#But they’re still half/3 quarters human and have human needs to take care of

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 124

Bruce crouched next to the small child that had been bounding around for the last few months healing people, watching idly as they scribbled on a paper with quiet chirps. Spirit, the rest of Gotham had named them, Spirit and their Sister. 

“Hi Mr. Bat!” The child beamed from behind the mask when they finally looked up, burn scar stretching slightly. 

He ignored the gibbering man in the corner, at least for now, seeing as he’d just arrived. “Is your sister around?” The other, well he wouldn’t call them vigilantes seeing as the kids (He’d be surprised if Sister was an adult) focused more on evacuation or healing, but it was the closest word. 

“Nope!” the child put their crayons away in one of the many pockets inside the almost victorian-styled coat, one of the reasons they’d gotten their name. “Uncle Kerian is watchin’ me tonight, ‘cause Sister is busy.” 

“Uncle?” 

“Uncle!” 

Bruce could be forgiven for the startled wheeze when the literal shadows twisted and ripped, a pair of Lazarus-green eyes- or whatever they were- gleaming from the darkness, dark hair twisting as sharp teeth similar to the siblings’ were bared in very open warning. As if the giant flaming sword wasn’t enough of a warning already. 

Ah. That’s who had traumatized the several would-be kidnappers then. 

#dcxdp #dpxdc #prompts #Why are Jazz and Danny in Gotham? Who knows #Pariah and Fright Knight are brothers (Fright = Family after all) #Pariah and Clockwork are exes but they never officially divorced making CW the ghost queen #And he’s adopted both Jazz and Danny making them the ghost prince and princess #But they’re still half/3 quarters human and have human needs to take care of #Bruce staring at FK: Ah… I seem to have a type it seems #Why yes Fright does in fact have a human form #Am I saying halfa Fright and Pariah? #I'm not Not saying that #But there had to be a reason the Observants want Danny-the-Halfa dead so much

[redheadspark]

i had a small idea yesterday for the prompt session! druig with #’s 3, 15, and 18. maybe with reader after the emergence. they’re both EXHAUSTED and even though druig’s hurt, he still wants to make sure his s/o is okay after fighting. you can change things around to your liking ofc!

A/N - YAS! I do like this a lot for Druig! Thanks for requesting this, dear friend!

Scars and All

Summary - Druig seeks you out after the Emergence

Warnings - angst and fluff mixed together

“How is she?”

“I’m more concerned about you since you took a beating from Ikaris on that beach,”

Druig huffed as Phastos was looking him over with some of his equipment, being ever patient but not willing to sit through a thorough exam.  He was sitting on what was left of Phastos’s work table, his armor stripped, and was only sporting his black pants and nasty bruises along his ivory skin.  Phastos and Thena were with him and taking the proper measures to check on him, Sersi was talking to a now-human Sprite in the Meeting Room, leaving Makkari to tend to you in your shared room with Druig.  Although Druig knew that Thena would hold him down in order for him to get checked over and be cleared, he would rather be with you.

You both took a beating on that beach in order to save the world.

Druig took on Ikaris’s beams head-on, thinking for a split moment that he wasn’t going to make it out alive.  It left him both physically and mentally bruised, not to mention the mental fatigue that he endured ignorer to take over the mind of a full Celestial.  Throughout the centuries that he has been on Earth, this was truly the first time he felt beyond tired.  

Not tired, exhausted.

“Your internal organs are still good,” Phastos hummed as he scanned Druig’s backside slowly and with determination, Druig’s leg bouncing on the workstation table as he was sitting Indian Style.  Even his fingers were fidgeting while he was staring dead ahead at the wall.  He was half listening, mostly thinking about you and how you were holding up.  Seeing you on the beach covered in scratch wounds and pale to the touch made his heart sink.  Saving the world didn’t matter to him anymore, nor did stopping Ikaris and stopping Tiamat.  All that mattered was you.

He needed to see you and make sure you were alright.

“The bruises are gonna last a bit,” Phastos explained as Druig was still sitting rather impatiently, Thena was watching like a hawk and not moving an inch while Phastos placed his instruments down and gave Druig a brotherly kind of stare, “I can have Makkiar get some herbs to make a paste and make the bruises shrink down a bit.”

“Not a fan of modern medicine I take it?” Druig asked with a hint of sarcasm, though Phastos cracked a grin.

“Modern medicine is too tame compared to what we endured in the glory days,” Phastos hummed, then pausing for a brief moment before he spoke again, “Plus, we need to be careful since we don’t have Ajak to help us,”

It made the mood more somber in the room, even when it was rue.  Ajak was always there to heal them, from the smallest scratches to the more massive wounds that they would get from Deviants.  The healing was more than the physical, her soothing tones and words of encouragement for every Eternal.  Even Druig, though they both clash plenty of times when it comes to the philosophy of Eternals, admired Ajak all the more and missed her terribly.  

“Thanks, Phastos,” Druig replied with a soft smile, hopping down from the workstation table.

“Get some rest,” Thena instructed him with a small tilt of her head to him.  Druig nodded back.

“Will do,” He replied walking past both Phastos and Thena to the hallways that lead to the living quarters.  He was glad that he was cleared from needing anymore assistance, and he was not thinking about himself at the current moment.  

“Couldn’t gone worse for him if it wasn’t for her,” Phastos said to Thena as Druig was walking away, his eyes going right down the hallway and nothing slowing him down.

“She saved his life, as she should since they were meant for each other,” Thena replied in an optimistic hum, which made Druig wish he could smile from hearing that from the warrior herself.  He might have been too tired to smile, or simply more concerned about you to smile from the comment.  But it still warmed his heart nonetheless, adoring Thena all the more.

Once he made it to your shared room, He carefully and softly opened the door to see nothing but darkness.  Your king-sized bed was against the wall, you were nestled amongst the satin sheets and already sleeping with Makkari sitting by your side and keeping a close eye on you.  

Makkari, still clad in her armor, saw Druig and immediately sped over to him, She’s okay.

“Thanks, ‘Kari,” He whispered to her as he gestured his head over to your sleeping form, “How bad is it?”

Her cuts are deep, but they’ll heal in a few days, She explained to him, I know how to make a paste for her wounds to make the healing go a bit faster.  I’ll make some for you too, I think you two need some rest,

“You might be right,” he agreed, seeing her crack a smile slightly before she leaned over to hug him gently.  He hugged her back, feeling her warmth in the embrace.  Once Makkari pulled away and slipped out of the room, Druig looked over at your sleeping form with both concerns and warmth.  

Warmth that you were alive and still with him in this life, and concern that you took a beating to protect him. 

He loved watching you sleep in the past, seeing how soft and content you were as you dreamed away with nothing haunting you.  There were even moments when he would watch you and be amazed at how peaceful you seemed to be in a chaotic and ever-grieving world around you.  He loved that about you and he wished he had that in himself sometimes.  

You had enough love and compassion to fill the both of you up instantly and overflow.  

Moving without him making a single sound, Druig lifted the sheet to finally see you.  The distinct slash marks along your skin, the deep bruises etched near your neck and hips. It was all too much for him to see.  You were never one to harm a fly or start trouble, it wasn’t in your nature.  Yet now, you looked so broken to Druig that it made his heart shatter. 

Immediately he moved, wrapped you close in his arms, and avoided some of the fresher wounds.  You stirred, your head against his neck now as he hummed to alert you.

“…Druig?” You said in a hoarse tone.

“I’m right here, darlin’.  Go back to sleep,” He mumbled to you since the last thing he wanted was for you to wake up and lose sleep.  You moved your arms, grimacing from the drained energy and the tender bruises along your arms.  

“You okay?” You asked him.  Of course, you would be worried for him and his health, not even worried about your own wounds and exhaustion.  Druig loved you for your selfless heart and need to care for others before yourself, both a blessing and a curse for him to witness as the love of your life.  He kissed your forehead, feeling his own energy draining within moments from being in a safe space with you and being in one piece.

“I’m alright now,” he reassured you soothingly, “We’re both alright now.  Let’s sleep, alright?  I got ya,”

As you both slept and healed together, all you both could dream of was your future together.  No matter that there was no village to go back to, losing some of your own to both the Deviants and Ikaris at the same time, none of that mattered compared to what you two wanted in your future together.  Somewhere quiet and away from chaos, maybe near the sea or deep in the forest.  Just you and Druig against the world, scars and all.

The End. 

September Prompt Session

#druig x reader #druig x oc #druig imagine #druig x female reader #druig x y/n #fanfiction #writing #barry keoghan #druig #marvel #marvel cinematic universe fanfitcion #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #mcu phase 4 #mcu fanfiction #mcu #the eternals #eternals fanfiction

[all-for-the-simps]

Star Trek: DS9 characters x male reader

Scenarios based on oneliners, and quotes from my old, discarded fanfics… Part 2

{My original lines will be a different colour and no, I’m not giving you any of the original context–]

[All of these can be perceived as romantic, platonic, or familial etc, etc, everything is up to you.]

🚫female-aligned people DNI🚫

[If any of these are out of character, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing ;-;]

-----

1 -

*Y/N was hired as an expert for a mission on Bajor.*

Sisko: “So, how much do the Bajorans know about this place?”

Y/N: “What do you mean?”

Sisko: “Well, this. How much does the average Bajoran know about it?”

Y/N: “To the average Bajoran, this is just a unit in school. Maybe a big project at the end of the year.”

Sisko: “What about you? How much do you know about the origins and history of these caves?”

Y/N: “Sir… I’m an archeologist. It’s kinda my job to know my history.”

2 -

*Y/N is Bajoran and fought in the Resistance during the Cardassian occupation.*

Kira: “I didn’t know you fought back then.”

Y/N: “There’s a lot about me you don’t know.”

Dax: “So, about that one battle. How did you live?”

Kira: “Last I heard from that battle, no one survived.”

Y/N: “Well, I’m alive, aren’t I?”

Dax: “Then how did you do it?”

Y/N: “Well, a guy stole my gun and I spent half the battle killing Cardassians with a rock until I stole a sword.”

Kira: “You did what?--”

3 -

*Nog, Jake, and Y/N just hanging out like the bros they are, watching old movies.*

Jake: “These old movies have really bad character development.”

*Y/N and Nog groaning because Jake’s said this three separate times.*

Jake: “What?”

Y/N: “You’re a nerd, Jake.”

Nog: “We know you’re a writer, you don’t have to shove it in our faces.”

Jake: “Well, the writers should be better at their jobs!”

*At the same time.*

Nog: “Humans.” 

Y/N: “Men.”

Jake and Nog: “... Y/N, you’re a man–”

Y/N: “I said what I said.”

4 -

*Y/N and Bashir during a mission in space. Their shuttle had been attacked and Y/N is tending to Bashir’s wounds in the shuttle.*

Bashir: “You don’t have to do that, you know? I am a doctor.”

Y/N: “Shut up. People who take care of others still need help.”

Bashir: “Ow!”

Y/N: “I know, I know. Sheesh. This cut is really deep and the bloody thing that would fix it exploded with the replicator. Why did we put the medkit back there?”

Bashir: “It’s fine, Y/N. I can do it myself. Stop worrying about me.”

Y/N: “Well, I do worry so shut up.”

Bashir: “Your ankle is twisted and you won’t let me look at it. Why are you helping me when I should help you first?”

Y/N: “This wound will get infected if I don’t clean it. Which is what I’m doing, so suck it up.”

Bashir: “Ow! Leave it alone. I can deal with an infection.”

Y/N: “If you wanted to die, you could have just said.”

5 -

*Y/N (Bajoran officer) meeting Dukat and Damar for the first time.*

Dukat: “Ah, you must be the man that spoke to us over communications.”

Y/N: “I am.”

Damar: “Are you going to take us to our quarters?”

Y/N: “You once ran this station, I think you know where the quarters are.”

Dukat: “Now, now, Lieutenant–”

Y/N: “I’m sorry, I can’t chat much right now. I have to get back to work.”

*Y/N glares at each of them and walks away. Kira sees him in a hallway and walks with him.*

Kira: “What did you think of them? Every time I see either of them, especially on this station, I want to kick them.”

Y/N: “... I’ve got a hitlist now. They’re on it.”

Kira: “Y/N–”

6 -

*Y/N and Garak, high on sleep deprivation and lying on the floor.*

Garak: “What goes on in that head of yours?”

Y/N: “Like usually?”

Garak: “Yes. Sometimes you can be very silly and casual and other times, I wonder if you have as much of a dark past as I do.”

Y/N: “I wonder about that too.”

Garak: “About yourself?”

Y/N: “Yeah.”

Garak: “... Can you elaborate?”

Y/N: “No.”

Garak: “Fine, then.”

*Silence.*

Garak: “Y/N?”

Y/N: “Yeah?”

Garak: “You once said that you thought you could never achieve anything… Yet, you have achieved a higher understanding of how you live your life.”

Y/N: “And?”

Garak: “Surely that’s a significant achievement as of in itself.”

Y/N: “So?”

Garak: “Well… How did you do it? How do you live your life?”

Y/N: “What do you mean?”

Garak: “You always succeed and then deny yourself any rewards.”

Y/N: “The feeling of victory is more valuable to me than human rewards.”

Garak: “... No wonder you’re broke.”

7 -

*Kasidy takes Jake and Y/N on a freighter ride.*

Jake: “Kasdiy! Slow down!”

Kasidy: “Why don’t you have some fun? You’re kids, you need to let loose before it’s too late.”

Y/N: “I’d rather not risk my safety, thanks.”

Jake: “Don’t you think you’re going a little too fast?”

Kasidy: “No.”

Jake: “I feel sick.”

Kasidy: “You can’t be motion sick from this.”

Jake: “Oh, I can be.”

Y/N: “I agree. I’ve almost thrown up three times.”

Kasidy: “Tsk, really, you guys?”

8 -

*Dax and Y/N sneaking around the station late at night.*

Dax: “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

Y/N: “And I’ve had some really good ideas.”

*For further context: Thes two idiots decided it would be great if they broke into Quarks to steal a bottle of alcohol.*

Dax: “Sh!”

Y/N: “I know, I know… I got it!”

Dax: “Ok, let’s get out of here.”

Y/N: “Odo is going to kill me if he finds me here, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

Dax: “Didn’t you get caught for breaking into Garak’s to try on clothes last week?”

Y/N: “Yes. I was bored and it was 3 am.”

Dax: “Wish I had been there.”

9 -

*Y/N’s first time on the station, specifically the Promenade. Y/N’s sitting with Quark, looking around.*

Quark: “How are you finding DS9 so far?”

Y/N: “Kinda grey. I think it needs something but I like the Promenade.”

Quark: “That’s why all the shops have bright signs. It’s good for attracting customers AND it brightens the place up a bit.”

*Insert a comfortable silence as Y/N marvels at the place.*

Y/N: “Wow, this place has a good fucking vibe--”

Odo, *appearing out of nowhere*: “No swearing on the Promenade.”

Quark and Y/N: “?????”

10 -

*Y/N has a thing for Bashir, but won’t admit it.*

O’Brien: “Come on, Y/N. It’s obvious.”

Y/N: “What is?”

O’Brien: “You are.”

Y/N: “No, I’m not. No one can read me.”

O’Brien: “Yeah, not in a million years, mate.”

Y/N: “Miles–”

O’Brien: “There he is. Now, go up to him and say something.”

Y/N: “... No.”

O’Brien: “Fine, I’ll do it myself.”

Y/N: “Wait–”

O’Brien: “HEY, JULIAN!”

