response.

“Fuck, you're so good at that,” he praised in a dark, hushed whisper as his hands lost themselves in her hair. As if to further prove that point, she expertly took more of him in her mouth without incident. Ethan closed his eyes against the ecstasy, one hand guiding her forward and the other clinging to the railing.

When her speed picked up, Ethan let out another harsh, low moan, his head falling back against the cold elevator wall. In his haze, he glanced down, watching her work. The sight was enough to bring him dangerously close.

Very gently, he eased her away.

“Not yet,” he said raggedly.

Understanding crossed her features. With one last torturous flick of her tongue, she released him, rising to her feet.

Her swollen lips found his neck again. Moving up to his ear, she whispered her next command, “Pin me against the wall and fuck me, Ethan.”

Christ.

Proper words failed him.

Then again, there was nothing proper about the way his hands desperately bunched up the fabric of her dress. In one powerful movement, he hoisted her up against the metal railing of the elevator, her legs clasping around his waist.

Wasting little time, he reached between them to unceremoniously push the lace of her thong aside for the second time that evening. He stroked himself briefly against her clit, earning a strangled moan from her that crushed the last of his control. Seconds after, he guided himself into her, sinking into her welcoming body inch by agonizing inch.

“Ethan,” she moaned as he moved, her hands clinging to his shoulders like a lifeline, the heat of her breath a caress.

Her body clenched around him from all sides, plunging him into divine delirium. “You're so tight,” he managed. “I love the way you feel when you clench your little–”

His words cut off abruptly when the small speaker box in the control panel crackled to life. They both froze at once.

“Hello? Anybody in there?” a voice asked amidst the static. He recognized it as belonging to the building's foreman.

Ethan cast a questioning glance at Lilac, still balanced in his arms. To his surprise, she seemed unfazed, leaning in to whisper, “Good luck talking.”

Ethan had no time to question the strange words because she leaned in to kiss his neck, tongue and teeth tormenting him as she worked.

Hearing no reply, the foreman tried again, “We got an alert that the elevator stopped.”

“We're here,” Ethan rasped to the speaker. Taking a moment to collect himself to no avail, he mustered, “Two of us.”

“Are you both okay?”

Ethan wasn't entirely sure how to answer that for himself because Lilac chose that precise moment to clench impossibly tighter around him. That, plus the filthy nothings she was whispering in his ear reduced Ethan to an incoherent mess.

“Fine.”

It was a miracle he managed to get the single word out.

“Good to hear. We'll get you folks outta there in about ten minutes. Hang tight.”

After he was certain the speaker was off, Ethan turned to her. “You're terrible. ”

“Then punish me,” she moaned, moving her hips against his to encourage movement again.

He didn't have to be told twice, resuming his thrust with renewed vigor.

“Yes,” she gasped as he pumped into her, throwing her head back against the wall. “Ethan, make me–”

Her voice broke off into a poorly stifled whimper, her nails clutching the hair at the back of his neck.

“Make you what, Rookie?”

“Make me cum,” she moaned, her walls quivering around him.

Ethan cursed, his head falling to her shoulder, intoxicated by her scent and feeling himself close. The pace of his strokes became ruthless, just like she begged. Briefly, he wondered if anyone could hear the sounds their bodies made as they clashed or their strangled cries.

“Oh God, Ethan,” Lilac cried out, nails digging into his back as she climaxed. “Fu-ck.”

Ethan continued to move, bringing her back down from her high. When he couldn't resist any longer, he gave one final thrust and finished too, his muscles tensing and relaxing.

They remained like that, until they caught their breaths. Gently, he helped her off the railing.

“Do you think we missed our reservation?” Lilac asked with little concern as she fixed the front of her dress.

Ethan smiled lazily at her as he buttoned his shirt. “Almost certainly,” he said, finding he didn't care. “Do you just want to go back to the apartment? We can watch that unsolved show you love so much.”

Lilac laughed, delighted. “You love it too,” she pointed out, moving forward to help him with the last button. “You get to solve more mysteries on your time off like the nerd you are.”

Ethan tried to look unamused but her effect was entirely too irresistible.

“I'd love to, by the way,” she added. Thinking of something, she scrunched up her nose. “Did you ever think formally dating me would be so boring?”

At that, he had to laugh. “You just stopped an elevator to have sex with me. I'd hardly call that boring.”

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Author’s Note:

I... yeah.

Remember when I wrote my smut last fic, I said the next one would be Ethan receiving? Here it is.

Ethan during this:

Inspired by those SPOILER outfits (click at your own discretion) someone posted a while ago. MC’s dress is called “Date Night” and that’s where this idea came from. I can’t wait to see how they use that outfit in the book, but in the meantime...

Also, MC makes him watch Buzzfeed Unsolved lol

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#open heart #ethan x mc #ethan ramsey #My writing #plase work i am begging you tumblr #ethan ramsey fanfiction #Ethan ramsey x mc #dr. ethan ramsey #open heart fanfiction #choices fanfiction

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 5 years

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Lena, Paragon of Humanity (a Supercorp alt. Crisis story), Part 1 of 2

[Warning for blood, violence, assault & battery, character death (temporary, but not resolved in this installment)]

---

Appearing on the Waverider and being declared the Paragon of Humanity is a shock for Lena in and of itself. If she had her preference, she'd be back on the Legion ship helping the so-called superfriends than be here among strangers facing an insurmountable challenge.

But that shock wanes when-- with a sharp twist of the knife still lodged between them-- Kara volunteers even more information. "There's something you should know--" "Hey, sis." Ever the slave to his congenital need for dramatic flair, Lex thwarts Kara's voluntary truth for a second time by strolling into the too-bright room, hands tucked in his pockets with a shit-eating grin. "Miss me?"

Lena's blood runs cold as she stares, stunned, at the apparition of her brother. She's allowed a single heartbeat to wonder if the verse-warp scrambled her brains. There's no precedent that she knows of for reality jumping on the scale she'd just used-- sudden onset schizophrenia isn't beyond the realm of possibility.

But Kara's jaw tightens irritably at his entrance, a confirmation that she sees the apparition as well, and her deep loathing for the ghost walking among them. "The Monitor revived him," Supergirl tells her, an explanation that explains nothing. "I don't know why but--" "I killed him, Kara," Lena whispers. "I swear to god I shot him in the chest I watched him bleed out--" "Never been more proud of you, ace," Lex supplies, with a grin that would almost be genuine if not for razors edge lurking beneath it. "It's rare that anything surprises me, but you did. Brava." Kara grips Lena by the hands and tugs her into the corridor, out of Lex's line of sight. As soon as his spell is broken, Lena's capable of conscious thought again, and she pulls away with a muttered curse, this time not meant for the hero. "What the fuck is he doing here," Lena demands, anger overwhelming her shock. She clings to it for dear life, because she's afraid of what will be left if it fades. Nothing, is what she fears. "What the fuck, what the FUCK," she mutters all the way down the corridor to the lab she'd first arrived in. "What the fuck, Kara!" "I know," Kara says quietly, having followed her pace for pace. "I almost killed him myself, but the Monitor says--" "Lex Luthor is still of use," the Monitor delivers himself, appearing in a flare of white light. "Fuck you," Lena snarls at the stranger, too angry and too shattered to be daunted by the display of extranormal abilities. Seven billion people on Earth-38 about to die, and you chose HIM?! A literal monster?!" "His resurrection was necessary--" "Anything he can do, I can do better. If you have me, you don't need him." But the Monitor is not swayed. "Neither of you alone can undo what has been done. If you are to return the universe to its rightful form, you must set aside the bygones--" "Bygones?" Lena exclaims. She shakes her head. "No. In fact, set aside this: your 'paragon of humanity' refuses to stand in the same room as him, let alone work with him. Either he goes, or I go." In the end, it's Kara who smoothes things over. She gestures for the Monitor to let her have a shot, and he disappears to give them a moment of privacy. Lena braces herself heavily against the console with both hands, trembling with more than just fury. When Kara finally gets a glimpse of her face, it's heavy with despair. "All those people," Lena whispers. "All those people, and he's the one who cheats death." "I know it's not fair..." "We don't know if James made it to a ship," Lena says abruptly. Her eyes close against sudden tears. "Boarding was such chaos, there's no passenger manifest for any of the ships that made it through. No one knows if he made it." Kara's heart lurches, but she remains calm. Strong. She places a warm hand on Lena's shoulder, and to her surprise, Lena doesn't pull away. "If what the Monitor says is true... if you can bring the universe back-- don't you think it'll be worth it? You're his sister..." Lena doesn't respond right away, and when she does her voice shakes for a whole other reason. "All my life, I was an orphan. But I wasn't. I was Kara Danver's best friend," she mutters, half under her breath. "But I'm not. Then I was the woman who murdered her own brother. But now I'm not even that anymore." Lena shrugs. "If I'm none of those anymore...what else am I?" But Kara doesn't say that. She curls a hand around Lena's wrist, silently willing to look at her. "You're Lena Luthor," she tells her friend, offering a small but genuine smile. "And you're still all of those things. For better or for worse. And you're still my best friend. That never changed, Lena." Lena shakes her head against the claim, but her fingers grip Kara's tighter. With a soft huff, she straightens to face the challenge at hand. "Right. I still killed my brother in cold blood," she says, her voice sharpening into a new edge, "and that's not a thing Lex Luthor forgets. Has your Monitor considered the fact that he'll return the favor the first chance he gets? His still of use Lex Luthor will murder his paragon of humanity?" Kara wraps Lena in a firm hug, one that Lena finds herself returning after a moment of silent hesitation. She's still angry, her chest still hurts with the ache of Kara's lies, but their world was just destroyed, and Lena's identity feels like it's following on Earth-38's heels, and the warm circle of Kara's arms feel like the only thing keeping her atoms together. "I won't let that happen," Kara vows. "I promise." However intimate their moment of reunion, it's still the end of the world, and at the end of the world heroes and paragons have greater duties than promises to each other. While Lena works with Lex in the lab, Kara and the remaining paragons fulfill their own roles. It pulls Kara away from her watch dog duties, pitting her against the anti-monitor while Lena finds a way to restore the multi-verse. The solution is relatively simple. They have the Book of Destiny, but not someone guaranteed to survive the encounter with their sanity intact. Of course, Lena has someone who can. Hope. Lena and Lex restore the AI saved on the thumbdrive, and then divide & conquer to alter Hope's programming while generating a means to let her interface with the Book of Destiny. Lena suspects that the ordeal will fry Hope completely (along with every other electrical component in the lab, if not the entire ship) but Hope is ready and willing. It is what she was created to do. Working with Lex while being completely devoid of any softness towards him is a new experience for Lena. Her wariness gives her new independence, and allows her to interact with him on equal footing. Their banter is familiar, but sharp, and her new ease with herself gives Lena a new sort of comfort. It feels almost... normal. When Hope is ready and Lena pushes the button, she and Lex are alone on the ship. The others have taken a jump ship to face the anti-monitor directly, and honestly, Lena believes it's their best chance for survival, considering that even if their plan works, the energy wave from the Book of Energy could tear the ship apart. The surge of energy rocks through the ship. Sparks fly, the lights go dark, and it's a long moment before Lena can believe they're still alive. "Gideon?" It takes a long while, but Gideon comes back online with a garbled voice but some external sensory capability. "All matter-based realities have been restored." Elation bubbles up inside Lena, and she turns to Lex with a broad grin that shines with triumph. "It worked! We did--" She turns into her brother's fist as he shoves it deep into her abdomen. The blow knocks the breath from her, and Lena's ears ring as she slowly comes to the realization that Lex hasn't punched her. Fists clutching at his lapels, Lena turns her gaze down between them, where his hand curls around the bloody hilt of the knife protruding from between her ribs. She gasps, staggering, only to be steadied by her brother's gentle grip. "You did it, ace," he delivers. His voice is devoid of emotion-- of rage, of pride, of hate. His tone is perfectly congenial, and it chills Lena to the bone. "I knew you would. And now that you've served your purpose--" With a vicious tug, Lex pulls the knife from her flesh. A grunt pulls from Lena's throat, only to be strangled once more when Lex plunges it back in. "No one will miss you." When Lena sags, Lex props her up, tipping her chin up so their eyes meet. She stares into his fathomless gaze as it regards her with disdain. "The Paragon of Humanity," he sneers, but then softens with rationality. "I suppose it's fitting. You certainly embody all that it is to be human. Fallible. Weak. Governed by emotion." Each point is punctuated with another thrust. Each one drives more of the breath from Lena's chest, until she has nothing in her but an empty hollow. "You are alone, Lena," Lex murmurs in her ear, holding her close. "And more than that, you are mortal." With a final twist of the knife, Lex rips the blade free and tosses it aside. It clatters into the shadows, far beyond her reach. He releases Lena as well. A small shove sends Lena staggering against the console, but her efforts to catch herself are immediately thwarted by hands that grip her head and slam it against the pedestal. Lena hits the ground blindly, her sight stolen by the darkness and ebbing consciousness. Lex's foot slams into her belly. Once. Twice. And then there's utter stillness, broken only by Lena's own grunting gasps for air. "I congratulate your tenacity, Lena. Watching you pulling that trigger-- it was the most Luthor I'd ever seen in you." Lex crouches beside her, stroking the side of her head. Lena doesn't even have the strength to flinch from his touch. "When I negotiated your survival in exchange for availing my services to the Monitor, I won't pretend that it wasn't because I needed your intellect. You are truly brilliant. The efficiency of your mind, your intuitive leaps of logic-- you've come a long way from the little girl I taught to play chess." Lena blinks against the throbbing of her skull, dislodging the tears that have gathered on her lashes. They drip across the bridge of her nose, and fall soundlessly to the floor. Her brother's fingers brush the hair from her temple, smearing blood across her skin. After a moment, his hand tightens cruelly. Her mind has disconnected from from her body-- Lena imagines she can see herself as Gideon must: a pathetic, pile of flesh and bone bleeding out under the heel of a monster. But then her imagined gaze catches on the dark shadow encircling her own wrist: a watch. The beacon. She watches her fingers reach blindly for the watch face, and then blinks back into her body just in time to see her brother offer one last kindness. "In the spirit of that efficiency," he delivers smoothly, "know that I would never condemn to you outlive your purpose." Just as the tip of her finger brushes the sigil on her watch, Lex picks her head up with both hands and slams it against the floor. There's no pain. No fear. There's absolutely nothing. --- Kara returns to the Waverider with victory in her throat. Their communications with the ship have been disrupted, but they can see that it's still intact, and when they dock, the newly awakened hope inside expects to find Lena on the far side of the door. What they find instead is a dark and empty ship, utterly silent save for the ear-splitting alarm only Kara can hear. "Lena." Her heart pounds thunderously, pulsing against her vision as she strains to look through the bulkheads that stand between the docking bays and the lab. The energy wave has disrupted something in the make up of the metal hull-- Kara can't see through it. She starts to run, panic overtaking her as she realizes that the only heart she can hear beating over the beacon's shriek is her own. The lab's door won't open-- sabotaged by Lex on his way out. Kara punches through it with her entire body, and the metal tears like aluminum foil under the impact. Inside she finds silence, blood, and Lena. Kara knows before her hands make contact that she's too late. Lena's too pale, too silent, and when Kara scoops Lena's upper body into her lap, her friend's body feels empty. "No," Kara's vocie shakes. "No, no, no, Lena, please..." A flash of light pierces the darkness, and the Monitor appears, his features grim and impassable. Kara glares up at him through her tears, her anger reaching for its only available target. "She told you this would happen..." she croaks. "SHE TOLD YOU!" A blast of heat vision crackles ineffectively against his breastplate. The rest of the crew fills in around him, and murmurs of dismay cloud the air around them, shocked at the violence visited on one of their own on the cusp of victory. "She told you," Kara echoes, hugging Lena close to her chest, "and you still insisted on keeping her killer here. Because his use outweighed the threat he posed." "Lena Luthor's loss is tragic," the Monitor intones, bending to one knee to meet Kara's gaze. "But she fulfilled her purpose, as did her brother." "Yeah, but it's her brother who gets to keep breathing?" Kate demands, catching Kara's anger and fueling it with her own. "Where's the justice in that?" "Lena dealt the first blow," comes the flat reply. "I am not responsible for the actions between mortals--" Kate grabs him by the cowl and hauls him up, away from Kara. Away from Lena. Scowling, she shakes her head. "This time you are! YOU brought him back, YOU insisted on keeping him alive! Lex may have been the one to murder her, but Lena's blood is on your hands too." "Kate," Kara breathes, her chest quaking with the effort to keep her wits about her. "The book... bring me the book." An electric surge of hope surges in Kate's chest, and she releases the Monitor to sweep towards the interface, where the book lies under a neat of sensors and wires. Just as she reaches for it, it dematerializes like so much ether. "What the fuck--" She whirls to face the Monitor, who draws himself unapologetically to his full height. "The Book of Destiny cannot erase the sins of the mortal world. It's power is too dangerous--" Kara coughs a laugh, her cheeks streaming with tears. "Lena used that book to save the universe. ALL the universes. She of all people--" "I am sorry for your loss," the Monitor cuts in. "But my task is now complete. It is time for me and the book to remove ourselves from the timeline, before reality is forever altered." "No, wait--!!" He disappears without another word, leaving Kate to tackle nothing but air, and Kara reaching for a hope just out of reach. They stare at the vacated space he'd just inhabited, and not for the first time wonder if they'd been helping a good guy after all. It certainly doesn't seem like it, when the engineer of their salvation lays dead in her hero's arms. Kara's features fall, a mask of stunned and empty disbelief. For long minutes no moves. No one speaks. Finally, Kara numbly reaches for the watch on Lena's wrist. Her fingers brush cold skin on their way to the el mayarah still pulsing with a faint glow. With a single press, the sound in Kara's ears cut out, silencing the beacon for the last time.