Y/N: “Don’t!”

Bashir: “What’s up?”

O’Brien: “Y/N’s had something on his mind for a while and I think it’s time he tells you.”

Y/N, *through gritted teeth to O’Brien*: “You’re gonna find yourself crawling out of this with a beat-up ass if you don’t shut the hell up.”

Bashir: “??”

#fanfiction #x male reader #ds9 #star trek #star trek ds9 #ds9 x male reader #bashir x male reader #o'brien x male reader #kira x male reader #odo x male reader #sisko x male reader #jake sisko x male reader #nog x male reader #garak x male reader #dax x male reader #quark x male reader #gul dukat x male reader #incorrect quotes #original fiction #ds9 x reader #bashir x reader #o'brien x reader #kira x reader #odo x reader #sisko x reader #jake sisko x reader #nog x reader #garak x reader #dax x reader

[thedistantdusk]

Arcadia, Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who followed along! Things are heating up with this chapter! Most of the referenced triggers from chapter 1 apply in this chapter specifically. Here's the link to chapter 2, if you're just seeing this now :)

Thanks again to @secretkeeper13, @accio-broom, @remedialpotions, @jamezbot, @jenoramaca, @not-steve42, @ginisbetterthanfirewhiskey... god, I'm forgetting people, and I'm sorry! But you're all amazing <3

___________________________

D A Y + T H R E E

As fate would have it, Ginny wakes before 0-700.

Not that she sleeps.

Nightmares, the likes of which she hasn’t experienced in years, torment her throughout the night. They leave her scared. Miserable. Guilty. Around 3 AM, she finally reaches for her Dreamless Sleep potion with shaking hands. For more reasons than one, she’s pleased that Harry’s slept on the couch.

She knows now just how stupid this entire mission truly was. The longer she analyzes it, the more she accepts that her bloody pride got her here in the first place. A chance for a promotion, however small, gave her false confidence in her ability to disregard a decade of sexual tension, all while trapped in close quarters with the person she wants the most.

She hopes Harry makes himself sparse today, though she knows that sounds cruel. But the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes they’re on the cusp of something… and not something that would look good on a performance review. He’s been kind and understanding so far, even when she’s fucked things up. She just hopes she can ignore the most human parts of herself until they’ve dealt with this.

So at half-past 8, Ginny — Jenny — emerges from the house in a bright floral sundress and nude pumps. Were it not for the secret weapon clutched in her right fist, she might have fit in quite well... but Jenny has no intention of fitting in. Not anymore. In three confident strides, she marches across the front lawn, bends down, and spears the prongs of a lurid pink flamingo into the grass.

Yes.

She grins and takes in her work. How ghastly against the backdrop of earth tones! How repugnant!

Ginny steals quick glimpses over each shoulder, only to be met with the eerie, blanketed silence that’s defined Arcadia since their arrival. No activity at all. Which means she’ll have no issue with the next bit…

She strides to the mailbox at the end of their driveway and gives it a sharp kick. The post slides out of alignment, leaving it askew. Perfect. She returns to the house with a bounce in her step. Living with the twins taught her a thing or two about how to infuriate complete strangers.

She just hopes it’ll be enough.

___________________________

As luck would have it, it is enough. Her efforts receive reward more quickly than she thought— more quickly than she’s been conditioned to expect.

Scarcely an hour passes before she finds the warning she needs. And to be honest, it could’ve been there sooner; she just figured she’d give it that long before she checked.

Still, it’s not even 10 AM when she opens the door and sees it on their welcome mat: a folded paper with Pee-tri scrolled on the front. She can’t help but admire the sheer cheek as she unfolds it; this is the closest they’ll get to a public call-out for the way Harry insists on correcting everyone’s pronunciation. The message inside doesn’t surprise her, either.

Be like the others before dark. Or else.

Ginny glimpses out at the lawn, just to confirm— and yes. Sure enough. Just as she’d suspected, the flamingo's gone. The mailbox is straight. Everything’s back to normal.

She kicks the door closed with a smirk and wonders if they’re aware of how easily they’ve exposed themselves. How—

“What’ve you got there?” Harry calls from the sofa in the living room. He looks up from his laptop with bleary, dark-rimmed eyes. A wave of guilt washes through her; that sofa clearly didn’t get more comfortable overnight. Not that he would’ve accepted the alternative.

“Erm. A letter.” She waves in front of her and walks into the living room. “I’ve done a great job annoying them!”

He offers a gentle smile. “Any chance you’ll let me know who this ‘them’ is that you’re so worried about?”

Ginny rolls her eyes and settles on the other end of the couch. “You know I can’t—”

“Talk about your work,” Harry finishes, turning back to his computer. “Right.”

“Mm. Not exactly that I can’t… talk about my work,” she ventures, putting her feet up on the white ottoman. “More like I can’t give information until it’s essential knowledge for all parties involved. Based on criteria that I also can’t share.”

“Sounds like a fun job,” Harry deadpans, still looking at the computer. “But anyway, if I were to suggest something like… I don’t know…” He casually tilts the screen in her direction. “The fact that Oliver Skinner definitely has a criminal record, and maybe that’s worth looking into. You couldn’t confirm or deny that?”

Ginny just shrugs. “That’s correct. I can neither confirm nor deny.”

His theory is wrong, of course. Dead wrong.

They wouldn’t have sent an Unspeakable and an Auror into the country if this were a simple Muggle murderer. Harry would be able to suss this out, she reckons, if he had more sleep. Poor bloke.

He groans and cracks his back. “I’m starting to understand why King’s always so frustrated.”

“Probably because he has to deal with you all the time,” Ginny quips, reaching for a magazine on the floor. Ugh. Of course, it’s only the TV guide, Radio Times. They don’t even have a TV, but it came with the Daily Mail on Sunday.

Harry reaches for a glass of water on the coffee table. “Fine,” he relents, in between sips. “I’ll stay in my lane. But if I get bored, I’ll get tetchy.” He gestures to the computer. “And since they’ve given us this laptop, I’ve had time to do a bit of—”

“They’ve given me a laptop,” Ginny corrects, arching a brow. “As you’re well aware, Auror Potter, that is technically the property of the DoM.” She returns to the guide with a shrug. “I just don’t care if you use it, mostly because I don’t expect you’ll be looking up tits all day.”

He chokes on his water; Ginny just laughs and turns the page. Ooh, lovely! Eurovision looks particularly flamboyant this year…

“You’re absolutely right,” Harry says, once he recovers. “I’d never look up tits on government property!” He looks affronted as he hands over the laptop, but she knows he’s not done... not when he’s set that up so perfectly. Annnnd sure enough…

“You of all people should know I'm an arse-man, Ginny.”

Now it’s her turn for an unattractive snort as he winks over his shoulder and marches upstairs.

When he’s gone, Ginny rolls her eyes and opens her laptop. He’s an incredible liar on the arse-man front, but it was a good joke. A simple joke…. one that didn’t deserve looking into.

It’s just unfortunate that can’t stop these stupid fucking butterflies from erupting in her stomach like she’s ten years old again.

___________________________

He launches into the air again, the gardens of his neighbors spanning out in front of him. Each perfectly manicured. Each disturbing in its performative precision. None of this is real; none of this is life.

He pulled out the trampoline after dinner, when Ginny okayed it. He’s not used to that— checking before he does things. This whole exercise has been a great reminder that his teamwork skills are rusty, especially when he’s in a subordinate role. Ron left after their first year to work in the magic shop instead, which only made sense after… yeah. Harry draws a deep breath and jumps again. Ron and Hermione haven’t been problem-solving in his head for ages. There’s been no one to share the burden of choices or—

“OI!” Oliver’s voice thunders across the garden.

Harry smiles and takes another huge leap into the air. Just in time…

He rips open the fence door and stomps over, hands balled into fists. Harry’s never seen anyone look quite so furious while dressed in cashmere. And standing beside a trampoline.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Oliver hisses, eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you trying to make enemies, Henry? Is this entire estate a bloody joke to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry lands on his bum before he jumps up again. “This is very serious!”

“Oliver!” Sharon wails, hurrying over. “Oliver. Please! This really—”

“Keep your nose where it belongs, woman,” Oliver snarls, looking at her like she’s scum on his shoe. “No one wants your opinion!”

Sharon flinches… and this, more than anything else, gets Harry’s back up. “No need to take it out on her!” he snaps, climbing down from the trampoline. “Talk to me if you’ve got a problem, Ollie. Why not—”

But just as Harry’s feet touch the grass, something very weird happens: A dull buzzing fills his ears. Sharon and Oliver hear it too, but unlike Harry, they aren’t looking around in bewildered confusion. In a flash, the rage on Oliver’s face transforms into something much different: fear. And as the pressure grows, Harry can only watch as Oliver grabs Sharon’s hand, yanking her from the garden, when—

An unmistakable sound replaces the buzzing. A large piece of glass from somewhere in the front of the house shatters on the pavement. And with that, the buzzing stops.

Birds chirp again. Someone laughs in the distance. Harry jabs a finger in his ear, trying to clear it, but it seems Oliver’s returned to his furious state. He lunges towards Harry, a vein ticking in his neck, his hands outstretched as if to push him over— but Harry doesn’t have time for this. He’s already running around him, bolting towards the source of the sound, his hand inching for his pocket…

Because whatever they’ve got going on isn’t related to Oliver, is it? No… definitely not. That buzzing was too creepy to be muggle. Harry hadn’t really been convinced of the Oliver theory in the first place, even if the wanker has a criminal record for drunk driving. He mostly suggested it to Ginny to see if she’d give him any information.

Harry spots the broken glass the second he reaches the pavement. The lamppost right outside their house has shattered, light bulb and all. Bits of glass sparkle on the street, but the lamppost is at least 10 feet high. Harry scans around for signs of a ladder, or some form of a projectile… any method someone might’ve used to— oh! A baseball rolls around in one of the open garages across the street. He’s about to march over and collect it when his conscience stops him.

Because that’s the definition of circumstantial evidence, isn’t it? Harry sighs, rubbing his forehead. Snatching the baseball while working alone is one thing, but it’s not worth risking Ginny’s job. Especially because he reckons these thoroughly unmemorable homes are each equipped with monitoring systems. At absolute best, that would be… awkward to explain to the muggle police, especially without an obvious connection between the ball and the shattered lamppost...

Harry’s just about to turn back inside and write it off a freak occurrence when—

Shit.

His breath freezes in his throat.

What the...

He blinks a few times to make sure he’s not imagining it, but no...

There’s no weird buzzing this time… but something else is happening instead. The grass on the far side of their yard is bulging and curling, right in front of his eyes. The soil creaks as this… this mass — a huge sphere of some sort — passes through; bits of dirt fly into the air before settling back.

Harry’s veins turn to ice, his stomach churning. Work has introduced him to new, vile varieties of ghouls and nasties. He’s been bitten by a leprechaun. Stalked by a vampire. He’s encountered every disturbing otherworldly menace that one could imagine.

But he’s never seen anything like this.

His only solace is that it’s headed towards Mike’s empty house… this massive, rolling boulder that travels beneath the soil. ‘Boulder’ isn’t exactly the right term, though; he’s never seen a boulder move with a slinking, predatory grace. He’s never gotten gooseflesh from a rock, no matter how large.

And try as he might, he can only stand there, wide-eyed, his heart racing. Because now he knows for sure what Ginny only alluded to before: whatever they’re chasing isn’t human.

And it’s aware of them.

___________________________

The door creaks open less than five minutes after the glass shatters, but Ginny’s prepared.

She’s standing in the alcove just off the entryway, wand in one hand, fire poker in the other. It’s probably not the best strategy she’s ever had— but she reckons that if a Muggle were to catch sight of an altercation, it would be an easy memory supplantation. Wands and fire pokers don’t look that dissimilar, and—

“Ginny?” Harry calls. Directly into her ear.

Shit! She jumps into the air, the poker clattering to the ground.

“When did you learn to move like a cat?” she demands, turning to face him. “You nearly—”

“We need to talk,” he says brusquely. It’s only then that she takes in his wide, haunted eyes. His white pallor. The way he hasn’t even commented on the ridiculousness of her fire poker.

Oh.

He’s scared.

Scared in a way she hasn’t seen him in ages. Maybe ever. Which means he heard…? Shit. She’d might as well ask.

“What do you erm…” She toys with her wand handle. “Want to talk about?”

Harry heaves a tired sigh. “I’m only going to ask you this once,” he says flatly, rubbing his hand over his forehead. Then he blinks up at her, his eyes pulsing and stern. “What the fuck was that?”

“The… shattered lamppost?” she hedges. “I’ve no idea. I just—”

Apparently, that was the wrong response.

Harry groans. “You know damn well I don’t mean the bloody lamppost!” he snarls. “I mean that… that thing! First the weird buzzing, then whatever moved through the grass! It was like some creepy worm, or—”

“—not a worm,” she amends, staring at her cuticles.

This, too, was the wrong reply; she’s never seen him go from bewildered to enraged quite so fast.

Harry lets out a furious roar and kicks at an empty box. “This is why Unspeakables are so fucking annoying!” he shouts, tossing his hands in the air. “You never fucking say anything — even if it might help someone!”

Pfft! He can do better than that...

“Not sure what you expected,” she deadpans. “Would it help if I were a Speakable instead?”

Harry rolls his eyes and throws himself on the couch. Ginny just leans against the door… and waits. She can’t say she blames him for being angry. It’s probably made him feel vulnerable in ways he hasn’t in ages.

“The least you can bloody do,” Harry says, cutting into her thoughts, “is to let me know how to kill it.” He glimpses up at her, his chest still heaving. “Because if anything happened to you….” His hand curls around his wand, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “We both know I’d never forgive myself.”

Fuck.

Her heart clenches; as embarrassing as it is, tears sting the backs of her eyes. She wasn’t expecting that… but it makes perfect sense. He’s not angry because he’s vulnerable; he’s angry because he doesn’t know how to protect her.

Because he’s Harry.

Her Harry.

And try as she might, she can’t deny that. He’s hers… even though now he’s broken and angry and scared and alone. Which is probably why she loves the fucking fuck out of him.

No.

She stops herself, squeezing her eyes shut. Mission. Mission. They’re on a mission.

Right. She clears her throat and steps forward, two papers clutched in her hand.

“What’s that?” Harry grumbles as she hands them over. He scans the pages, brow furrowing. “Sugar… engine oil. Red Dye 40. What am I supposed to do with—?”

Ginny smiles and tries to make this easy. “It’s the report from the necklace. The thing that was on Mike’s medallion… it’s rubbish. Not blood, not some ghost slime. It’s just a weird mixture of types of rubbish.”

She should’ve figured he wouldn’t find this significant.

“What a brilliant scientific discovery.” Harry tosses the paper to the side. “Hermione would be thrilled.”

Ginny gnaws at her cheek, choosing her words carefully… but if he’s already seen it, if he’s already heard it, surely there’s no harm...

Harry rises to his feet and takes a step closer until he’s towering over her, all warm and brooding. They aren’t touching… not exactly. He’s just hovering close enough to give her strength, whether he knows it or not. When she finally gets the nerve to look up at him, his green eyes are swirling with more pain than rage. Truth be told, she prefers the rage. “I deserve to know,” he says thickly, like he’s suppressing something in his throat, “what the fuck is going on.”

Ginny breaks their eye contact. Some of this she hasn’t even shared with Attica yet. She’s violating about a million protocols by telling Harry first, but if they’re together on a mission…

“It’s… not what we thought. Not what I thought,” she admits softly, after a moment. “We came out here under the assumption of chasing something from the Thought Chamber. Something that erm… may have escaped. During a routine experiment.”