#supercorp #angst #character death #assault & battery #blood #lena paragon of humanity #alternate crisis story #crisis adjacent #crisis spoilers #my hot take

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captain--sif · 4 years

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West Coast Royals

Word count: 1.6k Fandom: 9-1-1 (TV), Julie and The Phantoms (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Evan "Buck" Buckley & May Grant, Howie "Chimney" Han & May Grant, Eddie Diaz & May Grant, Evan "Buck" Buckley & Howie "Chimney" Han, Evan “Buck” Buckley & Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV), Eddie Diaz & Howie "Chimney" Han (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley & Eddie Diaz & Howie "Chimney" Han Characters: May Grant (9-1-1 TV), Evan "Buck" Buckley, Howie "Chimney" Han, Eddie Diaz (9-1-1 TV) Additional Tags: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Julie and the Phantoms Fusion, Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Band Fic, De-Aged Characters, May Grant as Julie Molina, this is not an au but a fusion, i changed a lot, One Shot, drug mention, but no actual drug use, Halloween, not yet but it fits, the team as himbos, i'm dumbing them down and I want everyone to know about that, they are dumber than in canon and that is on purpose, Alternate Universe Series: Part 1 of May and the Himbos Summary:

May finds an old CD at her father's new place. It's all normal, until she decides to play it.

A Julie and The Phantoms AU/Fusion

Read on AO3, wattpad, or under the cut:

“What’s that?” Harry asks and May is grateful that he did. He’s pointing at that weird building in the backyard of their dad’s new house that looks like… kind of a mixture of a shed and a winter garden, she’s not sure what it’s supposed to be.

“Oh” Michael replies casually, much too casual in May’s opinion, “it used to be a music room.”

May groans. “Dad!”

Michael raises his hands in defense. “I’m just saying. You don’t have to use it.”

“Good” May stresses “I won’t.” And she trudges back to the main house.

Harry shrugs at his father’s questioning look.

May tries not to go into the music room. She really does.

But Harry and she are staying at their dad’s for the whole weekend anyway and frankly… she got nothing much to do. Michael promised Harry to build him a treehouse in one of the big trees in the garden, meaning they just left to the hardware store to get the needed materials, so no one will have to know. May can just step into the music room, look around and leave before anyone even realizes she was there. And just because she wants to see what kind of instruments or sheet music were left there, doesn’t mean she’s gonna pick up singing again. Or the piano.

Just take a quick look.

She grabs the keys her dad slyly left in front of her at breakfast with the comment, “In case you change your mind.”, as if knowing she’d be tempted to go investigate once he’s out of the house. She doesn’t like the thought of being that predictable.

Still, she takes the keys into the garden, puts it into the lock of the music room and cautiously turns it around. The door opens with a quiet click, slightly squeaking when May pushes it open. She steps inside, slowly taking everything in.

It’s obvious to her why the former owner would have used this as a music room. The big glass windows show a wide outlook into the garden and light up the room in a way that accentuates the grand piano standing in the center of the spacious room. There are some couches with a coffee table and a few colorful cushions in a darker corner of the room, ensuring a comfortable atmosphere.

May sprawls out on one of them, realizing they are just as soft as they look.

“I can’t afford to fall asleep in here” she reminds herself as she sits back up and rifles through the papers strewn across the coffee table instead. Some seem like half-finished lyrics and partitions, others are just concert tickets, stickers, or magazines. There’s even a CD wedged between some of the papers that May picks up. “West Coast Royals” is written in big letters on the front. She turns it around to read the tracklist but doesn’t recognize any of the song titles. Shrugging, she picks it up and looks around.

She detects an old CD player, figuring why not? She’s not gonna play any music in here herself, so she might as well let some other people do it for her.

The music blaring out of the speakers seems to be some soft rock, a few guys joining in to sing heartfelt lyrics. May finds herself tapping her feet along to the beat, the rhythm strangely familiar. She laughs. It’s probably some old album of a band that either her mom or Bobby were fans of when they were younger.

Turning back around to retrieve the CD, she lets out an aborted shriek in surprise at the three figures standing in her way.

“Who are you?” May demands, her mom’s self-defense lessons kicking in to adjust her posture and pulling her arms up in front of her face and chest. Only then does she take in who is standing in front of her. Three boys, barely older than her, maybe 21 at most. Tall and muscular, all three of them, they could easily take her down. The instruments are probably worth a couple thousand bucks, May remarks, maybe they’re here to steal them.

“Who are you?” the tallest one of them dares to reply, taking a step towards her. She grabs his arm, spins it, makes him fall to the ground, … or well, so she thought.

Instead, she’s the one who finds herself lying on the ground, the air pressed out of her lungs, a weird tingling sensation going through her body.

“What the hell?” she mutters, pushing herself back up. “Did I just – fall through you?”

“Seems like it” the boy in question replies, looking down at his own body with a kind of fascination that weirds her out. The other two share a look.

“That means we’re ghosts, right?” he turns to his companions now, the fascination turned into some sort of giddy happiness that is just as inexplicable to May. “I told you guys ghosts were real! I told you! Do you know what that means?”

“It means we’re dead, man” the shortest one deadpans.

“Way to ruin the mood.” comes the grumbled response.

May prepares to walk away and even contemplates calling auntie Hen to get herself checked for any hallucinogenic drugs she might have inhaled while sifting through the old stuff in this room. She’s sure she just has to sleep it off and everything will be normal again. No nearly transparent guys being overly enthusiastic at the prospect of being ghosts. Just a weird but empty music room in her dad’s garden.

“I think we scared the crap out of this girl” the third, deepest, voice chimes in.

May sighs but continues walking.

“You have a great taste in music,” the same voice says again, too loud to come from where May left them, and sure enough, once she turns to her right, the other two ghosts (or, hallucinations, as May hopes) pop up next to their friend.

The tall blond one snickers. “I think now you scared her, Eddie.” He earns himself a glare from said boy but doesn’t seem perturbed by it in the slightest.

“Why don’t we start by introducing ourselves. I’m Chimney.” the shorter– Chimney proposed.

“Okay. I'm starting to believe you really are ghosts.” May admits “My brain wouldn’t come up with such a weird name, even for someone I'm hallucinating.”

“There’s a story!” Chimney protests, his eyes widening in offense.

The tall blond one snickers again. “That I’m sure you won’t tell us about. Again.”

“It’s inappropriate. We barely know her.”

He levels Chimney with an unimpressed glare that clearly suggests an “I told you so”, before turning back to May with a smile. “I’m Buck, by the way.”

“Eddie.” The third one chimes in, lifting his hand in greeting.

May nods.

“I’m May,” she says then, carefully, still not trusting these apparitions that might possibly be ghosts. “Why were you in my dad’s shed?”

“It’s your dad’s now?” Chimney furrows his brows “How long have we been dead then? They wouldn’t sell it this soon, right?”

Buck shrugs. “I would’ve hoped so. We can’t be dead longer than for a few days, for sure. Seems a little fast.”

“Um…” all three pairs of eyes turn towards May “whatever you’ve been doing in there has been longer than just a few days ago.”

“That’s not possible,” Buck insists.

“The music you listened to, that was us.” Eddie explains “We’ve been using the shed for band rehearsals. We’ve been in there just last week.”

“I don’t think so” May disagrees cautiously “My dad has been contemplating buying this house for months. I don’t think you’ve been rehearsing in here during that time.”

“That’s impossible.” Eddie turns to his friends. “We haven’t been in that dark room for long, have we?”

Buck shakes his head distraughtly.

“I’m a little afraid to ask” Chimney inhales sharply “what’s the date then?”

“We’re in April 2020”

“Two thousand and twenty?” Buck jolts “It’s 2020? We've been dead for 25 years? We missed the Millennium! The freaking Millennium!”

Eddie falls back to sit on the small wall that sets a boundary between road and plants. “Not only that. The Millennium was already twenty years ago.”

“Why do you care about the Millennium?” Chimney yells “We’ve been dead for twenty-five years! My baby brother is an adult now! There’s probably a PlayStation 2 and I didn’t even get to play on the first one!”

“They’re releasing the PlayStation 5 this year.” May mumbles.

“Oh God, they’re releasing the PlayStation 5 this year.”

Eddie sighs. “We’ll never be playing at the Orpheum.”

Both Buck and Chimney are stumbling back, finally lowering down to sit on each side of Eddie.

“We’ll never be playing at the Orpheum,” Buck repeats dejectedly.

“Fuck.” Chimney pushes his hair back. “We left Hen alone at the Orpheum.”

“Oh God, Hen.”

“Do you think she remembers us?” Sadness is seeping into Buck's voice.

“She better. Or she’ll be catching these hands.”

Buck laughs. “We’re ghosts, Eddie. You won’t be fighting anyone anytime soon.”

“Where do we go now?” Chimney asks. “We can’t go back to our parents.”

“Not that any of us would want to,” Eddie interjects.

May sighs. She doesn’t want to feel pity for these three ghosts but she can't help but do anyway. “You can stay in the shed for now, I guess.”

“You’re the best, May!” Buck exclaims, falling through her when he tries to go for a hug.

Chimney laughs. “Sounds like karma.” And he skips towards the shed, Buck and Eddie following shortly behind once Buck straightens up again, grinning at May when turning around one last time before disappearing through the closed door.

“No one will be using it anyway,” May mumbles to herself.

Also find this on AO3 or wattpad.

#911 fic #911 #911 fox #911 fox fic #may grant #evan buck buckley #eddie diaz #chimney #howie chimney han #gen fic #jatp #jatp fic #julie and the phantoms au #au #alternate universe #ghosts #may and the himbos #sif writes

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vintagediavolo · 6 years

Text

Antidote

“Mr. Graves, sir, this is Newt Scamander--he has a crazy creature in that case and it got out and caused mayhem in a bank, sir,” Tina spoke, moving from behind her desk to stand before the Director while indicating the brown suitcase on the floor beside Newt. Mind sifting through an abundance of expletives, he tried to move forward to prevent Tina from taking it but the Auror was quicker, darting down and pulling it away. Before he could intervene, Graves rose a hand to prevent him from doing so.

“Let’s see the little guy.” Newt could only stand, stomach twisting with anxiety as he watched the intimidating man join Tina’s side, who had placed the case atop a table in her office and unlatched the two clasps that kept it shut. When she lifted it open, Newt was relieved when nothing suddenly burst from the inside--it would be rather horrendous to have the Niffler, or any of his other creatures for that matter, make their presence known in the middle of MACUSA; it seemed they were smarter than that though--but the Director stepped forward, curiously eyeing the ladder leading down into the case with a raised brow. “Undetectable Extension Charm?”

Newt nodded at the man when he looked back to confirm his question. “Something of the sort.”

“And this ‘creature’ is somewhere inside?” Graves asked, turning back around and peering down into the case to see if he could catch sight of anything.

“Well… yes,” Newt answered completely honest, purposefully leaving it at that so as not to have the rest of his creatures exposed, but the Director didn’t seem appeased with just his affirmation.

“You do realize something of this magnitude needs a permit within the United States, Mr. Scamander?” The man asked accusingly, grey eyes boring into him. Awkwardly shuffling, Newt longed to just snatch his case and apparate away, but he strongly doubted that would be possible; the Director would most likely seize him before he could take the chance, and apparition was most definitely impossible from within the Congress’ premises.

“Um… I probably could’ve guessed, Director.” Leaning forward, the Director shut the case and latched it, making his heart jump with hope until the man opened his mouth again.

“I’ll have to inspect this case before I allow a permit for it. Please come with me to my office, Mr. Scamander.” It wasn’t a question or a simple request; it was an order. Frozen at his words, Newt fearfully glanced at the woman who put him in the situation, but Tina refused to meet his worried eyes, instead meaninglessly shuffling through some of the papers on her desk. Rooted to the spot, he couldn’t generate an idea to get out of this and so submitted to his doom, head hanging forward.

“Okay.” Pleased at his acceptance, Graves maintained his tight grip on the suitcase before nodding at Tina.

“Thanks for bringing this to my attention, Goldstein.” Graves turned to him after say this. “Come.” And with that, the man spun and strode away, leaving Newt to clamber after him. Even though his legs were longer than the Director’s, he didn’t possess the grace Graves owned and nearly stumbled a few times amidst their fast pace. To be fair, his mind was not focused on each step he took, but rather on the suitcase held in Graves’s left hand, unmoving next to his legs as he walked. The workers milling about the department offered him comforting glances as they spotted him trailing after their Director; for even though they didn’t know this lanky redhead, they knew how imposing Graves was. Instead of comforting him, these glances just made the magizoologist even more anxious. “What brings you to New York, Mr. Scamander?” It took him a moment to realize the Director had asked him this, for he hadn’t bothered to turn to him when asking.

“Oh… well, I’ve come to get a birthday gift for someone.” He lied as they turned a corner and began descending a marble stairwell; it was the same marble that the walls of this section of the department were made of.

“All the way from London?” Graves asked, not particularly believing. When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Newt thankful he managed not to trip down them, they continued further down the hallway before suddenly coming to a halt, Newt nearly slamming into the Director much to his embarrassment.

“Y-Yes,” he answered while hurriedly backtracking, but the man didn’t acknowledge him whatsoever as he placed his palm over a gold emblem on the wall, muttering something under his breath that allowed him to push open the door Newt now noticed. Following the man in through the doorway, he nearly jumped when the marble door shut hard behind him, but he maintained composure as he watched the Director place the suitcase on the floor. This was it, he supposed; he’d finally be arrested. His brother always berated him over his method of containing his creatures, muttering about how illegal it was and that he could get in serious trouble for it, and now he wished he paid attention to Theseus’ reprimands. It would be fine, Newt thought. If they just arrested him and left his creatures unharmed, it would be fine.

Would they really leave his creatures unharmed though?

With this unsettling thought knotted in his throat, he watched Graves unclasp the suitcase once more but was surprised when the man straightened his posture and gestured for him to enter first. Not wishing to argue and not upset about this, Newt rushed forward, not daring to look at the Director as he carefully stepped into the suitcase and expertly slid down the ladder. Before he could even begin to survey his workspace for any potentially illegal items that needed hiding, the Director was beside him, face stoic as he studied the messy area. On the long table in the middle of the room, various papers and odd items littered the table, and above, pots and pans and other things hung from the ceiling. “Is the creature in here?”

“Hopefully,” Newt answered, but when he turned to look at the Director, his face drained of color and Graves caught sight of this.

“What?” He asked, but he didn’t need an answer when he looked down and spotted a squirming lump in his coat pocket. He watched as a platypus-like creature poked its head out, the chain of his pocket-watch, a family heirloom, wrapped around its head. Before he could reach down to remove whatever it was from his pocket, the animal hit the floor and scurried away at an impressive speed.

“Niffler, that is not yours!” Newt reprimanded, but the Niffler remained unbothered as it scurried between his legs and squeezed itself through a crack in a door on the far side of the room. “Merlin’s beard,” he muttered to himself and pursued the creature, throwing the door open and running down the stairs. Graves, now left alone within the shed, was surprised that the suitcase extended further than just this room, and since his job was to expect it, he walked to the doorway and swept his eyes over everything in view. Uncharacteristically overwhelmed, he slowly stepped down onto the dirt and observed a...Thunderbird? In an enclosure to his left, the enormous bird sat perched upon a red rock formation, tilting its head much like a confused dog at his presence. Newt’s distant voice broke him from his trance and he began following the direction it came from, head moving right to left and up and down at everything. A blue dot zipped over his head, and while he was occupied watching that, he nearly trampled on a group of vibrant pink slugs that released bubbles from their mouths. One of them floated up and popped in his face, causing him to sputter and use his jacket sleeve to wipe it away. He did not want to know what those bubbles were.

Now choosing his steps much more carefully, he continued on. How much magic was put into this? He was so impressed, he wasn’t even thinking about how illegal all of this was. The creatures didn’t seem to be mistreated; on the contrary, they all seemed at peace, going about what they’d usually do in their legitimate habitats. A loud roar managed to startle him, and he watched, on a rock formation to his left, as a Nundu made its presence known. “Shit.”

“Director?!” Newt called for him, and he kept walking, this time a little faster. When the man came into view, he looked significantly tousled with the mischievous platypus-thing hanging from his hand, shaking it up and down until his pocket-watch fell out of its pouch into Newt’s hand.

A bit out of breath, Newt set the Niffler back down. “Now go back to your… no, don’t give me that look. You have enough of your own jewellery. Go.” It only gave him a sad look before turning and sniffing the ground as it walked away. Sighing, thinking of the wonderful impression he’s now left on the Director, he faced the man, holding out the watch. “I’m terribly sorry. But that was the creature Tina was talking about.”

Unable to form a coherent thought, Graves just accepted the watch, inspecting it to make sure it hadn’t been scuffed or damaged during the chase. Newt seemed to know what he was doing. “I wouldn’t worry about that. Nifflers keep everything they steal in pristine condition. They wouldn’t want it anymore if it wasn’t.” Slipping the item back into his pocket, he rounded on Newt.

“So… what’s all this for?” He asked, not bothering to maintain his work facade.

Newt was surprised that the Director wanted to know, but he began explaining, “I’ve collected all these creatures during my travels. Most of them were either injured, being trafficked, or both. I keep them in here as I bring them back to health and until I’m able to get them back to their original habitat.”

As he spoke, Graves watched the way the tenseness left his posture and the way his eyes seemed to adopt a passionate shine. They began walking back to the shed and Graves admired the man for the first time. His wavy hair hung over his forehead and he itched to reach over and brush it away. The man was a few inches taller than him, which irritated him a little bit, but he quickly got over it as he admired all of the freckles on his skin. Newt must have taken notice of his inattention and blushed at the look he was being given, making Graves nearly moan. He’d never met a man so… pretty. “Are you part Veela?” He asked seriously.

Newt’s flush deepened and Graves cleared his throat.. Why would the Director ask him that? “No… why?”

“You’re very pretty.” Newt actually had to stop walking at this, heart beating so hard that he could feel it in his ears, and Graves turned when he noticed the man was no longer beside him, body moving on its own accord so he stood right in front of him. He felt compelled to touch him.

“Did you happen to come across the Libidine Slugs?” He asked dreadfully, backing away as the Director tried to caress his cheek.

“Those pink slugs? Yeah. Had one of their bubbles pop right in my face,” he answered, moving after the man. He really wanted to touch him.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid those bubbles can be a weak aphrodisiac for some. I have an antidote for that, though,” he explained, moreso thinking to himself and missing Graves advancing on him. It was brought to his attention when the man crushed him in a hug and rubbed his nose against his neck, making him gasp as the grey stubble on the man’s jaw scratched against his skin. “Director, stop!” He yelled, trying to push the man away but failing miserably; Graves only snuggled into him further. The aphrodisiac shouldn’t have had this much of an effect on the man.