He’s not impressed, though. “Yeah,” he says, arching a brow. “I gathered all of that from your intro with the camera, thanks. Do you ever plan on telling me anything new?” He jerks his chin towards the window. “Because you’ve sure as hell never mentioned Evil Grass Monster Experiment #6, and that may have been helpful to fucking know before I saw it.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!

His attitude is more infuriating than his actual words, but she lacks the patience for dealing with either. The bloody nerve, to act all impatient with information that’s kept secret for a reason...

“I don’t have to tell you shit, actually,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “And in case you’re unaware, I can protect myself.”

Harry pulls back with a laugh, but this one is cruel. Dark. The sort she’s never heard from him before. “Makes sense,” he says with a fake grin. Then he taps her on the nose. “Because when that thing outside inevitably kills someone else, we all know how well you’ll manage the guilt.”

Ouch.

She reels back, stung. He’s got to know that’s a low blow. Younger Ginny would have Bat Bogeyed him into oblivion, but she’s better now. She’s changed.

At least that’s what she tells herself as she glares at him, her hands fisted so tightly they turn white. “Say what you mean,” she manages several moments later, when rage isn’t clawing at her chest. “If you’d like to rehash our breakup, Auror Potter, I’m all ears!” She gives her best impression of an icy smirk. “This isn’t exactly professional… but then again, when have you ever been?”

Harry looks like he’s going to respond, but a loud vibration starts in his back pocket. “Fuck!” Now it’s his turn to leap into the air before he realizes it’s just his wand. And really, she’s tempted to laugh— but the look on his face helps her put the pieces together.

Because if his wand’s vibrating, that means it’s an emergency; only department heads can summon their employees like that. They’re the only ones with access to that sort of technology, not that she’s really interested either way.

“It’s King,” he mutters. She’s about to get on him for stating the obvious, but when he peers at her again, his face is filled with such timid yearning that she can only see the 11-year-old boy on the train platform. “Can I…erm. Use your mobile?”

Fine. Ginny nods towards the bedroom, her head still spinning. She’s still a bit angry with him, but he’s so fucking broken. They both are. And besides, they’ve got bigger problems. What could possibly have King so worried that he’d call Harry from a mission? The man is unflappable.

Harry returns a minute later, his face stony, jaw set. In another life, she might’ve seen the bulge in his pocket and asked if that’s just her mobile, or if he’s happy to see her.

Instead, she tucks her hair behind her ears like the seasoned professional she is. “There’s no reception inside,” she points out. “I’ve had luck calling Attica from up the street, right at the corner. Just watch out for…”

Harry smirks. “Grass monsters?”

Ginny draws a breath to consider her options. She could keep him in the dark forever, but isn’t that the whole point of this assignment? To learn? It’s time for the truth, she reckons...

“It’s erm. It’s called a tulpa, actually.”

His eyes light up at this. “A tulpa?”

Ginny shifts her weight and searches for the right words. “It’s a… it’s sort of like an evil imaginary friend, created by a group of people to do their bidding,” she explains, reaching for the discarded papers. “They come from the material of whatever’s underground. I’ve only heard of creatures made from clay or water, but since this village was built on a rubbish tip”— she flicks the papers with her fingers— “that’s our guy!”

She can almost see the gears spinning in Harry’s head as he studies the far wall. “So…” he says slowly, still peering off, “it’s basically an evil dump monster, made of rubbish, that can murder people.”

A laugh slips past her lips. It sounds a bit dumb when he puts it that way. She clears her throat and continues. “I was wrong because it’s not something that’s escaped, more like something that’s—”

“Formed,” Harry finishes quickly. For the first time all week, he sounds intrigued. Like he’s happy to be here. “So… they’ve made it to keep order, then?”

“It would seem so.” She shrugs. “I… honestly don’t know. But between the weird buzzing and the rubbish, it’s the closest match we’ve got. According to the system database, anyway.”

There’s another pause as Harry mulls this over. “So, how do we get rid of it, then?”

How fucked up is it that her heart warms at the way he says ‘we’?

Ginny brushes that aside. “Considering the mask in Gogolak’s house and the way they’ve made a point to tell us he’s in charge, I’d say he’s the one we need to get rid of.”

Harry crosses his arms over his chest but doesn’t object.

“Or at least… knock him totally unconscious,” she adds, swallowing; Gogolak’s a wanker, but she’d rather not kill him, either. “Beyond just being asleep. Because he sleeps at night, but the tulpa’s still here, which means he needs to be down for the count. Comatose, even.”

Harry’s wand buzzes again. Ah, shit; in all the hubbub, she’d forgotten about that.

Concern floods Harry’s face. “Give me five minutes.” He blinks. “Ok?”

She waves towards the door. “Duty calls.”

He gives her a weak smile and turns away; she begins the trek upstairs to send Attica an email update.

“Ginny?”

She stops to look down at him. Harry’s paused, halfway out the door. “Thank you,” he says softly, meeting her eyes. “And… I’m sorry. For everything. Ok? I’ll always, erm…”

But she can’t right now. She actually fucking can’t.

“Later,” she whispers, nearly begging. “Please. Let’s do this later.”

Because of course she loves him.

She’s always fucking loved him, even though that’s changed forms. It’s shifted. It’s evolved. He feels the same way… she knows he’s bloody feels the same way. She just doesn’t have the resources to deal with whatever this fuck is reigniting, right in front of her eyes, as the tulpa dances in the back of her head.

Luckily, he understands. Harry just swallows again, nods at her, and heads out into the night.

___________________________

As it would turn out, he was wrong about the identity of the summoner.

“Great news!” Hermione announces on the other end of the mobile. “MLE found Yaxley. He was hiding in a cave in Romania, just like you said.”

Harry snorts; he wishes that gave him more pride. “Well, if you’d listened to me months ago, then—”

“The important part is that we have him,” Hermione says, cutting across. “We need you back ASAP to prep for witness questioning. You’ll take the stand, of course. The trial’s set to start next week!”

He can practically hear her bouncing with excitement. Very little brings her more joy than trials of former Death Eaters.

“Erm… about that.” Harry rubs the back of his neck. “We’re actually right on the cusp of something here. I’m gonna need a couple more days to wrap things up.”

“Really?” Hermione sounds surprised. “Kingsley and Robards said you’d be pleased. Said you found this mission as useless as they did.”

Fuck, he was such an arse.

“Well, things… changed,” he offers lamely. “It’s going really well. This mission is so important to her. I’d just hate to leave at the last minute.”

“Ohhh?” Hermione draws out the word in a way that suggests she finds herself quite clever. Even before she asks, he knows what she’s on about. “How’s it going with Ginny, then?”

Harry rolls his eyes. Her coy prodding is obvious, even over the phone.

“As I already said, it’s going well,” he replies flatly. “We’re a great team. Always have been.”

But she can’t let him have that one, can she?

“Well… not always,” Hermione allows. “After Percy—”

Harry groans. For fuck’s sake, what’s her obsession with stating the obvious? “Yeah, well,” he retorts, “I’d like to know who you think did well after that, especially since…”

He trails off with a sigh.

Especially since what, exactly?

He toys with the fraying ends of his hoodie string.

Especially since Ginny was the last to speak with Percy? That she still carries the weight of the guilt for what she said that night? That she’s never admitted it, but that he suspects her choice to become an Unspeakable was influenced by the things she wishes she could un-say?

Harry makes a face. That’s corny as fuck, isn’t it? What a thing to pull from his arse...

Hermione interrupts his thoughts for a bit of bragging. “Well, Ron and I have done just fine.”

He can almost imagine her staring at her engagement ring in dreamy affection. The mental image makes his reply sound more bitter than he intends.

“Well,” Harry snaps, “Ron wasn’t the last person to speak with Percy. So I’m not sure how you could compare the two, really.”

Shit.

The silence on the other end tells him he needs to apologize, even if it’s true. Fortunately, Hermione gives him an easy out. “Anyway.” She clears her throat. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night, but we really need you the following day. If you haven’t settled this, we’re swapping you out. Got it?”

Harry sighs. He’s exhausted, but this couldn’t possibly take much longer. Ginny’s more or less got the proof she needs now. They just need to confront Gogolak, knock him out, and—

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

Harry cranes his neck towards the source of the noise. Huh… weird. Far up the street, flashing lights tip him off. That’s definitely Oliver’s Audi, the one parked in the driveway directly beside theirs. It’s in utopia blue with a metallic finish, a detail Oliver probably mentioned at least fifty times the other night. Then, while Sharon and Ginny were out walking the dog, Oliver began a mind-numbing lecture on the car’s exact miles per liter. Harry was a bit drunk, which is probably why he interrupted to ask a much more important maths question: How many blow jobs per week is too many, exactly?

Even from a distance, Harry can tell that Oliver’s nearly the same shade of murderous red now; he storms from the house and turns off the alarm with his key fob. But then he pauses, glancing around like something’s spooked him. He must decide it’s not that significant, though, because he huffs back inside soon enough. Fucking wanker...

“....Harry?”

“Sorry!” Harry shakes his head. “Yeah, sorry, that works. See you then, Hermione.”

“Can’t wait!” she trills. He doesn’t need to see her face to know she’s smug and grinning.

___________________________

Two minutes after Harry leaves, Ginny feels it again: that same sensation she experienced while walking Captain Bone.

She’s sitting at her laptop when it starts… this deeply unsettling shift. It stands the hair up on the back of her neck. She rushes to the window on instinct, but just like before, everything outside looks the same. There’s no “moving grass monster,” as Harry called it. Not yet, at least.

Still, she can’t deny it’s growing louder. Getting stronger. And now that she’s felt it for a bit longer, she can put more words to it. It’s like she’s plummeting through the absence of sound; like all the wind’s been sucked from the air. It’s a building pressure, a mounting unease, and before she knows it, her whole body starts to shake.

Then two things happen in quick succession: that weird feeling stops, and a car alarm begins to blare in the distance.

Weird.

She shudders. This whole thing is so fucking weird. Weird is her job, and this place is still Very Fucking Weird. Seriously, who enjoys living here? She’s reaching for her wand, just in case, when the front door slams open.

In retrospect, it’s a blessing she knows Harry as well as she does… because she can tell that those heavy, clobbering footsteps don’t belong to him. She knows he’s not the one drawing deep, ragged breaths as he marches up the stairs.

She hides around the corner of the bedroom, her heart racing, and goes through a mental list of spells she might use. Shield charms. Enchantments. The buzzing’s stopped, so this probably isn’t the tulpa… but who else would be here? Gogolak? It sounds more human than—

“Jenny?” a deep, soothing voice asks. “Are you in here?”

Her breath freezes in her throat. She’s only heard that voice once before… but it’s so similar to her former life that she identifies it at once.

“Mike?” A wave of relief washes through her. She shoves her wand into her dress as she comes around the corner. Sure enough, there he is, in the flesh. Mike Snodgrass. A man she presumed dead days ago.

“Hi!” Mike pants. He cracks a smile. “I’d offer to shake your hand, but.” He winces, wiping a palm on his ripped khakis. “Been hiding!” Fuck. His whole outfit (yellow Polo, khakis) is the same he wore days ago to unload their boxes, except now it’s filthy. Stained. Like he’s been living beneath cars and inside drains. He’s just missing his Saint Julian medallion, which she’s sent to the Ministry.

Ginny feels sick. She wrote him off as dead so carelessly...

“I’ve been trying to take it down,” he adds earnestly, peering at her. His cheeks are caked in something red and grimy, the same stuff she stuffed into her bra. He’s been tailing the tulpa, she realizes, her stomach plummeting…

Except he’s got no clue what he’s doing.

“I was about to leave the development, to just run away, but that’s when I figured out it was coming for you two!” He shudders, closing his eyes. It feels like he’s been waiting a long, long time to say this. “And I’ve been aimless without Jess in the first place. So what was the point in leaving, really, if I could save…?”

He trails off, clearing his throat; when he looks up at her again, there’s a flash of annoyance in his eyes. “I’ve been leaving clues, though! Why didn’t you listen?”

“Clues?” Ginny sounds like she’s a million miles away.

Mike’s nearly pleading now. “You had to go and kick the mailbox and stick the flamingo in the grass, didn’t you?” He raises his pointer finger. “And even though I left you a note, you had to make it even worse! It only attacks when the sun goes down, see.”

“You… you left the note?” she whispers. She was so certain that it was from Gogolak...

But Mike proceeds in such a rush it’s clear he hasn’t heard her. “It was about to get Henry by the trampoline, so I threw the baseball as a diversion. I broke the lamppost, too— which worked. For a second,” he adds hastily, glancing over his shoulder.

“How did you also set off the car alarm— oh.” Her head’s still spinning. “Buddy system. Right.”

Mike dangles a keyfob. “Covenant rules. Stole the spare off Jane.” He glances into the hall again before whipping back to face her. “It’ll need a sacrifice tonight, though,” he adds grimly. “And every night, until you all have perfect behavior. It was coming for you earlier, see. We aren’t meant to be outdoors after dark without a permit for dog-walking, so.” He shrugs. “If there’s an unapproved disruption like a car alarm, it knows just where to hunt.”

It’s then that the final pieces of this dreadful puzzle slide together in her brain. “Captain Bone,” Ginny breathes; she swears a feather could knock her over. “He was the first since we arrived. Punishment for us sticking out.”

“I couldn’t save him,” Mike laments. “It came up and snatched him. So I threw in my medallion, right after his collar, just to make them think I was already gone.”

“That’s… that was brilliant,” she admits, biting her lip. “Thank you. You didn’t have—”

“Nah,” he says firmly. “I did. For starters, you remind me so much of…” He stops mid-sentence, an odd expression on his face.

For a second, she thinks he’s being sentimental, but then she feels it too.

Shit.

The hairs on her arm stand up. It’s back… that weird way she felt before. Like the air’s sucked from the room. That creeping, clawing silence. This time, though, it only gets louder, louder, louder, until she’s throwing her hands over her ears, all hope of self-defense forgotten.

But Mike knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly what he’s doing. She doesn’t have the chance to object or get her wand before he’s ripping open the closet door and throwing her inside. Ginny opens her mouth in a startled cry, but it’s like she’s screaming underwater, the sound distant and distorted. Mike slams the door closed with her inside and stomps to the center of the room— but now the thundering, roaring wind is causing her physical pain… it’s so loud now that it reverberates in her chest, so loud that her hands shake as she reaches for her wand at long last, but fuck fuck fuck, it’s too late…

It’s too fucking late.

Because Mike’s made a choice. One he can’t take back. He just stands in the middle of the room, puffing out his chest, offering himself as the proud sacrifice, even as the noise grows so loud that Ginny screams her throat raw.

She feels it enter the bedroom, this looming, shifting mass— but by then, she’s certain her ears are bleeding, her eardrums bursting. Her whole body rattles and shakes as she peers through the slats in the closet door, but she’s frozen. Stuck. Miserable. She couldn’t cast a spell if she tried… even as the tulpa oozes into the room, lunges itself back, and swallows Mike with a sickening squelch.

Even though the slats of the door, Ginny’s sprayed with blood. Covered. And she’s dizzy now… so dizzy. A drop of blood trickles into her eye; she reaches up to wipe it from her face, and it’s only then that she hears her own screams again. They reverberate through the small space, anguished and pleading, so loud that she’s certain someone up the street could hear, but she doesn’t care. She doesn’t fucking care. She just screams over and over and over, her nails clawing at the walls, until the world slips away into darkness.