“Mmm.” Something against the side of his head made him open his eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry about this, Director.” He made to ask what he was talking about, but his unspoken question was answered when Newt muttered “Stupefy” and his world went black.

***

“I can’t believe that you took the Director into your case and brought him back out unconscious.” Was the first thing he heard as he gradually regained consciousness. It sounded like Goldstein, but where was he?

“The unconsciousness is my fault. He accidentally came into contact with Libidine Slugs and tried to make a move on me. I put him out so he wouldn’t do anything he’d regret..” There was Newt, and that’s why he was unconscious. That was respectable, but he still wouldn’t mind making a move on him sober. Wait, what?

“He tried to what?”

“I gave him the antidote while he was out. He should be fine now!” Before Goldstein could respond to the man, he let out a grunt so they knew he was awake. He was still too out-of-it to form words.

‘Director?” Newt asked, and he forced his eyes open, looking up into the face of the magizoologist while squinting at the light.

“Oh, please call me Percival.”

“Are you sure the antidote worked?” Tina asked worriedly, for he never gave anyone permission to use his first name.

Graves decided to act on his feelings for once, for he knew it would greatly shock the woman and he really did want Newt for himself. “There’s no antidote for Newt’s beauty,” he spoke dreamily. Newt once again dodged the hand reaching out to him.

“Perhaps not,” the man answered worriedly, turning to rummage through his suitcase, only to be stopped by Graves taking hold of his jacket and yanking him on top of him. Newt and Tina squeaked at the same time, and the man that was all limbs found his face inches away from Graves’ with that blush dusting his cheeks.

“I’m perfectly fine, Newt. You mentioned that the Libidine Slugs’ bubbles acted only as a weak aphrodisiac, right?”

“Well, yes… but…”

“You know what makes aphrodisiacs stronger correct?”

“It’s said that if the person already has an attraction to them that it’s stronger, but that’s not poss--”

“Why isn’t it?” Graves interrupted, and Newt understood what he was implying, expression of pure disbelief. Tina had long since left the room to give the two of them privacy.

“Well, I don’t know. I’m not really attractive, physically or mentally” The words out of the magizoologist’s mouth were so incorrect that Graves had to scoff.

“I beg to disagree. Now lay down.” Graves ordered, and Newt only blushed, tucking his face in the crook his neck. “Even though I was under the influence, I still meant my words. You are very pretty.” He could feel the heat radiating off of the man’s face, which wasn’t very disconcerting, but what was disconcerting was when he heard Newt sniff and the collar of his shirt began to dampen. “Newt?” He asked, now concerned and sitting up with the man in his lap. “I’m sorry. Am I coming off too strong?”

“N-no. I just d-don’t know how to take c-compliments. At least that’s what my brother tells me,” he answered, rubbing at his eyes to try and cease the spilling tears.

“I guess I’ll have to teach you how,” Graves answered, pushing the man down so that he could be the one cuddled into the other’s neck. “But for now, hold me.” His tone was no different than when he told one of his Aurors to do something, and Newt managed a giggle at this before shyly complying. It looks like they’d both have to thank those slugs later.

With love, BelovedBey : )

#gramander #newt scamander #newt #scamander #percival graves #percival #graves #slash #gay #fanfiction #fic #fluff #fantastic beasts and where to find them

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narusetami · 7 years

Photo

19/04/15, hogsmeade

It was her birthday tomorrow. Finally. She was excited about being seventeen- not just because she could now belt Dancing Queen and truly feel as though the song was about her- and all that being seventeen would bring. She doubted she’d feel older, of course, but after half a year of studying apparition she was excited to have the freedom to apparate whenever she liked, she could learn to drive too and the trace would be gone so, to some extent, she felt as though the world was getting just a little bit bigger for her. Which was brilliant.

Her parents gifts would probably arrive by breakfast tomorrow but before that her birthday would be a day like any other, Mondays were hardly her favourite day of the week but she was more than a little determined to make her birthday a good one- maybe just a little bit because Sonder had predicted it wouldn’t be. She did rather enjoy celebrating herself on rare occasions. Hence why she was in Hogsmeade, while the elves were excellent with all things food they couldn’t be expected to make cakes for every individual student on their birthdays, and Madam Puddifoot was kind enough to take requests for those who bothered to ask or were willing to pay for the service. They were damn good too, this year Tami had requested a red velvet cake, it was a single tier with tiny white buttercream leaves decorated around the cake’s edge, and the top presented the message ‘Happy Birthday, Tami!’ in the centre, iced in a pale pink with sugar cherry blossom petals framing it. A little more elegant that last year, for she thought the situation called for it, but regardless it would taste amazing and make a wonderful breakfast.

Even on a Sunday the shop was busy, the weather was mild outside but within the shop the air was warm and filled with chatter, the atmosphere was always a little overwhelming with all the couples who flocked there. They shared cakes, sipped steaming beverages from delicate cups, gazed at each other across small tables, reached cautiously to hold hands under the table or whisper sweet nothing’s to each other as though the world outside the two of them didn’t seem to exist. It was nice, Tami thought, perhaps a little too cliche to be what she would consider actually romantic but she could see why cakes and tea drew couples in- that and the added bonus of being safely tucked away from the often crisp Scottish weather. She might’ve stayed for a while too, had some tea and spent some time in her own company, but there was homework she still had to do and a quick detour she had to take before heading back to the castle. No time for cake and tea today. So when Madam Puddifoot presented her with a plain pale pink box, with her birthday cake inside, she paid the remainder of her bill and tucked the box away in the bag she’d brought as carefully as possible before thanking and bidding the woman farewell.

It was a nice day actually, not as cold as it had been at the start of the school year, she wouldn’t need the scarf that was at the bottom of her bag, she even felt a little silly in the thick jumper and jacket she’d worn- she could’ve easily exchanged the jumper for a t-shirt and still been perfectly fine- but she was in too good a mood to dwell on such things. Instead she gently swung her bag by her side as she walked towards the edges of town, the roads always crunched more under foot when they turned from solid rock to frosted path and trees began spilling out either side of the route. Tami had always liked it, the quiet of the woods running off from Hogsmeade, the path towards the drop off where the Shrieking Shack loomed in the distance, she had laughed when she heard that people had often believed it was haunted. Tami thought it was magic. In her very first year she’d come trudging down the path and ran to where the fence stopped people from wandering too far towards the slope of the land, she’d looked across to where the Shrieking Shack stood tall, sucked in a deep breath and then screamed at it. A hearty yell, at the top of her lungs, it carried with it all of her worried for that first term of school and she’d felt as though the wind had picked up all those things and taken them to the rotting building to keep. The only thing that haunted that house were memories, people’s pain and frustration, she thought there was something awfully sad about a house carrying such a burden but it had always made her feel better to grasp the fence and shout out to it. She felt as though the Shrieking Shack could hold her pain for her, or at least feel her frustration at the world and bare some of the weight, so of course she intended to yell a lot before her birthday this year.

When the trees began to clear and the path widened a smile broke across her face and she ran the remaining distance, skidding rather than stopping at the fence, colliding right into it and letting out a shaky laugh as the wind was almost knocked out of her. She released her hold on her bag for the time being, pushing onto her tip toes and holding tight onto the fence instead, as usual the Shrieking Shack was standing in all it’s glory in the distance.

“Long time no see!”

Her voice was caught and washed away in the wind completely, lost before it had chance to echo, but she smiled all the same. It was the wind that made the Shrieking Shack shriek these days, all those rotten walls and floors, sometimes the weather was so bad that the whole thing seemed to sway as if it could blow away any second, she knew when it whistled and sang it was nothing more than the air passing through but it still made her smile wider and her hair stand on end.

“I’m going to be seventeen soon! I’m going to be better next year! I’ll make sure to be stronger and shout louder, maybe I’ll come and see you for real some time soon!”

When she said it like that, bellowed it from her lungs, she almost believed it. It was easier said than done, after everything that had happened, she wanted to truly think that things would be different this year and the world would change but waiting was taxing. People would possibly call her impatient but that wasn’t it, it just mattered a lot, when it was young people and your future- your possible children and grandchildren’s future- that seemed to be held in the hands of people who didn’t really care about it.

But she would try to change things, of course, one step at a time.

“I hope I can visit Japan this year! I hope I do well on future tests! I hope my cake is as delicious in reality as it is in my head!” The last one made her laugh, the air in her lungs was so cold and wild that it made her eyes water, her hair whipped about her face and for good measure she sucked in another breath before shouting out a proud warrior cry- a final message for the building that whistled back at her.

She settled back on the ground properly, her feet aching slightly for having been stood on her tip toes for an extended period, and her gaze lingered longingly in the distance even when her grip released from the fence. She watched the Shrieking Shack even as she lent down to grab her bag again, and sighed when she finally, and reluctantly, turn away from the drop off and back towards the path.

She only took a step before she was stilled.

“Thought so, I thought I recognised you!”

“Excuse me?”

“Tamiko Naruse, right?”

He knew her name. There was nothing wrong with that, she supposed, lots of people knew her in the town considering she’d been popping in for six years. Tami was never really shy, she struck up conversations with people all the time, liked to chime in on hot topics and spread information about one of her many causes. She never forgot a face, but she didn’t recognise his. Couldn’t properly see his. There was a scarf wrapped around his face, pulled right up to his nose, and a hat pulled down over his eyes. He was stood where the path still had some shape and there was decent space between them, she couldn’t guarantee she’d know him from the distance even if he wore less. But he knew her, there was no denying it, someone who wasn’t sure wouldn’t be stood the way he was, oozing confidence. He was taller than her by at least a foot, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, feet apart and stance relaxed. That could be any number of people she’d run into in town, it wasn’t unusual for people to be taller than her, it wasn’t unusual for people to wrap up warm either.

Though the day was nicer.

“You are Tamiko Naruse, aren’t you?” He took a step forward then, she noticed fleetingly that the question wasn’t unknowing, he asked as if jogging her memory rather than being unsure of the actual answer. Her hair was still on end. “You’re the kid- the one who staged the protest for that Foley character?”

Oh.

“Sorry, yes, I-”

“I knew it, quite incredible, they mentioned it in the papers. I read about you.”

“Oh, it wasn’t all that impressive, it’s not as though I did it all alone, there was a lot of support so I can’t really take all the credit.”

And she hadn’t. She hadn’t taken any credit, she’d read the article when it came out, it didn’t even mention her name. That doesn’t mean anything. Anyone could ask around Hogsmeade and find out she was the one who organised things, it wasn’t anything new, she was known for this sort of thing so finding out she was connected to the protest would be easy.

Ah, her hair was still on end.

“Still, to put that together for your professor, takes some real guts to do something like that. I was very impressed, a lot of people were, it’d be great to hear more about the work you’ve done- or any future work you have ideas for- if you have time?”

She did have time, of course she did, students headed back from Hogsmeade early from time to time but it would be hours yet before the professors rounded up any stragglers and made sure everyone was back at the castle. If she didn’t arrive back at the castle now, no one would pay it any mind, a thought which occurred to her in a tangle of other thoughts and made her heart rattle against her rib cage. This was so stupid, she was just paranoid, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t talked to strangers before- though her parents had drummed ‘stranger danger’ into her head she had never been worried about talking to people. No, she’d never felt like this, she’s spent her childhood around vampires with blood under their nails and centuries behind their eyes but she’d never felt the need to run.

“That’s really nice of you but I actually can’t stay long, I have plans later so I’m expected back at school.” Was her voice steady? She couldn’t tell, she couldn’t even hear herself, just her heart thudding in her chest. If she was going to lie she’d have to do better. So she inhaled slowly and took a few confident steps forward, laughing as she did and adding lightly, “If I don’t get back soon my presence will be sorely missed.”

There, that was easy. Now she just had to walk, right past the stranger, right back down the path, right back to Hogsmeade. Maybe she could skip? It wasn’t like she wasn’t prone to occasionally skipping, skipping was faster than walking, she could just skip ahead, until she was around the bend, then she could run.

She could do it.

“That’s sweet, and it’s also what we’re counting on, right?”