___________________________

Blood.

It’s the first thing he smells as he charges up the steps. His chest squeezes, his eyes water, his head pounds over and over again with one word: No.

No. No. No.

Not Ginny. It can’t be.

But almost as soon as he smells the blood, he hears her screaming, and yes! His heart soars. Screaming is good; screaming means she’s alive and breathing and—

Fuck.

His dinner rises in his throat as he steps into the bedroom. He smelled the blood from the steps, he hadn’t expected… this much. It always takes him aback, exactly how much blood is in one human body, and he’s certainly never seen it sprayed, all over the floor… covering the walls. Covering the closet, even, where Ginny’s still screaming.

He flings open the door, thinking he’s prepared for what he might see. Somehow, though, none of that measures up. Because he’s dealt with tears in his line of work… but he’s never, ever seen her so broken. His chest clenches when he takes her in. Her perfect suburban dress — the yellow floral one, the one he liked so much— is now red and grimy, caked in blood, as Ginny rocks back and forth on the floor, sobs wracking her body.

Blood’s covering her face, too, and her arms. Dried trails of it have crusted around her eyes, like she’s fallen asleep wiping them away… or perhaps lost consciousness. The thought is too terrible to bear. He kicks the door open completely and brings her into his arms in one fell swoop.

She melts against him, her voice raw and broken. “H-Harry!” she manages. “P-please! I need-I need!” She begins to shake, pressing her face to his chest.

“A shower,” he says firmly, stepping into the en-suite. “You… you just need a shower. Ok? And maybe some calming draught, I’ve got some in my luggage, and—”

“No!” she cries, shaking her head. Her eyes are wide and filled with horror. “Don’t… don’t leave. Don’t leave me, Harry, please!”

“I… ok,” he allows, carrying her to his luggage to retrieve the bottle. She clings to his neck as he reaches for it, but she weighs next to nothing. Fuck, she’s so thin… he’d just been too busy eyeing her up to realize exactly how thin. What a complete wanker.

It’s not difficult to unzip the suitcase with one hand and pass her the bottle. “Take this,” he urges, thrusting it into her hands. “Please, Ginny. You’ll feel—”

She’s already downed it before he gets to the end of the sentence. She tips her head back, drawing air into her lungs. “Thanks.” Her voice is still hoarse. Ragged.

“Shower, then,” he murmurs, walking her into the bathroom. He feels her start to relax against him, her body growing looser, as he opens the curtain and turns on the tap.

“Thanks,” she whispers again, her head tucked beneath his chin. His fingers itch with restraint; he’d do anything, he thinks, to hold her against him. To press a kiss to her temple. To tell her he loves her and that she’s beautiful and perfect and he’s sorry, so sorry, that any of this happened and—

She peers up at him, her eyes more focused now, less wide-eyed and horror-struck. “Would you stay here?” she asks, biting her lip. “While I shower? Just so I’m not—”

“‘Course.” Harry swallows, putting her on her feet. She lands with unintentional grace, one foot after the next.

“And can you… erm.” She turns her back to him, lifting her hair above her zipper. His hands shake as he reaches for the clasp. He knows the exact shape of her back as he slides it down, over the middle bump of her white bra strap. He nearly unstraps that for her, too, before he catches himself. It reeks of intimacy, doesn’t it? All of this…

His eyes linger on the soft swell of her bum before he turns around, self-disgust hammering in his throat.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” he adds feebly. He balls his hands into fists as her dress hits the floor… followed by her bra. And her knickers.

“Not your fault,” she croaks, stepping into the shower. He smiles, his glasses fogging up as he moves to sit on the closed toilet seat. Even covered in blood and traumatized, she can't bring herself to blame him.

She finishes several minutes later.

“Erm… towel?” She shuts the water off. “Could you?”

“Sure,” he soothes, thrusting one through the curtain. “D’you want me to leave, or…?”

Ginny manages a weak snort. “Nah. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

He chuckles at the door as he turns around again. She’s right, of course; he knows every bloody inch of her… but it’s not quite the same now.

There’s a tap on his shoulder. He whips around to face her. Admittedly, she looks… better. The blood’s gone. Her eyes are still red-rimmed from sobbing, but she’s looking a bit less like a woman who witnessed a death. Which reminds him…

“Erm. Give me a second to get it all cleaned up?”

Ginny shudders and settles on the toilet seat; he immediately kicks himself for asking. “Yeah,” she says a moment later. “Just… come get me, ok? When you’re done?”

He nods.

___________________________

It can’t be later than 10 PM when he finally carries her to the bed, still wrapped in a towel.

He’s exhausted from the nights on the sofa, but he knows she’s worse off. He’s cleaned the bedroom fairly well, he thinks, considering. There’s a rust-colored stain above the closet that he reckons won’t go anywhere anytime soon. He just hopes she doesn’t see it.

He rests her on the duvet surface, fully prepared to head downstairs for the night— but the pleading look on her face informs him he’s got other plans, instead. So without sharing a single word, he spreads his palms, lies beside her, and waits.

It comes eventually, as he knew it would. One person can’t deal with all that, see all that, without eventually cracking. And as a fellow fucked-up individual, he would know.

It starts as simple tears, ones that he wipes away. It progresses into sobs… full-body sobs. The sort he heard coming up the stairs. He’s surprised she’s got any left, but Ginny’s always been the sort to keep him on his toes. And just as her water-dark hair starts to dry and sprout red tendrils, he faces the thing he expected least of all: a kiss.

She starts softly. Slowly. Her lips so tender and soft that he forgets everything. She moans against his mouth, her whole body leaning into it; he’s instantly reminded of how much he’s fucking missed her. How lonely he’s been. How could he have forgotten the tiny mewl she makes in the back of her throat as her tongue parts his lips? He must’ve blocked it out, he realizes, as she begins to slide her body against him, panting, as she tips her head back. His lips trail down her neck, nibbling and biting, as she grips his arms and hair and bum. Because if he’d remembered all of these little details, he’d have gone mad long ago.

He’s throbbing hard by the time he gets to the tail end of her towel, which brushes the tip of her thighs. He tries to adjust himself, to—

“You can take it out, you know.”

Oh. He blinks up at her, his breath freezing in his throat. She’s peering down at him, her lips red and swollen.

“I know you’re hard,” she adds, her voice still raw. “So if it’s uncomfortable… take it out.”

He arches a brow from his position at her thigh. He’s about to retort with something snappy. Something that might keep them bantering for ages. But Ginny has no patience.

“Please.” It’s nearly a command. She blinks down with glassy eyes, her lips swollen. “I want you, Harry.”

Fuck. He groans, rubbing his cock against his palm to relieve some of the pressure. It doesn’t help for long, not that it matters; he’d rather focus on her, anyway. So with a slip of his fingers, the towel opens. She releases a breathy moan, tipping her head back.

Naked.

She’s finally naked. In front of him. His breathing grows ragged, his eyes scanning the territory somehow both totally familiar and completely new. She is thinner; he was right. Her hip bones jut out now, her stomach more sunken. But most of her is the same. The smattering of freckles on her chest. The way her breasts have puckered and darkened, the way her chest is rising and falling so fast. The thatch of dark red hair at the apex of her thighs.

“Well,” she quips. He blinks up at her as she reclines on her elbow. “Are you going to fuck me, Harry, or just stare all day?”

With that, he removes his glasses and gives her a smirk— her only real warning— before he kisses her one more time, just as his fingers spread her thighs.

She opens beneath him with a breathy sigh. Fuck, she’s so wet… he groans into her mouth as he dips his fingers further and further down. She’s dripping by the time he finds her clit… by the time he begins to swirl in tight circles. Clockwise. The pattern that screams of such intimate familiarity that it’s as if the years never passed.

He’s scarcely done anything, but she’s already writhing against his fingers, arching her back. “Please,” she slurs after a minute, “put them in.”

He’s never been one to deny her, has he?

It’s like muscle memory how quickly he finds his face between her thighs instead. He spares a moment of self-indulgence as he closes his eyes, breathing her in. She smells like home. She always has. It’s comfort… but more than that, it’s proof. Proof she wants him as much as he wants her. It’s why he stuffed his face in her knickers whenever he got a spare moment on the Horcrux hunt: one hand on that black lace, the other pulling at his cock. It’s bloody erotic, seeing proof of how much she wants him… but it’s more than that.

It’s love.

And despite all the things he’s forgotten tonight, he’d never forget this. He presses two fingers inside her, his hands shaking, and lets his body do the rest. Fuck, he’s missed this. She cries out above him, her hands grasping at his hair, tugging him closer. He’s never forgotten this… the way she tastes. The way she smells. The right way to run his tongue against her clit. Exactly how many fingers she needs, pressed against her just there… crooked in a certain position… just as she begins to thrust herself up and down on them, her cries growing louder, more insistent… and yesssss, there it is, she’s right there, right fucking there—

“Harry!” Her hair rubs against the pillow with abandon. “I’m… I’m so close,” she pants, her body starting to shake.

“Come for me,” he commands, his cock fit to burst, his face slippery. “Come for me, Ginny.”

He returns to her clit for a split-second before she says the words that change everything.

Her whole body tenses, a blush spreading up her chest. “I love you!” she cries, her voice strangled… and with that, she’s coming, clenching around him, her body shaking as he rides her through it.

What he doesn’t tell her is that he comes, too. The second those words wash over him. Those fucking words that prove he’s fucked up, fucked up, fucked up… but he can’t exactly help that, can he?

He just shoves his face into the duvet, thrusting his hips once, twice, and with a grunt, he’s off. His cock tightens and bursts, filling his boxers. Soaking through his jeans. He pulls back, dizzy, when the clenching finally stops.

Luckily, she seems too distracted to notice. Ginny’s half-asleep as he rises from between her thighs, pulling the blanket over her. He presses a kiss to her temple and makes quick work of removing his soggy clothes. Fairly embarrassing, this. Like he’s 16 again and rutting on the lawn.

He mutters a quick cleaning charm and changes into basketball shorts before settling down beside her in bed… making sure he’s on top of the duvet.

But as he drifts off, there’s something far less sentimental that hammers through his chest: They need to get their shit sorted.

Before he ever, ever lets that happen again.

#harry/ginny fanfic #harry x ginny #harry potter fanfic #harry potter fanfiction

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice- Chapter One

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

AU in which Scully was never assigned to The X Files

“Time passes in moments ... moments which, rushing past, define the path of a life just as surely as they lead towards its end. How rarely do we stop to examine that path, to see the reasons why all things happen, to consider whether the path we take in life is our own making or simply one into which we drift with eyes closed.”

May 1996

Yellow beams of light slip through the blinds, casting stripes across the comforter draped over her hip. She rolls onto her back, pulling in a deep breath as she flexes her wrists and ankles, waking her joints from a deep, dreamless sleep. An arm snakes across her belly, tugging her close as sleep-warm breath tickles her ear.

“Good morning,” Ethan croons, his voice creaky from lack of use.

She rolls to her other side, facing him.

“Morning,” she returns with a soft smile.

“What time is it?” he asks, his eyes blinking sleepily, threatening to close again.

“Early. I have three autopsies today on top of four classes; I need to get a head start. You should go back to sleep,” she says quietly, brushing her fingers across his bare back comfortingly.

He allows his eyes to fall closed and she watches him for a moment. His chocolate brown hair could use a trim, though he’s always preferred to wear it a little long to offset his thick, square eyebrows. She traces a finger along his jaw, landing on the cleft of his chin before considering the deep Cupid’s bow of his lip. She wonders if she has enough time to kiss him in that way that he knows means business.

“I’m gonna get up and make you breakfast,” he grumbles, apparently not sleeping at all.

“No, I’ll grab a muffin at work or something, it’s okay,” she implores.

He pushes up onto his elbow with a soft groan, leaning over to kiss the skin in front of her ear.

“You’re so full of shit, Dana. If I don’t force you to eat breakfast you’ll starve ‘til lunch and you know it,” he says as he gives her a playfully stern look.

She twists her mouth into a suppressed smirk. Guilty as charged.

He makes her eggs and toast while she showers and gets ready for her day, packing clothes for the time she’ll spend in the morgue as well as the classroom. They’ve talked about moving closer to Quantico to shorten her commute, but Ethan is only ten minutes from work so then it would just be him schlepping an hour to and from Georgetown every day. When they’re ready to settle down and start a family, they’ll need to figure something out. For now, it works.

She eats quickly as Ethan studies her over his coffee cup with small, deep-set blue eyes, his expression soft and affectionate.

“What?” she asks around a mouthful of eggs, her eyebrows furrowed.

He shrugs and smirks at her. “Nothin’.”

She dips her chin and glares at him from underneath her eyelashes. “Ethan,” she says in a chastising tone.

He shrugs again and laughs. “Can’t a man just gaze at his girlfriend over breakfast? You’re beautiful, I’m just taking in the view.”

She rolls her eyes and unsuccessfully tries to suppress a smile. “I gotta get going, thanks for breakfast,” she says as she stands and leans down to kiss him quickly on the mouth. He sets his cup down and grips her by the hips, pulling her to stand between his knees. She rests her palms on his shoulders and looks down at him expectantly.

“Have a good day,” he says softly.

She leans down again and kisses him more properly, wishes him a good day as well, and drives south.

——————————————————

The blaring shriek of the alarm clock startles him awake, though it feels like he just fell asleep moments ago. After a few unsuccessful attempts he silences it with a forceful jab, then sits up with a groan. A fluffy black cat with a bob tail leaps up onto the bed, greeting him with a kitten-like mewl.

“Good Morning, Priscilla, you hungry?” he asks as he scratches the cat behind its ears, smiling sleepily at the rumbling purrs that immediately start rattling her rib cage.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he makes his way to the kitchen where he pours a quarter cup of dry food into a bowl on the floor, then starts the coffee. He opens and closes cupboards and drawers, procuring a cup, sugar, and a spoon.

Every time he has to get into a drawer, cabinet, or cupboard, their sparse contents remind him of Valerie. Nearly a year later and he’s still living off the 3 spoons, 2 forks and one knife she left behind, and that’s just the silverware drawer. He doesn’t remember his apartment feeling this empty before she moved in, but now that she’s gone it seems like there’s a Valerie-sized hole everywhere he looks. As amicable and mutually desired as their split had been, it’s been hard to adjust to living alone again. Well, not entirely alone, given that he retained Priscilla in the breakup. She made it a bit easier to move forward after he and Valerie both admitted that while they cared for each other greatly, it wasn’t the kind of love that made you want to grow old on a porch swing together. They may have been best friends, but soulmates they most certainly were not.

He’s grateful to have had her in his life for the time he did. When The X Files were shut down, he wouldn’t have made it through the transition back to the BSU without her patient support, much less her agreement to store the case files he was able to pilfer in their shared apartment. He may not love his job anymore, but it keeps the bills paid and he needs that kind of stability in his life. If it weren’t for Valerie, he probably would have just quit the FBI and gone to work with the Gunmen.

He showers and shaves, consumes two cups of coffee and half an English muffin, then dresses in a charcoal grey suit and red tie. On his way to the door, Priscilla nearly trips him as she weaves through his legs, begging for affection. He stops and crouches down to pet her, and she flops onto her side, closing her eyes in satisfaction.

“I’ll be back later, Prissy Girl,“ he promises, scratching her belly until she gets a wild look in her eye and clamps her pointy claws into the back of his hand.

“Ouch!” he says with a laugh. “You’re not much different than a human woman, Prissy. You don’t know what you want, do you?” She looks at him with alarm as he withdraws his hand, emitting a meow in protest.

He pats Priscilla on the head and locks the door behind him, driving into Washington for another glorious day of looking into the minds of murderers.

#the x files #txf #dana scully #fox mulder #x files #alternate universe #fanfiction

[vodkassassin]

Mobei Jun POV because people keep asking for him lol ;3

—

Shang Qinghua does not make an appearance at this morning’s war room council.

It really should not make that much of a difference. Mobei Jun should be able to manage the council himself, should be able to direct his generals without second guessing his own orders. He should be able to lead his own kingdom without the ever present aid of his right hand human advisor.

Except. Shang Qinghua does not make an appearance at this morning’s war room council, and nothing ends up getting done at all.

Mobei Jun dismisses the lot of them two hours early. The gathered generals and council members and network agents don’t look incredibly surprised — instead, they have the gall to look both relieved and concerned in equal measure, and Mobei Jun finds that he cannot even fault them for it.

The North has grown used to having Peak Lord Shang at its helm, always managing every faucet of it, and now it seems that not even a single council meeting can be attempted without Shang Qinghua’s input.

It should be insulting. It’s ridiculous, really, how Mobei Jun has become so reliant on a single person. It should be embarrassing. He should feel offended, ashamed, pathetic.

Mobei Jun can’t feel any of these things.

He was raised as the heir apparent of the Northern throne. The crown prince. He was taught the history of his kingdom, learned its politics and rituals and government. It was his birthright. He knows how to run a kingdom.

Or, at least, he knows how to run a kingdom the way that his father and the kings before him would have.

The kingdom is prospering now, however, and it has nothing to do with how his predecessor would have ruled it.

Because Mobei Jun had also spent a good half of his life with Shang Qinghua beside him. With Shang Qinghua giving intelligence and advice and then, steadily growing bolder and more comfortable, just taking over this task or that so that Mobei Jun would not need to trouble himself.

And the North flourished.

Mobei Jun may be the king. He may be the one that sits on the throne and has the final say. He may be the one that the rest of the world and the realms credit for his homeland’s current prosperity. But there isn’t a single citizen in the North, Mobei Jun foremost, that does not know who truly rules this kingdom.

The gathered demons troop out of the hall without a single complaint, all in agreement that they should instead meet up at a later time. That being a time when Lord Shang is more available is unspoken but understood by everyone present.

Mobei Jun steps down from his throne and leaves through a door behind it, his cloak sweeping behind him as he makes his way down the hidden back hall that leads toward his royal wing.

His father used to live in that room, before he’d died. His mother had lived in this one. Mobei Jun’s own quarters he passes by similarly, before coming to a stop before a set of doors near the other end of the hall, more toward where the corridor meets with the rest of the palace.

He’d wanted to situate the suite closer to his own, and subsequently the throne — for reasons pertaining to safety, of course — but Shang Qinghua had argued extensively until Mobei Jun gave in.

He always gave in.

Truly, Mobei Jun is weak.

The two guards standing outside the door salute him, silent as the grave, and he eyes them both with a sharp glance. Their presence here makes it clear that what he seeks is beyond those doors. Neither of them speak, not even to greet him as he stands there, and it makes Mobei Jun suspicious.

He is quiet, thusly, as he pushes the doors open and steps into the room.

He surveys the suite, eyes roving over each space. The foreroom is empty and still. The bedchamber just beyond its open doorway to the right is similarly devoid of life. As is the kitchen and dining area.

Mobei Jun pulls the door closed behind him as he steps further into the suite, careful to make sure that it does not make a sound as it shuts. He walks past the foreroom and enters into the office, eyes immediately zeroing in on the person he has been searching for.

Of course.

Shang Qinghua is folded over his desk, face pillowed into his arms, breathing steadily and quietly. He’s fallen asleep over a half finished document, the ink not even dried and therefore making a mess of his sleeves. Papers and scrolls are scattered across the desk around him, a tall stack of finished work sitting precariously to his left.

Mobei Jun steps over to stare down at him in silence. Shang Qinghua is dead to the world, a soft and barely audible snore escaping him as he turns his head to the side. There’s a smear of ink across one cheek which contrasts lightly with the dark smudges beneath his eyes that are not made of ink.

His small movement causes the tower of papers to sway. Mobei Jun reaches out and lifts the top half of it away, settling it down on the table beside it. He does this again so that there are three stacks of paper, instead. They take up more space on the desk, but pose far les of a risk of falling over and making a mess. Or toppling onto the sleeping peek lord.

A soft, incomprehensible hum tumbles from Shang Qinghua’s lips, and Mobei Jun reaches out to run a thumb over the ink on his cheek. It’s still damp, smearing across the skin, and comes off onto his fingers.

Catching himself, Mobei Jun withdraws his hand. He stoops down and gathers the man into his arms, lifting Shang Qinghua up until he rests snugly against Mobei Jun’s chest.

He stands there for a moment, gaze riveted on the sleeping face. Shang Qinghua turns his head into his collar and breathes out a puff of warm air that tickles Mobei Jun’s exposed collarbone.

He takes in a careful breath, and makes his way out of the office, carrying Shang Qinghua across the suite and over to the bedroom.

It’s odd, having Shang Qinghua in his arms like this. He fits so neatly, small but firm. Comfortable. Mobei Jun has, before now, only ever held him like this when he was injured or unconscious. To have the peak lord here in his arms without a sense of urgency pushing him forward and not letting him enjoy it is startlingly different.

He steps up to the bed and leans back, carefully balancing Shang Qinghua against his chest with one arm braced around him. He uses his now freed arm to grab the corner of the covers and peel them back.

With a space open in the bed, now, Mobei Jun readjusts his hold and settles his armful of cultivator onto the mattress. Holding Shang Qinghua upright for a moment, he slides off the ink-stained outer robe and then lowers the man down onto the pillow.

The peak lord immediately turns onto his side when he comes into contact with the soft sheets, reaching out an arm to throw over the pillow as if to hug it to himself. He falls still, and lets out a quiet sigh.

Mobei Jun watches him for a moment, feeling a sense of calm come over him. He folds the outer robe and sets it aside, then reaches down and gets to work at sliding off the slumbering peak lord’s boots. One after the other, and in the process the left leg of Shang Qinghua’s pants slides up to reveal the smooth skin of his calf.

Mobei Jun pauses. The boot held in his hand slips from his grip and lands on the floor with a dull thud, and his eyes snap up to Shang Qinghua’s face without his meaning to.

The man lets out a murmur, taking in a slow breath only to release it in a quiet sigh. He turns his head to nuzzle it into the pillow, and then is silent.

Mobei Jun stares at him for a few lingering moments, taking in the way that his hair has come undone ever-so slightly, to spread across the pillow in a gentle wave. Once he’s certain that the man has indeed not woken, he slowly turns back to the bare, unclothed leg that sits before him.

It’s just a leg. Nothing interesting. Or, that would be the case, surely, if it was not Shang Qinghua’s leg and, in addition, covered in sprawling, artful images.

The first thing that Mobei Jun notices are the scales. Winding with intricate detail, each individual one almost glimmers up at him with real life breathing from them, set into each other tiny and overlapping by the dozens to make up the entirety of the serpentine dragon that coils around Shang Qinghua’s leg. They’re gossamer and a lovely blue that reminds Mobei Jun comfortingly of ice and sapphires. The lower half of the creature’s body disappears up into Shang Qinghua’s pant leg, the dragon’s head curled to bite its jaw around the peak lord’s calf. It’s clawed talons are buried in a sea of lilac gentians that covers the entirety of the ankle, rising up to gently caress the body of the beast and grace the rest of Shang Qinghua’s leg with bursts of violets and blues.

It’s beautiful. Done by the hand of a master artist, clearly. The details are so incredible and lifelike that it’s almost as if he can just reach out and touch them. Feel the sleek, cold scales of the dragon under his palm, the petals of the flowers brushing against his fingers like the beat of butterfly wings.

All he feels is heated, smooth skin.

Mobei Jun snatches his hand back, face uncomfortably warm. Quickly, he crouches down to retrieve the errant boot and turns away to set the pair neatly on the footstool at the end of the bed.

Very consciously, he does not look down again at Shang Qinghua’s leg when he turns back, and instead reaches out to grab the edge of the bedsheets in his hand. He carefully tosses them over the slumbering peak lord, covering him completely up to his neck.

Mobei Jun stares down at the man, who lies pliantly and snug, face smoothed out in dreamless peace. The ever-present tenseness to his brow in his waking moments is conspicuously absent, and it makes Shang Qinghua look ever-softer in his sleep.

Mobei Jun is suddenly overcome with the wish that he had the ability to do for this man what a good sleep can. That he could, somehow, take away the constant stress that Shang Qinghua piles upon his own shoulders. That Mobei Jun could manage, himself, to ease the burden of his many duties and ensure that Shang Qinghua can feel at peace like he is now, where he can be awake to actually experience it.

Mobei Jun pivots on his heel, turning his back on the peaceful and comfortable and overly inviting scene that a sleeping Shang Qinghua presents.

There exists a tightness in his throat that he will need to leave the room to clear, least the noise cause the peak lord to wake. That won’t do — Shang Qinghua has foregone sleep too many nights in a row already. He needs this.

Mobei Jun wishes that the man could need him, for once, instead.

He walks forward and pushes his way out of the room, making sure to close the door quietly behind him. Both the guards that stand outside of it eye him from the visors of their helmets, but neither say a word. Good.

If they had made even a peep, Mobei Jun isn’t sure he wouldn’t just haul back and hand them their lives. He is tense enough for it and he knows himself. Which won’t do, clearly, as it might wake Shang Qinghua.

Mobei Jun stalks down the hall, feeling tense. Too bad that Bai Zhan peak lord hasn’t come to visit alongside Shang Qinghua. This king could really use a good battle, right now.

#svsss prompts #mobei jun #shang qinghua #moshang #vodkassassin fanfiction #sleepy SQH #MBJ POV

[jackest-jack]

I would very much like to hear about your spooky scary Sirens, pretty please 🥺

AJKSJAKISJAJAJF Ok so I almost had a heart attack when I saw you were following me because YOU’RE SO COOL so thank you

I already wrote about my spooky scary sirens over here, and they have pictures and I would be willing to write a short thing with them later but for right now I’m gonna pick a different thing and blab about it.

The most fleshed out and cohesive thing I have is the vampire band nerd slasheresque story with a police chase followup as well as a separate zombie apocalypse thing, so ig I’ll go with that. More under cut and warning for like a lot of gore and death and angst. I’m also only doing the first part of that because this is taking a long ass time

I came up with this in junior high, and I was in band, and I noticed that each instrument section had different personalities sort of, so I made characters around that and put them in a horror plot where they all die horribly, because what else are you gonna do? This is gonna be a plot rundown and it might get real long. (It is no longer a rundown. Its just unedited word vomit.)

anyways a bunch of friends, who I’m just gonna call by their instrument names, go camping in the woods for a couple weeks. They all take one car and set up in the middle of fuckin nowhere.

Clarinets a vampire pretending to be a high schooler for kicks, because she was 15 when she turned 5 years ago and got dragged away to the magic underworld (basically a series of safehouses and towns for the supernatural) and she wants a letterman goddamnit.

She gets adopted into a friendgroup despite her best efforts, and gets dragged along on the camping trip in the small car and close quarters with a buddy system and she hasn’t eaten anything substantial in like two months and its proving to be a problem when she starts thinking of her friends as snacks instead of people.

one night, percussionist gets up to go on a 3 am lake walk. But, the buddy system. So he takes Clarinet, who never seems to sleep anyways, with him.

They’re on the edge of a lake littered with huge old chunks of driftwood, looking out over the water, when Percussionist steps on something sharp. It went straight through his sandal and he pulls it out without much trouble, but “that nail looks kind of rusty and I’m Pretty Sure I’m bleeding a little bit, oh I hope I don’t need a shot-“

she falls on him like a cat on a wounded songbird. She has enough of her mind left to cover his mouth and stop the screams as he slowly loses blood.

He tries to fight back. He does. he jams the nail deep into her throat and twists away, but she catches his wrist and slams him backward, a sharp stick going through his stomach, sticking him bloody at the base of an old driftwood branch still attached to its old tree.

She stops draining just before he dies. And she waits, and waits, and waits. Finally, hours later, the corpse takes a deep gasp and its eyes fly open. It begins the excruciating process of pulling itself off the tree.

his wound is closed less than a minute later.

he comes to and sees her sobbing on the ground, bloody streaks under her eyes from where she tried to wipe away her tears with hands soaked from putting pressure on his stomach in a feeble attempt to save him.

“Vampires, huh?” He says, half joking, half looking for an explanation.

—-—

they’re sitting around a small campfire, and Clarinet tells him that he’s a vampire, he needs blood, he cant go back to camp or he will eat his friends. She leaves to find him something substantial before he loses it.

back at the original camp, its around sunrise. Flute notices a small trail of smoke not far off, realizes that Percussionist is missing, and gets French Horn to help him look for their idiot friend (and maybe put out a small fire.)

They make it about 3/4th of the way to the smoke when flute trips on a tree root and scrapes his knee. About a mile away, Percussionists head perks up.

He distantly realizes that he just left the campfire that he’s supposed to stay at, but he can‘t seem to care. The hunger doesn’t gnaw at him or hollow him out. Its not like looking for a fix either. Its an itch in his whole body, a near unavoidable function of his being. The hunt is as natural as a cough, a spasm of muscles to take away the awful itch.

He moves faster than he ever could before, and just to see if he can, he jumps up and begins running across the branches of trees. Its slower, but sneakier; his prey won’t see him coming.

Finally, he reaches them. He jumps on the smaller one, sending it crashing to the ground. It’s blood is what brought him here. He sinks his hollow teeth into its neck and begins feeding.

There is a scream and a crash as the taller one runs away. Thats ok. He only needs one.

———

French horn, for her part, is freaking the fuck out. The sun had just peaked over the horizon and orange light was streaming through the trees when everything went to shit.

The pale thing had fallen on Flute, and the noise he made… she was almost certain he was dead now.

She kept running. If she could make it back to camp, then maybe she could get help, or maybe leave before the rest of them died too.

She charges through a thicket, sharp thorns scraping and tearing every inch of her as she shoves her way through. She shuts her eyes as she goes, to avoid the thorns poking them out.

When she comes out the other side, she feels her gut sink.

She doesn’t recognize the trees or bushes around her. She doesn’t see a path.

She’s lost.

She wants to break down, to scream and cry the injustice to the heavens, to kick and punch and fight the thing that killed her friend, to sit down and rest and have a moment to breathe, to be home-

She picks a direction and runs.

———

Percussionist stops draining Flute just before he‘s dead, following the instinct that drove him to where he is.

He wants to be horrified. He does, really. But he was so hungry, and the itch is still there, waiting beneath his skin to pounce on him again. But for now, its gone, and he can think clearly. He can move without the instinct tainting his every twitch.

He turns to look at the person he drained and sees-

He sees his friend. And it hits him all at once.

He killed a person, a person he knew, a person he cared for, and he had been powerless to stop it. He didn’t even know- he didn’t realize- he would never have done it if he-

but he knew he would have. Even if he knew. He would’ve killed Flute, and he hates himself for that.

So he sits by the body of his dead friend, maybe in solace, maybe because some instinctive tick tells him to. He doesn’t want to know. He refuses to.