She’d crossed half the space between them already but his words stilled her, not even his words but the cock of his head, the glance behind her, the rattling of fence that she could’ve passed off as wind had the soft thud of feet hitting the ground not followed. Swallowing thickly she dared a glance over her shoulder and a funny feeling came over her, it wasn’t often her heart managed to jump into her throat and drop at the same time, twisting her stomach up with nausea. She didn’t know the second stranger either, they were dressed similarly and their face hidden but somehow she just knew they were unknown to her, and she knew it didn’t matter. Her legs were jelly. She couldn’t run on jelly legs. She couldn’t do a lot of things, apparently. She couldn’t have seen this coming- except, no, maybe that wasn’t true. People told themselves that bad things couldn’t be predicted to make themselves feel better, as if somehow leaving terrible things up to fate made them less unbearable, but at some point she had known. At some point it had dawned on her, quietly but surely, that this wasn’t a situation she was just going to walk out of. She didn’t need any veela senses to have told her that, though perhaps they would’ve come in handy, maybe if she’d tapped into them more she could’ve read their intentions earlier. That wouldn’t do either, maybe that was worse, she thought back to those broken bodies at Halloween and wondered if they’d felt it all in the end. If the weight of someone else’s hatred had crushed them on the inside, causing more damage than even the outside would show.

No, she was glad she couldn’t feel it, because she needed to focus. She needed to think clearly right now, despite the nature of her people Tami had always preferred to be lead by her mind than her emotions, she prided herself on solving challenges whenever she faced them and this couldn’t be any different. She needed to get back to Hogsmeade and she needed to do it fast, she didn’t have much time and, more importantly, she didn’t have much resources. It was stupid of her not to bring her wand, her wandless magic was unpredictable at best, but all of this was very stupid. She could see that now, how silly of her it had been to walk out of town by herself, without her wand, just months after so many of her people were killed. Tami had been so very determined to not be afraid, to prove she was stronger than the things that scared her, she’d told herself if she could go beyond her comfort zone then she’d prove something to herself but all she’d done is walk right into this.

Into this with no help and no wand and-

She did have one thing.

Fuck it.

She had legs, legs she could use and she had cake. Wonderful, customised cake which was tucked in a box, in her bag, in her arms. There wasn’t time to debate so she didn’t, she sucked in a deep breath and as she did she twisted her grip into the top of her back and lifted it up over her shoulder. Her stance shifted, her arm drew back, and with as much strength as she could muster she launched the bag ahead of her. It gave her the element of surprise, even with so little of his face on show she could see the confusion twist onto the expression of the one who blocked her path, and even if he hadn’t reacted at all her legs sprung into action faster than she could think to tell them to. She couldn’t even feel them but it didn’t matter, there was space both in front of and behind her, she was counting on the idea that the newcomer behind her wouldn’t make up the space in time and the bastard who blocked her path would be distracted. And he was, she could see the instinct kicking in even if he didn’t want it to, her bag launched towards him and he automatically threw his hands up to catch it before it could smash into him- which was good. It was what she needed, only a few seconds, all she needed was his hands to be occupied for just the few seconds she was sprinting past him. And then she didn’t know, Tami had no idea if she could outrun them but she sure as hell needed a head start, she could deal with doubts much easier than impossibilities. The bag hit him before she even got close, of course, smashed into his chest and he grabbed it with both arms, the snarl he made a clear indication that he was not happy with her tactic. She honestly didn’t care, footsteps crunched behind her and even though the bag had already hit she didn’t stop, in fact as she passed she slammed right into the stranger’s side so he stumbled, and cursed, and she couldn’t help the small burst of pride in her chest because she’d disgruntled their plan.

It was short-lived.

She’d never been grabbed by the hair before but the pain was immediate. It shot through her nerves with a sharp stab, the back of her head throbbing where the grip held and pulled her head back in a burning whiplash. Perhaps she should’ve kept running, ripped her hair out if she needed to, but for half a second the pain was enough to stop her short and in that half a second an arm twisted around her front and pulled. Tami had always been short and her toes barely scraped the floor as she was yanked back, she knew because she kicked her legs in an attempt to find some ground, to find some grip, to claw her way back. She found nothing, her fingers clawed at the arm about her front but it was helpless, her legs kicked and even though she felt her heels hit behind her it did nothing. She filled her air with lungs, it was dawning on her quickly that she was very physically outnumbered, instead ready to scream for as loud and long as she could but the sound was suffocated before she even had the chance to make it. Gloved fingers pressed down on her tongue when a hand covered her mouth, she tried to suck in a breath but choked instead, wheezing and turning her attention from the arm holding her up to the hand stopping her from crying out. They’d done this before. They knew how to keep someone quiet, they knew how to drag someone away, they knew how to hide someone until the moment was right and then she’d end up another body, stumbled upon when it was far too late. Panic was a horrible thing, it twisted so deep in her gut she wanted to throw up, made her thoughts scream so loud that she couldn’t think. And that was bad. She was flailing and, more importantly, she was failing.

She didn’t want to die like this.

Her legs were useless, her clawing fingers weren’t getting her anywhere, but the bastard had his gross fingers in her mouth and if she couldn’t bark then she could sure as hell bite. Tami was in no position to go easy on anyone, she steeled herself against the inevitable twang of uncertainty when it came to hurting someone else, and she bit down hard.

“Fucking little bitch.”

And he dropped her. He stumbled as he cursed, he went back a step and as he did he lifted her off the floor completely, the arm around her front pulled tighter sharply, pain shot along her spine and then she was on the floor. He’d dropped her and she wanted to scream, wanted her legs to work, her body to move, but her legs had no feeling and she couldn’t breathe. The air had been knocked straight out of her.

“You idiot, you always make things more complicated.”

She needed to move. Needed her legs to work.

“Immobulus.”

Crap.

Even if she wanted to move she couldn’t, the fight was there but the ability was gone, time had stopped where she knelt and this wasn’t something she could just shake off. Had she had her wand, had she come prepared, then maybe she could’ve handled all of this better or at least got far enough away to get help but she’d been foolish.

“See, isn’t it easier when we all cooperate?”

She couldn’t answer even if she wanted to, she wasn’t given time, a hand covered her eyes and no sooner had her vision been covered did a mutter of a charm pull her from consciousness.

Stupid, predictable, terrible birthdays.

#periculumplot #violence tw #kidnapping tw #it took me so long to write this because my small girl deserves so much better but what can I say? darker days are coming folks #[ drabbles ]

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sinfully-romione · 7 years

Text

Burn Notice

Rating: T

Summary: Everyone is giving Ron grief about his hair. It’s damn time he do something about it.

“Hermione, would you come look at something?”

It was a lovely Sunday morning and Ron was still getting ready for the weekly pilgrimage to the Burrow for Sunday brunch. The kids enjoyed playing with their cousins outside, staying mostly out of trouble while Ron could sit around and bullshit with his brothers. And then there was mum’s cooking. Taking a break from making meals for the family was a welcome respite.

Hermione put her head into their en suite, seeing him frown. “What is it?”

“Do you think I’m losing my hair?”

“What do you think, love?” Hermione disappeared when she heard the kids yelling from the living room. A minute later or so, she popped her head back in. “Lift the fringe, love.” He did and she frowned. “Maybe but it probably is the haircut you got two weeks ago from the new stylist.” She disappeared when she heard Hugo crying.

“Maybe it’s from you ripping my hair out when I go down on you,” Ron grumped. At least it wasn’t going grey like mum’s hair was showing, or even the few he saw in Hermione’s hair. He lifted the fringe on his hair and saw that the hairline might have moved back an inch from what he remembered. He was getting older – he was over 30 now – and losing his hair like his dad would be something he’d have to accept, someday.

But it wouldn’t be today.

He brushed his hair to hide the hairline and straightened up. They’d have to be at Mum’s in a minute for helping with the kids and Hermione being drafted into the kitchen. And of course she’d make some comment about his hair. Mum never let an opportunity pass to critique it, whether it was too long or too short. Then again, she fussed over all of her kids, including Percy who was half-bald at this point, the poor sod. Even Ginny wasn’t excused for keeping the pixie cut she kept from her playing days with the Harpies.

Maybe they’d have enough time before lunch and the kids were playing that he’d stop over at the shop to pick up a bottle of Wheeze’s hair restoration tonic. George made galleons hand over fist on that simple potion. It should work for him too, especially since Percy used it, according to George.

“Ron, are you ready? We need to head over. I told your Mum that I’d help in the kitchen today.”

“Yes, love,” he huffed and went to the living room and saw Hermione and Rose impatiently waiting while Hugo had his nose in a book. “Let’s go.”

Hermione went first and Rose followed, with Ron tucking his already tall son in next to him. “Keep your nose next to my jumper until we get there. It won’t be long.”

“Can’t we apparate there? I hate going by floo.”

“I know you do.” Ron grabbed a handful of powder out of the pot. “We’re going this way so we aren’t late for Gramma’s house. Going from our house to the apparition point is a ten minute walk. If we are late, she will get louder than usual.”

“Fine,” Hugo grumped and stuck his nose into his daddy’s jumper.

The Burrow Ron yelled as he threw down the powder and held his son tight for the spinning trip from their house to the Burrow. They landed and Ron released Hugo first. Hugo – five years old and pretty tall for his age and as thin as Ron was then – stepped out coughing. “I hate that!” he spat out ashes and littered Mum’s parlour with even more.

“Is that Hugo I hear?” Molly stuck her head out from the kitchen. “I have biscuits in the kitchen for you while your father tidies my den.”

Hugo scampered off to the kitchen, eager for biscuits before lunch. Hugo might take after Hermione in personality but he had his father’s appetite. Ron snorted and pulled his wand to do as his mum asked. It took about five seconds.

“Hermione?”

“In the kitchen,” she yelled back.

“Off to the Wheezes for ten. Back in a tick.”

“OK.”

Ron stepped back into the fireplace and yelled for the Leaky Cauldron. It was nice to walk easily on an early Sunday without being bumped into or bothered. But he couldn’t stroll since he had to be back at the Burrow in a minute. The storefront looked immaculate, with the signs in the windows and the lights on, displaying wares. He walked in and the two part-timers were working. George hired them for the summer and were busy helping the few customers that were shopping. He slipped to the side of the store with the domestic products and scanned the various bottles. Sure enough, on the bottom shelf, in the black bottle was what he was looking for.

Wheeze’s Fringe Follicle Frizzies – guaranteed fur restoration for your pate. Ethically sourced. Not tested on dragons, thestrals or any non-human subjects. 100% natural ingredients.

He picked up the large bottle of the potion and took it to the counter.

“Ah, Mr. Weasley. Making a purchase?”

“Yeah,” he laughed. “It’s a gag gift for Dad.” He handed over the four galleons to Jessica, the manager trainee that Angelina hired back in the fall. “And I’m sure George will laugh, too.”

“If you need to return it, hold onto the receipt,” she said mechanically. “Sorry. Force of habit.”

“I completely understand.” Ron gave her a laugh and watched her put the potion bottle in a sack along with the printed receipt.

He apparated from the storefront and landed outside the gates to the Weasley property. Hermione would know he picked up something as soon as he asked for her purse. They’d talk about it later, once they were home and the kids were in the bed fast asleep.

Rose hadn’t even started Hogwarts and he was losing his hair. That was a load of bunk.

Hermione smiled at him while she finished tending the salad for lunch. His mum gave him a look he didn’t immediately recognize. “Did you get what you needed?” she asked.

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, maybe it will help with that hair cut you got from those muggles. If you’d let me cut your hair, you wouldn’t look like poor Percy. I mean, you take after me so you should have a full head of hair.”

“Mum, leave off,” Ron grumped and left the kitchen. He went looking for Rose and Hugo. They weren’t in the parlour so he went off hunting for his wayward children.

He found Hugo first, hiding in Ginny’s old bedroom. He was sitting on the bed, reading a book.

“Was it too loud downstairs with the cousins?”

Hugo shook his head. “Gramma‘s mad at me.” Hugo wiped his face and turned away from his Daddy.

“She is? Did she misunderstand you for some reason?” Ron sat down next to his son and waited. Hugo eventually turned back around. “Did she say why?”

“I got a biscuit and she tried to hug me and I said no. She said that was rude. She yelled at me.” He looked up, with a mop of hair as curly as Hermione’s was but with Ron’s color and texture. Big brown eyes were swimming with tears. “I told her I didn’t want a hug but she did it anyway.” Hugo sniffed again. “I ran up here and found a book.”