When Flute sat up and gasped, Percussionist could‘ve sworn he had a heart attack (even without a functioning heart.)

To Flutes credit, he made it through Percussionists halting and confused explanation before letting himself ask about the smell.

”what smell?” Percussionist asked, and lifted his nose to the air.

He got his answer. The smell of blood, salty and sweet and with a coppery tinge to it drifted through the air, leaving a hunger and odd comfort sitting in his gut. It reminded him of smelling baking cookies from the kitchen as a kid.

A leaf crunched, and he snapped out of his trance. Flute had stood up and broken into a run, faster than any human could’ve gone. After the person that had been with him.

After his friend.

Percussionist sprinted after him.

——

He had the chance to notice how fast he was really going, now that he could think through the hunger. He practically flew through the forest, leaping over a fallen log half his size that blocked his way. He ducked and dodged branches that threatened to slash his face, and if he were running for something else he may have threw his head back and laughed.

As it was, he was following the occasional red flash of a windbreaker that he could barely keep up with without being hit by a tree.

He could heal now right? Did he really even need to be worried about being hit by trees?

He let one slap his face just to test, and he felt the stinging pain all across his face as a deep cut opened across his nose and eyes. He faltered as his vision went red with blood. A second later, it was gone, and he could see again. ….And he‘d lost flute. Great.

He sniffed the air, remembering how he’d been able to smell the blood, and tried to look for his friend.

He could smell the whole forest. Sap and pine and rotting leaves, rotten flesh and mushrooms and a skunk miles and miles off, the sweet sting of honey and dew and campfire smoke, and over it all, the most lovely smell-

Well, looks like he couldn’t find him that way. He thought for a moment, and groaned. He could just follow French Horn and get to her first!

He began running again.

———

Clarinet had just made it back to the campsite, a live deer kicking around over her shoulder. She would’ve killed it, but she couldn’t quite figure out how without losing any of its blood, and since she drained and seriously injured Percussionist he would need a lot of blood-

and the campfire had a suspicious lack of vampires around it. Great. She could only hope that no one had cut themselves-

She stopped as the scent of blood hit her nose. She cursed and took off running, dropping the deer as she did.

——

French Horn thought she was going to die when she heard a bush rustle and snap behind her. She had stopped for a rest, thinking she was safe (if very lost). She was braced for her death when Percussionist crashed through the bushes.

”Oh, good, you’re still alive. We need to go like right now.”

Before she could protest, he grabbed her wrist and began pulling her away. With his very cold, very pale hand.

”Wait. Was it you?” She said, planting her feet.

”Yes.” his voice was solemn, and his eyes downcast. “But unless you want Flute to get you, we need to go”

She tore her wrist out of his grasp.

“Flutes dead. Flute’s dead and you killed him!”

And Flute hit her from the side. He sank his teeth deep into her neck, but only for a moment. Then he pulled back, looking horrified and ran away.

French Horn stands up dazedly. “That was…”

”Yeah.”

she lifts a hand to her bleeding neck where the bite is still gushing blood.

A rustle of trees comes from the side, and Clarinet skids to a stop in front of them. She takes in the situation and drops to her knees, tearing loose a piece of her shirt and holding it to the holes in French Horn’s neck.

”Wheres the third?”

French horn points to the copse of trees he disappeared into.

”I think we might actually be jinxed.” A pause, then “That was supposed to be a joke. Go after him. He’s heading towards the camp, and chances are he won’t be able to stop himself a second time.”

Percussionist nods, and then stops. “How do I get there?”

”just run straight! GO!”

and he does.

———

Clarinet gently explains to French Horn that vampires are real, and that she is one. When asked why she isn’t bloodthirsty, Clarinet answers that she has a lot of blood left in her still, and that she’s not all the way changed, and that the change will, in her words, “Stink. Its kind of the worst thing you’ll have to go through, and it’ll take way longer since you have blood, and you may not notice at first.“

French Horn pursed her lips. “Theres no way to stop it?”

Clarinet shook her head.

”Okay. Okay, shouln’t we help Percussionist?”

Clarinet swore. “You won’t be much help in the state you’re in, but I can drop you off by the camp. Pack our things and be ready to go.”

Clarinet scooped French Horn up and took off into the woods.

———

Percussionist got there just as Tuba was ripping Flute off of his neck.

Despite Flute being the smallest out of all of them, and Tuba being the strongest, he was struggling to keep the scrabbling, biting Flute away.

So, Percussionist did the only logical thing and full body tackled Flute, trying to hold him down. It worked, sort of. Long enough for Tuba to start running. Long enough for Sax and Trombone to see what the ruckus was.

Flute burst out of Percussionists grip, grabbed Trombone and ran.

Sax sprinted after them, and percussionist was left in the dust, standing dumbstruck as they all dashed off. He snapped out of it when Trumpet pressed an axe to his shoulder and told him to not move.

———

Flute knows this: he is very hungry. He also knows that blood tastes very good.

His last two meals escaped. He thinks he let the first go, but he can’t seem to remember why. The second was ripped away from him by someone like him, which was rather rude.

But this one won’t get away. He is far to hungry to let that happen.

He feeds as he runs, draining the squirming thing dry, pinning its flailing limbs against his chest. It stops wailing eventually.

He slows as he becomes able to think clearly again. He holds the body in his arms and revels in the fact he is no longer hungry. Then, he looks at the thing he drained.

And it’s his friend. He feels his stomach drop, and a hollow pit grow in his chest. His friend is dead, and it’s his fault. He tells himself there’s nothing to do but run, so he does.

Really, though, he just doesn’t want to see what she’ll become.

———

“What did you do to them.” Said Trumpet, each word slow and dangerous. She lifted the axe off his shoulder, and he felt relief before he realized she was lining up to take off his head.

He may be able to heal, but he did not want to see how far that ability stretched. Not like this, at least.

He swallowed his fear and asked, ”What makes you think I did something?“

She barked out a harsh laugh. “You go missing in the middle of the night with Clarinet, who still isn’t back. Flute and French Horn go to look for you and have mysteriously disappeared. Tuba came running from this direction, bleeding like a stuck pig. And here I find you, in the center of it all.”

Ah. He was fucked. Time to implement the worst plan ever, considering how fast Trumpet was.

”that’s- that sure is some pretty overwhelming evidence that I did something. I swear I didn’t, though but I know you won’t believe me so I’m just gonna RUN!”

He ducked under the axe she swung at his head, and took off running into the trees. He glanced behind him to see her struggling to keep up, and grinned. He was actually getting away with his head, and beating Trumpet in a footrace for once-

He turned back around just in time to see the tree that crumpled his skull.

———

He wished he could say he didn’t feel every excruciating twitch of his skull righting itself as he laid there. As it was, it was painful enough he was functionally passed out.

Which is why he was surprised to see trumpet dragging him by his feet deep into the woods.

Not half as surprised as trumpet, who dropped his feet and swore when he sat up and gasped.

”What the hell? You were dead! that killed you!” She yelled.

Percussionist was still reeling from how much growing his skull back sucked, and latched on to the first thing he noticed.

”Did you steal my shoes?”

”what are you?” She asked in a tone that was decidedly horrified.

He fiddled with a piece of grass somewhere to his left. “A vampire, as of yesterday. Really though, why do you have my shoes?”

“Not important. What do you mean as of yesterday?”

”Last night, really. Me and Clarinet-“

”Clarinet and I.” She said.

”Whatever. We went on a walk and turns out she’s always been a vampire, and then she did the vampire thing, and now I’m a vampire, and things have just been spiraling from there-”

”That explains a lot, actually. Who else is a vampire?”

Percussionist, feeling slightly more alive, realized they weren’t by the camp anymore.

”Where are we? Why do you have my shoes, and why are you so calm about this?”

”oh.” She said. “I may have made an action plan for something like this. You know, in case of murderers, or if supernatural stuff was real.”

”thats cool. Why steal my shoes?“

”I was framing you for murder.”

an awkward silence settled over them.

”We should get back to camp. Stop more people from getting vampired and all.”

”Yeah. Lets do that.“

———

Sax skidded to a stop in front of Trombones body. She was limp, and pale, and by all accounts dead. He whipped out his phone to call anyone, anyone at all, and pitched it into a tree when it read no service.

He sat, and he cried by his best friend, who always made the shittiest puns, who was the worst at sports, who thought anything with soulmates was stupid but still read all the stuff he suggested her. Who was dead.

He was still crying when she sat up and latched onto his neck, draining him dry.

———

French Horn and Clarinet ran across Tuba, who was holding gauze to his neck where he had been bit. French Horn was starting to feel slightly feverish, but otherwise okay.

”Guys! Are you okay? The weirdest thing just happened.” He said.

”We need to leave.” Said Clarinet. “Now.”

”No argument here. Have you guys seen Flute? He was with you last time I saw him.“

French Horn and Clarinet shared a look.

“I’ll go find him. You two pack. we leave before dusk.”

They watched as she disappeared into the leaves.

”Whats going on?” Asked tuba, a hint of worry in his voice.

French Horn took a deep breath in before saying “Vampires are real.”

Tuba burst out laughing.

“Oh. You’re serious.” He said as he hefted a tent into the back of the van.

”you don’t believe me.”

“How could I? I haven’t seen any proof that they exist.”

She threw a bag of trash in the van with more force than nessecary.

“What attacked you then?”

At this he paused. “I don’t know. But I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a vampire.”

———

Percussionist and Trumpet made it to where Trombone was crying over Sax, the late afternoon sun reflecting off of their now pale skin.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. He’ll be alright.”

Trombone looked up at him and snarled, all teeth and rage, and Percussionist jumped back.

”He’ll end up like me, won’t he.”

Percussionist nodded.

”I don’t know what world you’re living in, but this isn’t fucking alright!”

Trumpet walked over and knelt in front of Trombone. She held out her hand, and Trombone scrambled away.

”I don’t believe you would hurt me. Not right now. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.”

”so what?” She scoffed. “I still did it. Should I just go on existing as whatever I am now? Just kill people so I can live?”

”Actually,“ Percussionist said, “we can live off of different types of blood.”

Trumpet looked back and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shut up you twatwaffle, can’t you see this is a delicate moment?”

”just figured it would be some good information to have.“ he said.

“Are you seriously telling me my angst fest was for nothing?” She asked.

Percussionist leaned against a tree. “Oh, don‘t worry.” He said. “Theres still plenty of angst about the immortality.”

“Sax did always say he wanted to be sixteen forever.”

Trumpet rolled her eyes. “Lets go home.”

Trombone reached out to take Trumpets hand, and Sax shot up and clamped his jaws around her throat. Trombone grabbed Trumpets wrist and pulled her away as Percussionist peeled Sax away.

”Let him.“ choked out Trumpet. “I‘ll be one of you either way.”

”Absolutely not!” Said Percussionist. “Trombone, go find literally anything else with blood.” Sax kicked and snarled in his grip. “Hurry! I’m not sure how much longer I can hold him.”

———

“Flute!” Yelled Clarinet. She had been looking for him for an hour now, and still couldn’t find him.

She was walking along an old trail that went out of use years ago when she almost tripped over him. He was curled up in the shade of a tree, hiding away in a hollow.

“What do you want.”

”I want to take you home.” She said.

he laughed. “Something like me doesn’t deserve a home. I killed people, and I knew there was another way, but I did it anyway. Just leave me here to rot.”

She remembered when she’d been like this. She had forgotten to eat, had slipped up. Its not a hard thing to do. When you’re a vampire, you brain tricks you into feeling fine by your old standards until you‘re so hungry you can’t stop it.

She believed it was all her fault, though. The only way someone had gotten through to her was something they had called twisting the knife. She had always called it shitty.

She sighed. “I wanted to say sorry.”

He poked his head out a little, peering up at her. “You didn’t do anything.”

”But I did.” She said. “I drained percussionist dry last night, and then I left him to find you. I watched while you attacked your friends, and now, I’m giving you a chance to fix the harm we caused. What will you do with it?”

”You made me like this?” He asked.

”Yes.”

he lunged at her face, fingers clawing for her eyes. She turned around and ran for the campsite, making sure he was behind her, and praying that he would forgive her for the stunt she just pulled.

———

The campsite was packed, and Percussionist and Trombone had made a game of who could catch the best songbird for Sax. Sax was less murderously inclined, though it was hard to tell if it was because the blood he had consumed or trumpets growing nonhumanness.

After the third or fourth time of watching Sax suck down a bird or squirrel like a juice box, Tuba was forced to admit that maybe vampires were a little real.

(He noticed his neck wound had already scabbed over and was halfway gone. He was afraid to ask if he was becoming one.)

The sun was slipping behind the tops of the trees when Clarinet charged out of the forest, leapt over the van, And yelled “Flutes trying to kill me!”

Flute burst into the clearing and lunged at Clarinet. Percussionist stepped in the way.

”What happened?“

”She did this in purpose! She said she dropped you in the woods to kill us!”

Percussionists blinked. “No she didn’t. She told me to stay where I was while she got something for me to eat.”

he stopped yelling. Now, he just looked confused. “But she turned you.”

”Yeah? It was an accident. She obviously regretted it.”

Percussionist backed off, and Flute looked at clarinet.

”why did you say all that then?”

“You were’t gonna come with me if I didn’t. Besides, you were spiraling and this was the easiest way to stop that.”

”Sounds like the shittiest way to stop it, too.” Scoffed Tuba.

She sighed. “Yeah. It was.”

”Hey,” asked sax. “Are any of us still human? I know me, Percussionist, and Trombone aren’t-“

”Percussionist, Trombone, and I.” Said Trumpet.

”-And I saw you two jump over my van, but whats up with the rest of you?”

”Basically,” said Clarinet, “anyone who was bit is or will become a vampire, depending on how much blood they had left in them after the bite. Was there anyone who wasn’t bit?”

everyone was silent as they all glanced at each other, looking for anyone who could say yes. It quickly became awkward, and was broken by Clarinet muttering “Fuck.” quietly under her breath.

”Who all, um, died today?”

Flute, Sax, and Trombone slowly raised their hands. Clarinet squinted at Percussionist, which prompted him to say “What? I died last night.”

French Horn yelled “past twenty four hours, dingus.”

He rolled his eyes and raised his hand.

”Alright. You three,” -she made a sweeping gesture towards the three with their hands down- “Are going to have the worst couple weeks of your life. Take a few days off of everything. Don’t go to the hospital. Stay isolated. Call me when the pain’s mostly over.”

Tuba’s lips pursed. “What, exactly, is going to happen to us?”

”The way it was explained to me was that your body slowly cannibalizes itself. It sucks.”

”hm.” He said. He looked very troubled.

They got in the van and drove through the night.

For now, they rest. A short break, before they have to figure out the rest of their lives.

#Not a super satisfying ending I know #Not the best writing I could’ve done either #I’m already planning out a sequel for how things go that will get into the nitty gritty of their character #And hopefully give them real names #THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A PLOT SUMMARY WHAT WHENT WRONG #(It started out as a kiss how did it end up like this) #Its still basically the bulletpoints version of this story with some banter mixed in #I did actually have a concrete well thought out(ish) plan #Then the characters (mostly trumpet and tuba) said “no thanks we’re too cool for your shit/to much of a himbo” respectively #And honestly? They’re right #Please keep in mind I made this when I was like 12-13 and havent developed it much since then but I love em all the same #I could be persuaded to attempt to draw them #Or at least picrew them #Anyways that took way too long thank you for sitting through this with me #Writing #my writing #oc #ocs #my ocs #writeblr #Bandpires

[five-rivers]

Interview With a Ghost (part 3: Break)

(PART 1) (PART 2)

.

.

.

The call came shortly after Danny had informed Tucker of his (disastrous) interview with the police and had left to go fight a giant bird ghost that had made its way to Elmerton. That bird wouldn't know what hit it. Well, it would know that Danny hit it, presumably, but not that Danny was hitting it so hard due to repressed anxiety regarding his body and the fact the police had it.

Tucker had been, as it so happened, waiting for the call.

"Hey, Sam," he said, not bothering to so much as look at the caller ID.

"So, Danny's gotten himself into a mess."

"Yep," said Tucker. "A pretty big one. Not all his fault, though."

"He did make it worse."

"Yeah. What are we going to do about it?"

"How do you feel about breaking and entering?"

"You're going to have to be more specific," said Tucker. He rolled over on his bed to stare at the ceiling. "We do that pretty frequently."

"The city morgue. ME's office, specifically."

"There'll be guards," said Tucker, "what with the rumors and all."

"I've got the Box Ghost in my thermos. He's a good distraction."

"Transport?"

"Working on it. You'll take care of the security cameras and locks?"

"As long as they're digital," said Tucker, pulling up his data on the city cameras as they spoke. "The outside ones are, but I don't know about the insides. There might be analog machines in there. Tapes. Can't do anything to anything not on a network."

"I know, I know. Hey, maybe you could send a text to whoever's supposed to be guarding it tonight? Get them to leave?"

"Mmm. Maybe. If I could figure out who that would be."

"That could backfire, though," said Sam. "If they don't send messages like that. Sorry, I'm just thinking out loud."

Tucker pulled up a building map in another window. "I think we'll probably need more than just us, though. Remember the first time we had to move... it?"

"Yeah, but who else are we going to get to do this?"

"Jazz, maybe? She has a car, too. She can be transportation."

"Tucker, we're not looping Danny in on this. Do you really think that Jazz is going to be any more cool with this than Danny?"

"I don't know, Jazz can be pretty savage when it comes to protecting Danny."

The phone made Sam's considering hum crackle with static. "We do need transport," said Sam.

"Yeah. What were you looking into for that, anyway?"

"Ugh. Cult connections."

"Dude. Danny would not be happy if we gave his you know to a cult."

"Yeah, but he can steal it back from the cult with no guilt, unlike with the police."

"But what if he just gave it back to the police?" asked Tucker, looking up the city's purchasing records, trying to determine if they had any cameras that used tapes or that weren't internet connected in or near the morgue.

"Come on, he wouldn't do that."

"Probably not, but he does do weird stuff, sometimes. Like agree to an interview with the police and almost give away his secret identity."

"Yeah," said Sam. "You keep checking how feasible this is, and I'll call Jazz, okay?"

"Sure," said Tucker. "Talk to you later."

.

Jazz eased her car into the alley behind the building that housed the city morgue and ME's office.

"Stop here," said Tucker. "I can see their network."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Jazz whispered, putting the car into park.

"You don't have to whisper," said Tucker, sitting in the passenger's seat and typing away at his mobile workstation (he insisted that it wasn't a laptop). "No one is going to hear you. Okay, yeah, I'm on their wifi. Give me a minute."

"Take your time," said Sam, who was lying down in the back seat, dressed in blacks and grays, thin gloves over her hands. "Were you guys able to sneak out okay without Danny?"

"Yeah," said Tucker.

"It was a bit trickier without him," said Jazz. She was lucky that her parents wore earplugs to sleep, and she was fairly certain Danny was out of the house entirely. Fighting a ghost, probably. She always told him to wake her up before he left, so at least one person knew where he was and could help him, but he never did.

"Okay, Jazz, you can get closer, now, then Sam can hop out and Box 'em."

"That was fast," said Jazz, starting the car forward again.

"What can I say?" said Tucker. "Pure talen-"

Something in the car started shrieking. Jazz jumped, momentarily pressing too hard on the gas, and the car lurched forward. Sam swore.

"What is that?" asked Tucker, hands over his ears.

"Who care?" shouted Sam, over the noise. "Turn it off, turn it off!"

"It's the- It's the anti-ecto alarm! I told them not to put it on my car!" She leaned across Tucker and opened the glove box. Sure enough, a sleek chrome-and-green monstrosity sat in her poor, innocent glove box, flashing screens, dials, and indicator lights at them. The car cabin lit up like a disco.

Jazz and Tucker jabbed at buttons until the thing shut up.

"Okay," said Tucker. "I think we're going to have to abort. I'm gonna bet my aunt in Chicago heard that."

Jazz blushed. "Sorry guys," she said. She was going to have words with her parents after this. What if she'd been on the highway when that thing went off? They really didn't think these things through.

"We can't abort!" protested Sam. "We need to get the thing! Before they start running tests on it!"

Jazz started backing up the car.

"Yeah, I know, but we needed stealth. We don't have that anymore. Hold up, Jazz, I need to erase my presence from their system."

Sam grumbled. "What set it off, anyway. Boxy?"

"No, it looks like this was calibrated to only go off for a class seven or above," said Tucker, peering at the alarm.

"Class seven?" repeated Jazz. "But... You don't think Danny-"

"No, he's in the suburbs, dealing with Skulker." Jazz looked over at Tucker's computer to see the Ghost Watch app icon blinking in the corner of his screen. "This is Vlad. Crap."

The door made a thunk when Sam swung it too far out and it hit a wall. Jazz winced, but rolled down her window. "What are you doing?" she hissed.

"We can't let Vlad get away with it!"

"And what are you going to do? Sam!"

"Getting back into the cameras," muttered Tucker, typing furiously.

"I'm calling Danny," said Jazz.

"Won't answer, he's fighting Skulker."

"Well, maybe he's finished!" said Jazz, dialing.

There was a flare of blue white light from up ahead and an angry shout. A glowing silhouette joined Sam's dark one. She had released the Box Ghost.

Jazz groaned. "Why did she do that now?"

"Shhh!" said Tucker. Something began to make little beeping noises. "Oh, jeez."

"What's that?"

"My ghost detector. It's tuned to Vlad." He opened his door half way. "Sam!" he shouted. "Incoming!"

She pressed herself to the side of the alley just in time to avoid a dark, horned figure swooping down on her from above. The Box Ghost was not so lucky.

"... and it's got a lower range," said Tucker, faintly.

Vlad Plasmius, rimmed in fuchsia light, floated twenty feet in the air. He had one hand around the Box Ghost's neck, the other full of neon pink fire. "Oh," he said, his voice echoing clearly in the alleyway. "It's you. What are you doing here, pest?"

"Uhhhhh," said the Box Ghost as Sam tried to make her way back to the car.

"And with Daniel's little friends no less?"

Sam broke into a run, slammed Tucker's door shut, yanked open the passenger door behind him, and slid in. Jazz wasted no time in slamming on the gas. If her car got a few scrapes, so be it.

There was a second Vlad behind them. She dropped her phone and slammed on the brakes. It was still ringing.

Smiling like a villain from a slasher movie, this second Vlad stepped intangibly into the car.

"Well, now," he said, smoothly. "What's this? Daniel's friends, but no Daniel? Whatever are the three of you doing here of all places? And at this hour?"

"What are you doing here?" asked Sam.

"No need to be rude, Samantha, dear," said Vlad. "Daniel doesn't know about your little excursion, does he? He's still across town, occupied with Skulker. You can tell him he won't have to worry anymore. I'll take good care of his body."

"Dude," said Tucker, "do you have any idea how gross that sounds?"

Vlad scowled and flicked his fingers. A ray of pink burned a quarter sized hole in the back of Tucker's headrest.

"If he had a problem with me taking it, he should have hidden it better," said Vlad. "I have no desire to have the existence of half ghosts revealed simply because Daniel hid his corpse in same park the police have their annual picnic!"

"Actually," said Tucker, "they usually have it in Marley Park. Aren't you the mayor? Shouldn't you know this?"

Vlad's scowl deepened further. "Drive safely, Jasmine." The duplicate dissolved into magenta and pink mist.

Sam sneezed. "Gross, I think I got him in my nose."

"Guys," said Tucker. "I've got alerts on the police lines, someone reported a disturbance. We really need to go."

.

"Vlad stole my," Danny waved his hands in the air in place of the word. "Are you serious? And you guys know, because you were going to try to steal it, and you didn't tell me?" His friends and sister looked sheepishly at the ground. "Why did you wait 'til now to tell me? I've been having anxiety attacks about it all night. I thought that the stupid ME had, I don't know, insomnia or something! It was Vlad?"

"Yeah," said Sam.

"Argh!" said Danny, starting to pace. Thank goodness his room was large enough to have a good pace in, even with three other teens in it. "I don't even want to think what he could be doing with it, but I am! What if- What if he goes full-bore Frankenstein and freaking reanimates it? What am I supposed to do then? And the police! They're going to think I did it, and there goes my credibility with the police!"

"You were on Ghost Watch fighting Skulker when it happened," offered Tucker.

"Ghosts can be in two places at once! The police know that! That's not a good enough alibi!" He put his hands on his face and groaned. "Am I going to have to break into Vlad's house? Again? He has to have a ghost shield up around it by now. And a human shield. And a ghost-human shield. I'm dead."

"You're not dead, Danny," said Jazz.

"I am dead. In ever sense of the word. Dead, I tell you, dead."

"Deep breaths," said Jazz. "You're hyperventilating."

It was true. He sat down on his bed and buried his face in his hands. "I don't even know what secret lair he's brought it to."

"Wait, you mean, you can't tell where it is?" asked Sam.

"No," said Danny. "If I could, I would have known when Vlad took it."

There was a howl from downstairs as someone rang the doorbell. Danny jumped up. "I'll get it," he said. The group bundled down the stairs, trying to keep up with him.

Before opening the door, Danny glanced out the window.

"Oh, heck, it's them."

"Them who?" asked Jazz.

"Them. The detectives!"

.

"Alright," said Jones, looking at the place where Phantom's body should have been but wasn't. "This is officially too big for just one team. Paterson, Collins, what were you going to do today?"

"Interview high school kids," said Collins.

"Right. You're still going to do that. I'm going to get Murphy and Madison on the break-in, talking to witnesses, but first, your opinions."

"It wasn't Phantom," said Collins. "He could have just come in and taken it, at any time, not just the middle of the night."

"And he wouldn't have needed to take out the cameras and security system," said Paterson, looking over her shoulder at the tech people set up in one corner.

"It was a human. Or a ghost who didn't want us to know who they are," finished Collins.

"Great," said Jones. "That's what I thought, too. I was hoping you'd tell me I was wrong."

"Sorry, cap," said Collins.

"Go on, get out of here," said Jones, making a shooing motion.

.

"Still can't believe that his name is Wesley Weston," said Collins. "Or that he has a record for trespassing and stalking a classmate and claiming that he's a ghost."

"Want to bet that the classmate in question is Fenton?" asked Paterson.

"No thanks," said Collins. "It would have been better if the victim's name hadn't been withheld." He avoided the word 'wish.'

"Yeah, yeah," said Paterson. She knocked on the door.

A balding red haired man with thick glasses opened the door. "Oh," he said. "Please tell me this isn't about Wesley again. Do I need a lawyer?"

"He didn't do anything," said Collins, quickly. "We just want to ask him a few questions."

"It's unrelated to the stalking charges, which were dropped," added Paterson.

"Great," grumbled the man. He turned. "Wesley! The police want to talk to you!"

.

"Well," said Collins, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "That was enlightening."

"His room belongs on a movie set," said Paterson. "Jeez Louise, we're going to have to keep an eye on that kid. He has a freaking conspiracy theory board."

"It was pretty convincing, though. The kid can talk."

"We need to confirm his data, though."

"Yeah. Talk to more witnesses. See if Fenton really does run off whenever Phantom shows up."

.

"Fenton?" asked Paulina Sanchez, wrinkling her nose so prettily that Paterson suspected she practiced the expression in the mirror. "What about him? I thought we were talking about Phantom. Mi amor." She leaned a little farther into the doorway. She had not let the detectives inside. "Not Fenton."

"We're investigating a number of different angles, Miss," said Collins. "Now, if you could tell us, does he seem to leave class before ghost fights break out."

"Yeah," said Paulina. "He's got some kind of sixth sense thing going on, but he's such a coward. He only ever uses it to run away. Doesn't even try to warn anyone else! I don't know how his friends stand him."

.

"You're talking about Phantom?" asked Sophia LaMar. "You'll want my parents. I'm only an initiate. I'll go get them." She closed the door.

"Do we run away from the cult house?" asked Paterson.

"No, it'll make us look bad."

.

"You know," said Paterson, "if I'd wanted a lecture on how time doesn't exist, I'd drive over to the university and sit in on a class on relativity. Not whatever that was."

"At least now we know that ghosts can time travel?" asked Collins, weakly.

"Let's hurry up and get to Fenton's house," said Paterson. "Do you think he'll even talk to us?"

"Who knows?" asked Collins.

#danny phantom #dannymay #dannymay 2020 #day 25

[fencesandfrogs]

gathering times.

part of my broader lore series.

i’m breaking from my usual lore narration style for a moment to discuss: how cats know when to gather (because it bothers me).

anyway, i haven't seen any other lore about this, so i'd like to say that explicitly, anyone is welcome to use this if they like it. if you want to use the folklore parts (e.g., the story in "full moon.") please credit me somehow, but otherwise idgaf. (a CC0-1.0 liscence, if you are a nerd. if you're not, it's what i just said.)

section one: tracking the moon

so i have this tiny lore thing where so the cats. track the moon as starclan adding claws to the moon and taking them away. so we have four claws to mess with:

no claws: new moon

one claw: waxing cresent

two claws: half moon

three claws: waxing gibbous

four claws: full moon

but cats usually count these in terms of one claw away from new/half/full, like how people used to call november 20th 10 days from december.

also, since only new and full moons matter for most cats, most cats wouldn't think about the waning moon. hence why it's described as starclan clawing at the moon, because they don't care about the precision.

this is also somewhat decoupled from the idea of a half/quarter moon as a unit of time: cats aren't using this to track time (e.g., one claw to three claws), just as a method of measuring where in the moon they are. i'm not sure if this makes sense, i guess it's kind of like saying "monday" tells you where in the week you are, and saying "third week" says where in the month you are, but you wouldn't say "from second week to fourth week," you'd say the dates or be more specific.

look, cats track time differntly. we're going to talk about when first and why second.

section two: full moons

The leaders discussed this, and they agreed. From then on, they would meet the night after the moon had all its claws, and there were no more debates about when the gathering would be.

(full moon.)

yeah so basically i was so angry that warrior cats act like the moon is either new, half, or full i wrote 1k words of folklore about why that is. that will either be published or publishing soon, so i'm not going to recap it.

basically, the full moon is considered to start when the moon is a whisker's length from full (basically, the first night you can't see that the moon hasn't finished), and that day is the holy day for clans who celebrate like that.

the next day is the gathering.

the third day is the medicine cats' half moon meeting (we're getting to them).

mind, i'm still doing a lot of handwaving here, but i do have a limit to how realistic i demand my fantasy cat novels be.

section three: half moons

There was no celebrations to be had on half moon, and the camp was mostly quiet. Moonrise was coming soon, and Dovepaw could see Willowshine and Mothwing climbing the rocks. Jayfeather greets them, doesn’t ask where she is.