“It’s too much today, isn’t it? Is today one of your ‘don’t touch me’ days? Do you want me to talk with Gramma?” Ron sat still and watched Hugo. “I know you don’t like being hugged sometimes. Is today one of them?” Hugo put his book down and reached for Ron. He took his tall son into his arms, feeling Hugo shake. “I will once I know you’re sorted. Gramma makes mistakes and she probably didn’t realize that you were out of sorts.” Ron ran his hand over Hugo’s head and across his cheek, barely touching. “You do seem warm. Maybe you’re coming down sick with something.” Ron rocked him slightly and Hugo was snoring before he knew it.

“Yeah, I figured as such. I’m a grumpy firecrab when I’m sick too.” Ron stood and gently laid his son down on the bed and covered him with a blanket. The book went onto the desk so it wasn’t accidentally stepped on and he left the door open so he could hear him if need be.

Ron made it to the stairs and ran into Hermione. “Where’s Hugo? Everyone’s waiting on him for lunch.”

“He’s asleep in Ginny’s bedroom and I think he’s got a virus or something. But Mum didn’t help matters. She upset him and you know he occasionally gets stressed from too much noise and change.”

“He takes after me,” she said.

“She fussed at him for being rude when he said he didn’t want a hug and she did it anyway. I swear Mum doesn’t pay attention.”

“Ron, don’t start today.”

“I’ll be good at lunch but I will send her an owl tonight when we get home. We’ve told her countless times that he’s sensitive to some things.”

“Yes, she should have, but she was also dealing with five other kids in her kitchen along with three of us and bread baking. You get beastly too when all of us in the kitchen with you.”

“Fair point. Where’s Rose?”

“She’s outside sitting and talking with Albus, Roxanne, and James. They’ve been a cluster of magpies since we got here.”

Hermione turned to go downstairs and Ron put a large hand on her shoulder. “Oh, hey, by the way, can you put this in your purse?” Ron handed over the sack with the potion to his wife.

She took the bottle out and stared. “You don’t need it, dear.”

“Yeah, I do. I don’t want to look like Percy the prat.”

“Ron, you’re going to look like him. You might look like your father eventually but - ”

“No I’m not,” he whigned. “See this hair?” He lifted the fringe on the front and one lone hair stood out, one-half inch in front of his hair-line. “This was part of my hairline a year ago. Look at it.”

Hermione put her hands up on his forehead. “You’re upset over this? You spent galleons for one of the Wheeze’s products for this?”

“Hermione, I love my Dad but I’m not ready to look like him.”

“Love, - “ She pulled his ears down for a snog, including begging entrance with her tongue. He reciprocated until they broke away, breathing hard. “You can be bald and I will still love you.”

Ron puffed up. “I’ll use the tonic but if it doesn’t work, I’ll quit fussing over it. Sorted?”

Hermione sighed. “You win. I’ll put it in my purse and you can have it back once we get home. I presume you don’t want anyone else knowing, like George?”

“Yeah, and Bill. They’ll take the piss for me losing my hair like the prat.”

Hermione reached up again and snogged her husband thoroughly, including messing his hair slightly. “Now they can take the mickey for you being kissed thoroughly by someone who knows how and not about your hair or haircut.” She smirked and trod back downstairs to lunch.

“Barmy witch,” he muttered before adjusting his trousers and checking on Hugo one last time before joining the family for dinner. He sat down at his place next to Hermione and Rose across from them, talking with Al.

“Where’s Hugo?” Arthur spoke up first while Molly was plating lunch.

“He’s asleep in Ginny’s bed. I think he’s come down with a cold or something. He was feeling out of sorts before we came over this morning.”

“That explains why he was rude to me when he got a biscuit. I had to fuss at him for telling me no when I wanted to hug him.” Molly sat down next to Arthur and across from Bill. “That’s so unlike him.”

“Actually, it is like him. He’s rewarded for indulging you,” Hermione added. “He gets an extra hour of playtime at home after we come back home if he gives you a hug. He doesn’t like giving hugs unless he’s comfortable.”

Molly looked up from her own plate like a scared cat towards Arthur first. “He’s always – “

Hermione said, “He takes after me, Molly. I was very distant with most people until I learned. Forcing him to hug you every time we visit stresses him. He loves you but hugging people is too much.”

“Well, I, I didn’t - “

“No, you didn’t remember.” Tension filled the air around the table with no one daring break it, not between the two witches in question.

“Mummy?” a small voice came down the stairwell. Hermione was out of her chair and up the stairs before Ron could stand, followed by a slamming door. Ron looked across at his daughter, already as tall as her Mum and thin as a rail. He loved her more than his own life and had since her first breaths. “Rose, do you want to stay for brunch? I think Mum and I need to take Hugo home.”

“Sure. I’ll floo home later.” She went back to talking with Roxanne and James, and saw looks of commiseration from his siblings. He made for the stairs, taking two at a time, with chatter erupting behind him. As he figured, the bathroom door was closed and the noises from inside were muffled. Hermione’s thoughtfulness never ceased to amaze him, even if few others realized it. “Hermione, what do I need to do for you and him?”

Hermione opened the door and Ron bit off a laugh. She was soaking wet. “Hugo didn’t make it.” Ron understood. “He’s in no shape for apparition or portkey to get home.” A soft sob behind her gave way. Ron stepped into the bathroom and saw his son looking ghastly, with all of his freckles standing out on his face. “We have to make one more trip today, champ.”

“I hate going by floo. Can’t we apparate?”

“Sorry, Kiddo.” Ron picked his son up and hoisted him up onto his shoulder, covered in the expansive towel. He snuggled into his daddy’s arms shivering.

“Well I’m coming home too. I don’t want to have a row with your Mum over Hugo today. I can get Rose later, once the rest of them head home.”

Ron carried his son down the stairs and towards the parlour. Arthur came in while the rest of the family was tucking into lunch. “Heading home, son?”

“Yeah. Hugo’s sick and probably needs his bed for a few days. Hermione’s coming with to not upset Mum.”

“I’ll talk with your Mum after lunch. I don’t think she realized – “

Ron interrupted because he felt Hugo stirring. “She didn’t but that’s Mum for you – a dragon in a china shop. She thinks all of the kids are like Fred and James, not thinking that some aren’t as comfortable in loud, noisy, and hugging environments.”

“Well, send us an owl or call later to let us know how he’s doing.”

“Sorted,” Ron saw Hermione slipping into the fireplace with her purse, his jacket, and Hugo’s things. She was gone in a flash and Ron stepped in too. “Hold on tight.”

Hugo snuggled in tighter and they spun away.

“I finally got him down to sleep.”

Ron stepped out from the shower wearing only a towel. Dear sweet Hugo. Go big or go home, and that included making an epic mess on the Floo trip from the Burrow. Fortunately Hermione was outstanding in cleaning spells, even better than he was. She had Hugo out of his soiled clothes and in the tub in mere moments and tucked into his bed shortly thereafter.

“I figured he would be,” Ron saw her still slightly soaked from her impromptu shower at the Burrow. “Why don’t you get out of those wet clothes and grab a shower since he’s asleep. I know it’s uncomfortable.”

“You’re right. I’m chilled.” Hermione stepped out of her skirt and shed the jumper and then out of her blouse and underclothes. She was in the shower and he reached for her purse and pulled out the bottle of hair tonic. “Since I’m already here,” he said to himself and uncorked the bottle. It smelled like stinky feet and looked the consistency of congealed milk. “Here goes nothing.” He poured a large dollop of potion onto his hand and fought the gag reflex from the sniff. “I must be mad!” He picked up the bottle again and read the instructions, which were to apply liberally over the hair and scalp and then rinse ten minutes later. “Simple enough,” he thought and applied it as directed.

He reached for his towel and started drying off, making sure to get between his toes and behind his ears and in the creases of his arms and legs. He left his hair since the potion was working because his scalp was tingling, as the directions mentioned.

He was toweling off the rest of his body when the water shut off in the shower and Hermione reached out for her towel, wrapping it around her body. “Darn. That was what I was hoping to see.” Ron’s towel dropped to the floor.

“What, my two kids saggy in spots body?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, it is my favorite to look at, tickle, and do more with.” He waggled his eyebrows and Hermione laughed.

“You’re an idiot and I love you for it.” Hermione’s towel dropped from her chest and Ron was on her immediately, running his hands over her body while she worked hers through his hair. She released her hold on his head and pulled back, with clumps of hair in her hands. “Ron, what the hell?”

“Oh shit. I put the tonic in my hair while you were in the shower.”

“Rinse it out, now.”

“I will not. I’m supposed to let it sit for ten minutes,” he complained.

“Damn it, do it, now.”

Ron gave her a dirty look. “It’s my hair.”

“Not when it’s doing this.” She shoved him into the tub, dropping his hair onto the floor. “It’s not supposed to come out from the back of your head, you idiot!” She turned on the spigots full blast, catching him with the pressure of the water full on the face. He sputtered and howled. “Damn it Hermione, stop it!”

“Not until you wash it all out.”

“It bloody well hurts!”

“Shut it. I’m helping.”

She shoved him hard and he howled again, landing on his knees in front of her. She worked her hands through his scalp, trying to get the congealed potion out, ignoring the pain in her fingers from the heat of the water and the compromised potion in his hair.

She worked and cleaned, running her fingernails along his scalp. Small lacerations marred his scalp where clumps of hair and skin fell off. Merlin’s bits, she was being gentle and there was blood on his scalp where she was trying to get the goop off of him.

“I have to get you to St. Mungo’s as soon as possible.”

“For hair potion in my hair? Fuck no. That’s bloody well stupid.”

She lifted her hand in front of his face and his breath caught. He finally saw what she saw.

“Hugo,” he whispered. “We can’t – “

“Put your pants on and I’ll wrap a towel around your head. I’ll be along as soon as I can. I need to firecall someone to stay with him. Something happened with the potion for this to happen to you.”

“Shit,” Ron stepped out and wrapped the towel around his head and put on his soiled trousers. “Fucking stupid day,” he growled.

“I’m sure Ginny will come over to keep Hugo while he sleeps. But I’m not waking him and I’m not leaving a seven year old home alone.”

Ron went to the front closet and grabbed the first zippered jacket and put it on. His head was hurting worse now and he felt like vomiting from the pain. He grabbed some Floo powder and threw it in the fireplace. “St. Mungo’s” and he was off.

Hermione came running into the emergency department at St. Mungo’s, looking worse for wear in a track suit and her hair dripping wet. “Ron Weasley, he came in a few minutes ago.”

“They wheeled him back immediately. I don’t know anything else.” The nurse shoved the window closed.

“Wait, give this to the Healers,” She shoved the potion bottle to the Nurse and saw the triage nurse walk it back into the department.

“We heard,” Harry came running into the department along with Arthur and Molly. “Ginny is at home with Hugo and the kids are with her, bored already. She said she’d stay there with him until he woke then take him with her to the house.”

“What caused it?”

“Ron’s been upset for months about his hair, after that witch Skeeter wrote about him looking like he was losing his hair. So he, after we came to the Burrow, stepped out to pick up a hair tonic from the shop. Maybe it was old or something didn’t do right. Anyway, I ran my hands through his hair and it was coming out in clumps, along with skin. I shoved him in the shower and then here as fast as I could.”

“He never said anything to us about his hair.” Arthur started and gave Molly a look that kept her from speaking up about nattering about his hair earlier in the day.

“He doesn’t talk about it except at home, and that’s mostly when – “

“I know,” Harry smirked.

“Anyway, he wanted the tonic because he was convinced that his hair was receding and he wasn’t ready to look like Percy or you, Arthur.”

Molly exploded. “He’s handsome. He doesn’t need it.”

Hermione felt her anger boiling over. “Oh really? For the last 4 weeks we’ve been over, you’ve slagged on him about his haircut, or other nit-picky things. He went and got that haircut that you criticized today because of your complaints. I’ve spent so much time trying to remind him that he’s not what everyone criticizes.”

“He – “

“Molly, that’s enough. You helped me plenty when I was losing my hair.”

“But he’s – “

“He’s upset that people pick on him about losing his hair and it’s not helped him at all.”

George came bursting into the room, looking considerably upset. “Where is he?”

Hermione pointed and George went to the nurse and she took him back straightaway.

Harry looked at the closing doors. “What was that about?”

“I firecalled Angelina before I came. She sent George. It’s his potion so he might know how to help.”

Many minutes passed, with Ginny calling once so Hugo could talk with Mum. He fell back asleep after he talked with her and Rose. Hermione checked her watch and saw that two hours had raced by with no word from anyone after George raced into the ward.

“Mrs. Weasley?”

Two heads looked up. “I’m Mrs. Weasley-Granger. How is he?”

“Your quick reaction helped save most of the skin on his head. With both Mr. Weasley’s assistance, we figured out what happened and created an antidote.”

“Was it the tonic he purchased?”

“Oh, it was worse than that. Mr. George Weasley said he had a warning on the bottle to not mix with water. Well, your husband said his hair and scalp were still wet when he put the potion onto it. That alone wouldn’t have done the damage that happened.”

“So what did?”

“Your husband said that your son had been sick earlier. We checked and he hadn’t completely washed everything out. Mixing the potion with water and stomach acids caused the reaction.”

“How bad is he hurt, Healer?”

“We’ll bring you back to see for yourself.”

“Go ahead and tell us, please. He was an Auror for years. I can handle it.” She save Molly a side-eye look and Molly kept quiet.

“we had to create an antidote for the potion. That’s what took so long. Then an application of dittany to heal up most of the skin on his head was given. He’ll need probably one more. The skin is tender but somewhat healed.”

“You mean it will look like the splinching scar on his arm?”

“It’s possible. We don’t know if the hair will grow back in some spots, like the top of his head or in front. It’s possible it will grow back but then again, it might not. We’ve never seen this particular injury before with the contamination so we’re only guessing.”

Hermione sighed. “That was what started the whole ordeal in the first damn place.”

“He’s awake if you want to come back. His head is wrapped up, to promote additional healing, but he can go home in a few hours, as long as he doesn’t wash his head for a week and then only water for a month.”

“Christ,” Hermione picked up her purse and went with Harry with Molly and Arthur following. “He’s going to be a fiend for this happening,” she said to no one in particular. They walked back to his room and stepped in. Hermione saw him first, shaking her head. She heard two sniffles behind her.

“Go ahead and say it. I cocked up.”

“No, I won’t. It’s rude.” Hermione put her purse down and touched his face. All of the stubble was gone from his chin along with above his lip. “They had to shave off everything on your head, didn’t they?”

“It’s lucky that you didn’t run your hands on my back or more. They said the burns were bad before they treated it.”

“So you’re going to look like that idiot Quirrell for a few weeks, huh?” Harry punched his arm and Ron tried to laugh. “Shall I see about getting you a proper turban rather than looking like a half-wrapped mummy?”

“Go fuck yourself, Harry.”

“Ron!” two women erupted at his language.

“No! I’m sick of everything, of you harassing me for a ruddy haircut, Mum, and you, Dad, for letting her natter on when you know it bothers me. And you, git, for kicking me when I’m down, and comparing me to that traitor Quirrell.”

Hermione saw Molly about to cry and Arthur along with her. “Now that we know he’ll live, I’ll take him home when he’s released in a few hours and then owl both of you. I would say this hasn’t been one of his best days.”

Ron grimaced. “Mum, Dad, sorry. I’ll come visit in a couple of days. It’s really been one hell of a day.”

Molly came over first and kissed Ron on the cheek, saying something softly to him before she left his side. Arthur stood by quietly and escorted Molly out.

Harry sealed the door. “You can get mad at me all you want, but you leave them out of it. I know Mum can be a handful but don’t make her cry any more than she has.”

“I’m sick and tired of Mum treating me like I’m seven and got a hold of her knitting shears and gave myself a haircut. She acts like she’s never forgiven me for doing it that one time.”

Both of them looked at Ron.

“Damn.” He rubbed the back of his neck, wincing. “Anyway, that’s why I don’t let Mum cut my hair. I got a bad haircut because she was ripping my bollocks and I got it cut and she’s still ripping my bollocks. I’m sick of it.”

“Well, don’t rip into her again.” Harry and Ron shared a serious look before both nodding. Harry looked at Hermione and went to hug her. “I’m going home and tending five kids. You want them to stay the night with us?”

“Sure, if they will. Hugo might want to come home. Rose might want to stay and have a sleep-over with Lily Luna.”

“I’ll owl once we’re home. It should be only a couple more hours.”

Harry made for the door. “You look better off than the last time I saw Quirrell – but not by much.” Harry ducked out.

“Git,” Ron yelled at the closing door and hearing Harry laughing in the hallway.

“That means – “

“He says I look only slightly better than an incinerated dead man. The git.”

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“That’s Harry for you.”

“Ron, about your hair,” Hermione said before she was interrupted by a Healer making an appearance.

“So, Mr. Weasley, here are your instructions: You can wash your head with water only for the next month, and only wash it once a week. Your skin needs time to completely heal. The dittany we used did a decent job but since it’s on your head, it will hurt some so take some pain potion as you need it.” The healer handed over the first vial. “And this one is for keeping the skin soft so if the hairs that will come in won’t stretch the scars on your scalp. We don’t know for certain if it will all grow back or if it will even be the same color as your natural hair. It could come in grey, or even green, though your brother doesn’t think that the small amount of dragon’s blood in the tonic will affect you that much.”

“Healer, are there any limitations on outdoor activities and recreation? Any other limitations?”

The healer ignored Ron. “He needs to keep it wrapped for three more days, just to make certain. We don’t want any further infections. And he will need to keep his scalp shaded from now on. So hats any time he’s going to be outside for more than two minutes, which includes Quidditch or watching matches live. This includes swimming or any water activities.

“And as long as he’s not into yoga or football, I see no reason to limit his other activities, as long as he’s not on his head. Now let’s see how you’re recovering.” The healer pointed his wand at Ron’s head and the dressings unraveled, revealing Ron’s bald head with bright white patches over half his head. Even his eyebrows and ear hairs were gone.

Hermione gasped. “That’s –“

Ron picked up the mirror on the side-table and erupted in a venomous tirade that embarrassed Hermione. The Healer stood there, stoic. “Yes, most of his head was chemically burned when he came in. If he’d waited another ten minutes, he’d be here a while, because of the damage to his skin. You were quite wise to rush him in.”

“But you said water made it worse.”

Ron moved his hand over the side of his bare head, finding a bright white patch of skin almost the size of his hand. “Bloody fucking hell!”

“It spread the chemicals to burn his scalp, rather than only in some spots. When he came in and we took off the hair, he had second degree burns on most of his head. Had you not made him rinse it, he’d have burned the top of his head and the back patch of his head to the skull. Suffice to say, I don’t think Mr. Weasley will complain too much.”

Ron moved the mirror to the other side and erupted in more caustic epithets.

The healer performed another spell and the dressings re-wrapped on his head. “Mr. Weasley needs to return in a week for a fresh dressing and a check-up. But otherwise you’re free to go.”

“Thank you Healer – “

“It wasn’t just us, Mrs. Weasley. We called up one of our Master Potioneers who made the antidote with the other Mr. Weasley’s assistance. I believe you know him. He’s around the same age Mr. Weasley.”

“I’ll make sure to send him a thank-you note,” she replied with her professional voice. “If that’s all,” she pocketed the two vials for her husband. “We’ll owl if we have any questions or issues.”

The Healer handed over a parchment with Ron’s instructions for home and departed.

“That git,” Ron growled.

“That git helped you.”

“It doesn’t mean I have to like him.”

“I don’t expect you to. Now let’s get home. And no more potions, deal?”

“Sorted. I think today was my burn notice for worrying about my hair.”

#romione #7deadlysinsfest #pride

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kootenaygoon · 5 years

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“The boy in the bassinet”

This is a sad story, but also a beautiful one.

Beneath the harsh glare of the midnight moon, late in the summer of 1898, a young woman launched a rickety rowboat off the sandy shoreline of Adams Lake. Nestled securely in the bow was her only son, a hearty infant who squawked delighted at the night sky as she struggled with the oars.

A mother’s love is a mysterious, inexplicable thing, and we will never know for sure what exactly inspired this young woman to take that fateful late night voyage. She was flush with youth, but also heartbroken, and convinced there was only one way to ensure a prosperous future for her progeny. The whispering wind had carried her here, and now it was the lapping waves that she put her faith in. The currents, she trusted, would take her where she needed to be.

After rowing through sheet after sheet of dancing mist, out into the middle of the lake, she help up her lantern to illuminate the blackness surrounding her. She couldn’t see shore in any direction as the boat swayed and rocked beneath her bare feet. Reaching into the the cool waters with one hand, she wondered if she would have the strength to go through with her plan. If she allowed herself to doubt, to fear, then she might be tempted to turn the boat around. Instead she decided to trust her instincts, and the wise voices groaning stoically from the trees, and put her faith in a force much more powerful than herself.

Less than a year earlier she’d been living as a healer and shaman, resolute in her solitary status, when she happened upon a young trapper en route to the Yukon. Men of all stripes were flooding north for the Gold Rush, all possessed by the same delusion, and his grandiose dreams were no different. She loved the way he told stories, though, how he conjured up visions of the future and rhapsodized about their imagined family. Late at night in her teepee she would lay in his snoring arms and wonder if he actually believed his own pretty lies.

By the time her pregnancy was apparent to those around her the strapping trapper had been gone for months. As the seasons changed and her belly swelled, the mother sometimes wondered if he hadn’t been some sort of apparition, a supernatural trick. Was he even human, really? And would he ever return to meet the child he left inside her?

As the woman scanned the darkness, her dress whipping lazily around her shins, she reflected on everything that had brought her to this moment. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her son—quite the opposite! Somewhere during her pregnancy she’d become filled with a holy conviction that her son had a special destiny ahead of him, that he’d been born on the mouth of the Adams River for some preordained purpose. It would break her heart all over again, saying goodbye to him, but that’s what she had to do.

The boy burped at the front of the boat, batting his tiny fists. Onshore he’d been asleep, but the rocking of the waves had awoken him. The wind was beginning to gust, the air was thick with moisture, and all around them the shadows swirled. The mother crouched down to his bassinet and ran one wet finger across his forehead, pushing back a tiny forelock of blond hair.

“You may forget me, sweet child, but I will never forget you. The journey in front of you is yours alone, but my spirit will follow as long as you live. You’re a part of me, just as I’m a part of you.”

With these words she hoisted the bassinet, which she’d constructed from twigs and branches from the forest surrounding her hermitage, and lowered it into the black water beside the rowboat. Her son giggled and spat, lolling his head from one side to the other. He was exactly three months old as his mother took a deep, tortured sigh and released her grip. Tears free-flowed down her cheeks, dribbling on to his face and chest.

“Goodbye, my boy.”

Almost immediately the current took ahold of the bassinet, sweeping him into the mist and out of sight. Legend says the mother instantly regretted her decision, that she spent the remainder of that night desperately searching through the fog, shouting out his birth name. Even to this day boaters report hearing her mournful ululations echo across the water. Had the spirits tricked her? Had the universe used her as a mere vessel, only to snatch away the fruits of her labour? Lightning streaked across the sky as she shrieked, her hair hanging around her face in wet tangles, and she leapt into the icy waters to be never seen again. Each person must decide for themselves if they believe she eventually found peace, deep below the surface, among the lake spirits of lore.

Early the next morning, as a fiery red sun appeared burning on the horizon, the boy’s bassinet drifted past a logging operation at the base of Adams Lake. It swirled across the surface, bumping once or twice against some jutting rocks near shore, then bobbed past a quartet of loggers who were still drinking from the night before. They were hunched over a card game, chugging whiskey and smoking hand-rolled cigarillos. None of them thought to glance out in the direction of the lake, where a large boom of bundled logs was affixed to a piling. That was the next shipment to send downriver, but it was still hours before they had to clock in. The boy drifted by listening to the cacophony of their barbarous voices.

Eventually the bassinet began to pick up speed. The lake was constricting as it wound down towards the choke-point where it transitioned to Lower Adams River. An eagle lazy-flapped overhead, circling the bassinet, then landed on a towering perch to oversee the boy’s passage. It had gotten used to human habitation but had never seen an infant before. Curious, it decided to swoop low to the surface for a better look. The boy screamed in excitement as it neared, startling the proud bird, but eventually it decided the creature meant him no harm. The eagle landed on the edge of the bassinet and looked the boy full in the face, seeing that he was blameless and vulnerable. It doubted this child could survive the serpentine trip down to the Shuswap without help.

By this point the river was thick-packed with salmon in the midst of spawning season, and the surface of the water was the colour of blood. The eagle wrenched one from the river and viciously pecked it apart, shoving the boy shreds of fish flesh with its beak. The boy squished the salmon between his fingers and smeared it on his face, but he ate too. The eagle kept dismembering the fish and the boy kept eating until there was nothing left but a sloppy skeleton. The eagle marvelled at the child’s appetite and once again took wing, following the boy’s progress at a distance. The little raft continued its lackadaisical descent, getting pulled into eddies then swept through roiling waves. Through it all the little passenger never cried, or wailed for his mother, but rather hooted and laughed through the rollicking chaos of the rapids.

Finally, by that afternoon, the boy’s bassinet began the descent towards the Adams River Gorge. Cliff faces dotted with pictographs jutted out of the foliage, and the river narrowed as the current continued to pick up speed. A team of Indigenous fishermen were perched on the rock ledges brandishing long-handled dip nets, and they were scooping bucketfuls of fish from the raging, watery chaos below. They sang together, cheering with each new haul, as the women and children sorted the newly caught fish at a small beach downstream. The food they harvested would be used year-round to sustain their population, and it was these salmon that made their entire lifestyle possible. One of the fishermen was taking a momentary break, dangling his feet off the cliff, when he saw the boy approaching the canyon. At first he thought it was some sort of animal, maybe the head of a swimming bear, but eventually he could make out the baby’s features and knew the canyon would mean a quick death for him.

That man’s name may be lost to history, but what he did next will be long remembered. He threw aside his fishing equipment and sprinted to an outcropping upstream, a hundred feet above the boy, then hurled himself into the current. His people had been fishing in the canyon for 10,000 years and knew every nuance and rock ledge, every cave and crack and fissure, but nobody had ever jumped from that spot. The other fisherman cried out in alarm, confused, as their compatriot hurtled through the air. What was he thinking? Didn’t he know the water level was too high, the rapid too powerful? The men were dumb-founded at first, wondering if they had just witnessed an impromptu suicide.

The man reached the bassinet just as a curling wave flipped it, sending the infant sprawling facedown in the water. He took ahold of the kid by one ankle, hoisting him out of the water, as he frantically paddled for shore. His friends were shouting at him now, running down to the river’s edge, reaching out their dip nets to save him. The man knew he could grab ahold of one and save himself, but that would mean letting go of the baby. Instead he rolled on to his back and held the child aloft, like an offering to the sky. He knew that if they could make it through the next thirty seconds there would be calm water waiting for them at the bottom.

Unfortunately, the river had other plans. As he rounded the bend of the canyon the man beheld a beastly wave hungry for carnage. Instinctively he understood, without even processing it, that he was looking at the instrument of his death. The wave was thrashing relentlessly into the cliff wall and sucking everything deep underwater, drunk on destruction. And though he only had a few moments to think, the man knew exactly what he had to accomplish with his final act on this earth. Rearing up with a mighty kick, he swung the baby overhead by the ankle and hurled him towards one of his friends perched on the cliff walls. Within seconds he’d disappeared into the wave, and out of sight, but the baby was giggling content from where he hung in a drooping dip net.

Later that evening the tribe gathered on the beach of the canyon, surrounded by their salmon catch. The man’s lifeless body was carefully arranged in the sand, his arms neatly tucked across his chest. Women wailed and mourned while the men muttered in concerned, angry voices. Who was this child? The man had a wife, and kids, so why would he give his life for some white stranger? Some argued it was a good omen, while others were convinced it was bad. They argued late into the night, standing around their beach fire and fighting about the boy’s fate.

“He came from the river, he should go back to the river!” said one tribe member.

“Who knows how many more lives he could cost us?” asked another.

Finally, a wizened elder named Quaalaout spoke up. For hours she’d stayed silent, listening patiently to the bickering, but everyone quieted once they heard her soft whisper of a voice. She was three feet tall, with waist-length white hair, and had been alive for nearly two centuries. She waddled to the edge of the flames and looked at all the rapt faces staring out of the darkness at her, then she sighed. She’d long wondered why the Creator had kept her alive this long, why she’d been waiting all these years on the shores of Adams River, and now she understood.

“We have built our lives around this river. It nourishes us, it sustains us, it keeps us going from one generation to the next. Because of the river, we need never thirst. We were hungry, so the river brought us salmon. Men live and die, but the river remains. As a people we have always put our faith in the river, and we must put our faith in it now. We know not its reasons, but it has brought us one man and taken another. Who are we to question its reasons?” she said.

Quaalaout then reached down to lift the baby, which was nearly half her size. She grunted from the weight, then positioned him on her hip. She took a long, quiet moment before saying anything else. Hundreds of faces stared out at her. Then she explained that the boy would be the newest member of the tribe and would be named “Joe-tsuschecw” — a word that meant “river’s gift” in her language. She heard some murmurings of disapproval, while others chattered excitedly, as she lifted him up for them to see.

“We will call him Shuswap Joe.”

The Kootenay Goon

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evolutionsvoid · 7 years

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Marsh Dryads (Also known as Swamp Dryads) live pretty much where you would expect them to. Bogs, swamps and marshes is where they love to be. Anywhere that is wet and muddy is where you will find these Dryads. Their homes and villages are often set in the heart of the swamp, so deep in the murky lands that one either has to be intentionally searching for them, or extremely lost. They do not do this out of fear or dislike of the outside world, they just really, really like their homes built in the wettest, squishest places possible. Their homes are often rudimentary huts built out of gnarls of roots and stumps. These homes are rarely taller than a single story, as their architecture goes more for a low, wide profile. The florescence of certain swamp plants and vines are used to light up their homes, bathing their entire town in a soft, yellow green glow. Their lights shining from windows and holes have been spotted by travelers from time to time, and mistaken for ghostly apparitions. Tales of glowing swamp ghouls or orbs of light are often just a Marsh Dryad home in the distance. The Marsh Dryad has several obvious differences that one can immediately spot. Which one you notice first depends on what sense you rely on the most. Anyone approaching the vicinity of a Marsh Dryad will be aware of their presence real quickly due to the reek in the air. To put it quite bluntly, Marsh Dryads smell terrible, and its not because of poor hygiene. Their bodies, specifically their head caps, are constantly pumping out a foul odor into the air. To practically every other species, they reek of rotting, spoiled meat, like a squashed squirrel cooking on a cobblestone road in the summer. Terms that I have heard thrown around to describe it are "sharp," "greasy" and "sickly musk." Marsh Dryads are not bothered by the smell in the slightest. The odor they release is slightly different with each individual Marsh Dryad. Apparently a Marsh Dryad can take a whiff of a fellow sister and be able to break it down to what region and village they came from, as well as age and diet. To them, no two Marsh Dryads smell alike, and they often can announce a friend by name well before they actually walk into the room.

This reek is not only used for identification. This foul smell they create works in tandem with other adaptations that they have developed in their swampy homes. The mouth of a Marsh Dryad has long thin teeth-like structures formed into their lips, while a long, wet tongue hangs freely on the outside. These structures are all used to hunt their favorite food: insects. Be it bugs, spiders and other multi-limbed critters, Marsh Dryads love to chow down on them. While some bug eaters may chase their prey, Marsh Dryads prefer to have the food come to them. This is why they constantly emit a foul odor, which brings in bugs by the droves. To catch these insects, Marsh Dryads produce copious amounts of sticky saliva within their bodies. By that, I mean a lot of saliva. You may think I am over exaggerating this, but I do mean ever word. The amount of spit they make is almost out of control. It drips from their mouths and their tongues are constantly slathered with it. With their long tongue, they will lick themselves to cover their bodies with the sticky substance and merely wait. Bugs that are attracted by the odor will try to land and become stuck in the saliva. After enough critters are trapped in their goo, a Marsh Dryad will either lick it off or grab a big glob and eat it. When traveling deep into a swamp, it is not uncommon to see Marsh Dryads perched on logs or rocks, coated in spit and patiently waiting for food to come. When seeking larger prey, Marsh Dryads will dive under the muck and ambush their food. Their sticky saliva will be used to blind prey or choke them, while their tongues and arms seek to bind them. The legs of a Marsh Dryad have webbing that they can use to either walk atop squishy floors, or sink below them. If danger ever arises, a hasty retreat into the water is their preferred method. Though used mainly in hunting, the gooey saliva of a Marsh Dryad is a constant throughout their lives. Even when walking around town, they will be dripping with spit, and their tongues hanging from their mouths. Funny enough, Marsh Dryads can indeed retract their tongues fully into their mouths, but they never seem to do so unless they are sleeping. Whenever I have asked them, they seem to not be aware that it is hanging out, probably because they are so used to it. The only answer I have gotten is "why not?" which is hard to argue. Their saliva is used at times for binding and building, allowing them to stick things together or seal up holes. Marsh Dryads with saplings will often coat their young with their own saliva, which sort of marks them with an extra odor. A mother who has lost her sapling in a crowd or swamp can usually sniff them out and find them rather quickly. On the note of children, young Marsh Dryads do indeed produce saliva. Days after they have emerged from the sprouting stage, they will begin to secrete it from their mouths. Unfortunately, they do not seem to have a handle on their saliva production and are often creating too much for their bodies to handle properly. While regurgitation and vomiting is common with saplings, Marsh Dryad saplings do so a lot more often and create a much bigger mess (but not really to a Marsh Dryad's eyes). At a frequent rate, they will involuntarily spit up gobs of the saliva, which is a bit more watery than that of an adults. This does not seem to be painful to them, but it can be quite inconvenient to the property around them. If you ever find yourself baby-sitting a Marsh Dryad sapling or just holding one, accept the fact that you are going to get barfed on. It is just going to happen. With the amount of spit they produce and yack up, it is a joke among Dryad parents that Marsh Dryad saplings are the hardest saplings to lose, as they will end up gluing themselves to the floor on accident. On a personality level, Marsh Dryads are just as cheery and upbeat as other Dryads. Their appearance may be worrisome to others, but they are not as "feral" as Desert Dryads or as serious as Conifer Dryads. They rather enjoy life and the swamps they call home. The only real differences they have is what they consider "appropriate" or "pleasant." Things that smell horrendous to others are loved by them, especially if its reek attracts bugs. Anything that does not produce such a strong odor, be it smelly or not, is interpreted as "bland" and "boring." Large areas of solid ground make them uneasy, as their instincts always call for a squishy terrain to dive in if danger rears its head. The concept of dirty and wet being a negative thing is pretty alien to them, and they will be baffled when people complain about it. All in all, Marsh Dryads are still kind and happy to receive visitors from the outside world. Unfortunately for them, many do not wish to come to their towns. While Marsh Dryads are nice and lack the hostility that other species may have, their environment and behaviors are things people don't want to deal with. Trudging through a swamp is already bad enough for many, and combining that with dampness, spit and a constant reek of rotting meat makes visits to their domain wholly unappealing. I haven't even mentioned the way they greet others. A Marsh Dryad hello involves two licks on one's face, one for each cheek. If a visitor does not like that form of greeting, they can go in with a hug or handshake instead. Keep in mind, though, that they are always coated in sticky spit, and they do not wipe that stuff off when it comes to hugs. Even the loving nuzzles that practically all Dryads use for close friends and family involves getting a face full of spit. During one of my trips, I spent a week in a Marsh Dryad village, looking to learn more about them and understand their common day-to-day life. It was a wonderful time, though a little soggy for my taste, and I left their village with heartfelt goodbyes to all the wonderful sisters I met. Unfortunately such a trip got me thoroughly coated in sticky saliva, which I figured I could just wash off when I got back to a decent river. My laundry day did not come fast enough, and the saliva ended up drying on me and my apparel. I spent about a week and a half stuck in one set of clothing and armor until I could find a rock cutter who had hammers, chisels and a lot of patience. Chlora Myron Dryad Natural Historian

#dryad #marsh #swamp #monster #creature #art #drawing #venus fly trap

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