(feathers take flight --- footprints)

so basically half moon is when a whisker could be laid straight on the moon. this is still kind of vague, but let's say starclan intervenes.

i honestly can't come up with a better explanation of how they all agree, so at least this is a definition. the half moon is such a vague term like.

anyway.

section four: new moons

“Won’t everyone be asleep?” she asks, and Willowshine’s eyes glitter.

“On the night of the sleeping moon? I hope they’re not done.”

Dovepaw doesn’t know what that means. But she enters the camp, still alive, apprentices sharing fish, flower petals scattered, and she almost does.

(feathers take flight --- footprints)

okay, this is the one that i think is hardest to tell is ambigious. because you might be thinking "new moon is when there is no moon" but this has the same problem as full moon.

luckily, only medicine cats gather on the new moon. so clans can celebrate whenever.

anyway, internet says people can see a moon at anywhere from 1% to 10% as illuminated, and cats have better night vision, and you get about 3 days in the 0% to 5% range, so i'm not really sure what to derive from this.

i mean there are cycles with a new moon and a 0% moon on either side.

anyway, i'm going to say that cats call it the new moon when it's 0% or new. the first day is always the new moon. we're also going to say their vision is good enough that there's no conflict.

(how is this different from the full moon? its a pyschology thing about complete/empty. a cup isn't empty unless there's nothing in it, but it can be full with not very much in it, even if you're holding out for a full cup. also, stop asking difficult questions. i cover this in "full moon." where the answer is basically the same as this one but with better lore.)

section five: medicine cats meet every half moon

“He’s right,” Willowshine says. “Mothwing made me a medicine cat on a second whisker night, and I swear the clan slept ‘til sunhigh.”

(feathers take flight --- riverbed)

so uhh i've never understood what it means that medicine cats meet for the half moon. in older books, it's called a half moon meeting, which implies that it doesn't occur on the new moon or the full moon. but in moth flight's vision i swear they say they'll meet every half moon which is an established unit of time in canon.

so. do they meet every quarter moon or every half moon.

i've gone with every quarter moon. why? the following:

it means i can let cats stay home now and then.

it makes more sense. if you know much about human medicine, rounds/grand rounds (which are a similar vibe with less religion) happen every day to every month, depending on the scale of the encounter. i think meeting every quarter moon makes more sense because they're constantly talking about getting advice from each other, and it would be so much easier to just have jayfeather ask for littlecloud's help at the next half moon meeting than running over, since that's what the point of the meeting is.

i want to.

anyway, new moons for clans and medicine cats can get desynched. kind of like geographic north/magnetic north, and human months vs the lunar cycle. it's not super common, but it does happen and no one really cares.

they meet on a second-whisker night for the full moon. that's basically, okay, in "full moon." i say

"No," said Briarleap. "But when the moon has all its claws, there is always a time where the moon is a whisker's length from fullness. We ought not to waste our energy gathering when the moon isn't full. So the clans must gather the moonrise after the last claw is returned."

and the understanding is, the "last claw" night briarleap is talking about is called "first-whisker night" that's the holy night.

first whisker is the night they meet. because it's supposed to be properly full but sometimes there's a whisker.

and second whisker is the next night, when medicine cats meet.

yes, that does mean any clans that celebrate the full moon have exhausted medicine cats near full moon. this is why meetings are every quarter moon. so they can stay home for a meeting without missing a major important time.

alright, i believe that's all i have for this. as a fun bonus, i have some consistent warrior/medicine cat training timelines.

The typical medicine cat training period is four seasons, although after the first two to three, they are usually alloted a good amount of autonomy.

...

There’s no vigil for medicine cats. They have trained for four seasons, seen the clan at its best and worst, and have already chosen to sacrifice much of a warrior life for the good of their clan. If Willowshine decides to make Dovepaw a full medicine cat, the clan will feast in her honor that night.

(feathers take flight --- riverbed)

the implication here is that warriors train for two seasons, which is why medicine cats are given more authority around then. in riverclan, that's when they move into the medicine cat's den, because their denmates are moving into the warriors den. not always, though:

“Am I going to be all alone when Troutpaw and Rushpaw and Mossypaw become warriors?” she asks. Dovepaw has never slept alone.

(Jayfeather, alone in his den.)

“I don’t think so,” Willowshine says. “They might stay in with you until Fernstream’s kits become apprentices, or you could sleep in the medicine den. You’re always welcome.”

(feathers take flight --- riverbed)

(fernstream is an invention bc riverclan doesn't have any queens they don't age it's a problem i need to redo their allegiances for FTF.)

anyway yeah that's a different story tho.

finally, take these cute words from mistystar to dovepaw:

“Then I make Dovepaw kin, and say she is born from River, as we all are. And I trust her training to Willowshine, and Starclan, to guide her paws.”

(feathers take flight --- riverbed)

#dovefeather #willowshine #mothwing #warriors #warriors au #warriors culture #warriors worldbuilding #warrior cats #mine #txt #3rd #March #2021 #March 3rd 2021 #cloudtail's daughter #jaywing #long #essay #dovewing #lovewing dovewing #kinda i mean she shows up a lot

[there-must-be-a-lock]

wings & the way down - part 2

Derek Morgan x Spencer Reid

Word Count: ~1580 this chapter

Warnings: Mild angst. Allusions to ~mysterious~ backstory. Strangers with cookies. 

A/N: Thank you all for your lovely comments on the last part! Catch up here if you missed it. Tag list for this is open. 

Friday, January 3: Derek

Derek is playing it cool. 

Or... he would be, if he could stop freaking the hell out. Whatever. 

He wants to be there early, just in case, and he hesitates. He should grab his basketball — tryouts next week, he should be practicing as much as possible — but then he’d have to carry it around while they walk. He grabs his dog-eared copy of Slaughterhouse-Five instead. 

Spencer seems like a reader. Maybe he’ll be impressed. Derek doesn’t have much experience trying to impress adorably geeky college guys, but that seems like a good start. 

He looks at himself in the mirror one more time and thinks, I can’t do this. 

Then he shakes it off, like he’d shake off the nerves before a big game, and he gives his reflection a smile. What’s the worst that can happen, right? He embarrasses himself in front of a pretty boy, he avoids the park, he never sees the guy again. After the year he’s had, some good old-fashioned rejection would be a cake walk. 

Playing it cool. He can do this. 

He walks downstairs, locking up behind himself and leaving the spare key in its spot — its “hidden” spot, which is a totally obvious fake rock, but apparently here in the suburbs you can just do that sort of thing. 

He walks, enjoying the sun, because January here feels like Chicago’s April. He’s not going to get used to this any time soon. 

Yeah. This was the right choice. 

You deserve to do it on your own terms, his mom said, when she hugged him goodbye in the airport. You can be whoever you want. 

It didn’t feel like he was trying to be someone else yesterday, though. It felt like he was being himself. 

He didn’t realize it could be easy like that, flirting with a guy, teasing and laughing and making Spencer smile. The stupid line came out like it was nothing. The fear only kicked in afterward. 

Derek knows he’s charming as fuck; he’s been making girls smile like that since he was fourteen. And it’s not a skeevy thing — not even necessarily a sex thing — he just likes making people smile. He likes the way they stand a little straighter when you compliment their shirt, or the way they bring a hand to the back of their neck when you admire their hair, and the way one nice comment can startle someone right out of a bad day. 

Speaking of. 

He’s walking into the park, now, and there’s a girl walking toward him, blonde with pink streaks in her high pigtails, wearing thick neon pink glasses and several violently colorful patterns. She looks like Miss Frizzle’s ditzier sister. He kinda loves it. 

“I like your glasses,” he tells her cheerfully, as they come face-to-face on the path. 

 Most people look startled, at first, when a stranger compliments them; they’re caught off-guard. Spencer looked like a deer in headlights, yesterday, when Derek caught his attention. 

Not this girl, though. Without missing a beat, she tosses back, “I like your face, sugar.” As their paths cross, she gives him a cheesy over-the-top wink. 

He retorts over his shoulder, “I ain’t that sweet, babygirl.” 

“I don’t believe you,” she sing-songs, and he’s laughing as they both continue on their way. 

Derek makes his way over to the same spot as yesterday, a round table between two curved benches. He pulls out his book and settles down to wait. Spencer isn’t there yet (which makes sense, considering that “same time” meant “two-ish” and it’s more like one-ish right now) but there are two older men playing chess at one of the tables nearby. Otherwise, it’s quiet: two women jogging, a few families on the playground, a guy throwing a ball for his dog. 

For a while, it’s actually a pretty awesome way to spend an afternoon. He doesn’t really notice how much time has passed until he shifts, stretching some cramped muscles. Then he checks his watch. 

They didn’t really set a definite time, though. It was vague. It’s not a big deal. 

Twenty minutes is a normal amount of time to be late. Derek has pulled that move on more than one first date — which begs the question: is this a date? — but he didn’t expect Spencer to be the type, somehow.  

He starts to get anxious around half past. He can think of a dozen excuses Spencer might use, but they’re all excuses he’s used himself, and they all boil down to I don’t actually care. 

He turns back to his book and tries to forget about the time.

At three, after re-reading the same page for the fourth time, he accepts that it’s a lost cause. He sets the book down on the bench and rests his face in his palms for a moment, taking a deep breath. 

Fuck. He is so not playing it cool. 

There was something about Spencer that Derek can’t stop thinking about, and it’s not his bone structure or his eyes or the way his fingers looked as he fiddled with his chess piece. It was the way he blushed and stuttered, completely flustered and unable to hide it, and the way he brushed it off with, “I’m not used to being flirted with.” It was a genuine reaction. He was being honest. He wasn’t trying to pose or posture or do any of the things Derek would’ve done to protect himself. 

It was the little crease between his eyebrows as he studied Derek intently — too intent to be polite — like Spencer was figuring him out, looking under the surface, seeing him in a way that people usually don’t, because most people don’t care enough to look. Most people miss what’s right in front of them. 

It was the way he sat, legs crossed, unpretentious and almost childlike. 

It was different. He wasn’t hiding anything. Derek’s been hiding a lot, these last few years. It was nice to be around someone who wasn’t, and who made it look easy. 

And yeah, it was also his cheekbones and eyes and fingers and smile, because Derek is only fucking human. 

At quarter past, he starts to wonder what he did wrong. 

Yeah, I’m flirting with you. 

It was like a free-fall, the pause after the words, that frozen moment of can’t take it back now and this is going to change everything. It’s the same hot-cold-terrifying-exhilarating shock he felt in the pause after he came out to his mom — same as the moment right before the jury gave their verdict — same as the moment he walked into school the next day. 

But it was different, because Spencer smiled, all slow and shy. No betrayal, no creeping disgust, no pointed questions or even more pointed silence. 

That easy acceptance took Derek’s breath away. It felt like freedom. It felt like the moment the plane’s wheels lifted off the tarmac, the sickening lurch in his stomach, the blaze of something like defiance as he watched Chicago recede into the distance. 

Spencer smiled, and Derek felt like he could’ve ignored the laws of physics and flown away. If that was what “being out” usually feels like, he could see why people might want to do it. The moment of free-fall — this is going to change everything — was worth it, for that. 

This, though? There’s something cold and leaden sitting in his chest, dragging him rudely back down to earth. He should just go. This is an embarrassing amount of time to wait around for some random guy. 

“Tell me who I need to punch,” somebody calls. “A face like yours should never be frowning, sweetness.” 

It’s the colorful girl from earlier, and Derek can’t help but smile at the way she stomps over and sits down across from him, matter-of-fact and brazen like they’ve known each other for years. 

“I was just waiting for you, babygirl,” he tells her, turning the charm up to eleven, and she rolls her eyes. 

“Penelope. The pleasure is all yours.” She holds her hand out for him to shake — her nails have tiny daisies painted all over them — and Derek kisses it instead. 

“Derek Morgan. Charmed, I’m sure.” 

“So who’s the girl that’s got you all tragic-looking?” she asks, and rummages in her massive bag for a minute before pulling out a tupperware of cookies. “Want one? They’re still warm. I was at my friend’s house, she needed some cheering up, we baked. I promise I’m not some creepy creep who’s going to lure you into their white van, oh my god, I just realized that I’m a complete stranger, and this is totally weird! But — cookies?” 

“I’d follow you anywhere, babygirl. And I will totally take a cookie.” He takes a bite of melty chocolate chips and moans. “Marry me?” 

“Alas, your heart belongs to another,” she says solemnly. “I know that face. Spill.” 

“Got stood up, but...” Derek chews as slowly as he can manage. “Wasn’t a girl.” 

He’s starting to get used to that free-fall sensation. It’s not so bad this time around. 

“Oh my god, I shouldn’t have assumed, I’m sorry! Men, right?” She heaves a dramatic sigh, and Derek tries to hide his own quiet sigh of relief. “The worst, I swear.” 

“No biggie. Other fish in the sea, right?” 

“Have another cookie.” 

“Woman, you are a goddess. I am so glad I met you.” 

“I’m glad you met me too, Derek Morgan.” 

.

.

part three here! 

.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #moreid #spencer reid #derek morgan

[lovelyamneris]

George + Jerry, “The art of not being an idiot is extremely challenging for me.”

I've been hoarding this ask in my inbox for God knows how long I'm so sorry anon. Then I wrote like three quarters of it and posted about that and was immediately hit with writer's block. Here's my attempt at trying to write more seinfeld content for you <3

[Ao3 Link] [Full Series]

It’s early on a Saturday and Monk’s diner bustles with its usual crowd of regulars. George and Jerry are sitting across from each other in a booth by the window; George with a strawberry pastry and hot coffee and Jerry working on his third consecutive double espresso.

Sun pours in and blankets their table with warm early morning light. It’s intimate; in the way that drinking coffee every day with your oldest friend is intimate once it's a routine.

“So do you think that’s funny?” Jerry is asking, doting over a notebook of incomprehensible scribbles, “Are people allowed to laugh at that sort of thing these days or would it be considered a mood killer?”

Jerry is pretty sure that the audience wouldn’t throw tomatoes at him like he’s in a bad Shakespearian play, but stranger things have happened.

George half shrugs, “I don’t know. How would I know?”

“Well, I assumed as a fellow human being you’d have an opinion.”

“Comedy is subjective.” George says waving him off, “Just improvise or something.”

“Surprisingly harder than you think.”

The last time Jerry tried to improvise on stage the only person in the audience laughing was Elaine. And technically she was laughing more at his expense than she was at the joke. Cue the metaphorical tomato throwing. Jerry stares at his notepad and pouts. Why is it so difficult to figure out if his joke is funny or not? Kramer laughed, but perhaps that’s a bad sign.

A moment passes and when he looks back up from his notepad George is about five shades paler. Jerry recognizes the look immediately. It’s the ghostly expression of a man doomed to come face to face with the consequences of his own actions. Never a good sign for George.

“What’s wrong?” Jerry asks. Despite the courtesy of asking the question, he doesn’t seem too concerned by George’s sudden change in demeanor. He’s used to George’s sudden waves of panic. It’s like his default.

“Does that look like Lindsay to you?” George’s voice cracks.

“Psycho sadist Lindsay?” Jerry looks around the diner theatrically, “The one who thinks you got wacked by the mob? Where?”

“In our booth by the door.”

From where they’re sitting, Jerry can only see the side of her head, but it’s definitely Lindsay. She seems a lot happier than he remembers. Back when she was with George, she always had the face of someone who’s just accidently bitten into a lemon. Kramer even called her lemon face once, which was an awful moment for everyone involved.

“That’s her alright.” Jerry confirms, “What do you think she’s doing here?”

“I have absolutely no idea!” George shrinks down in the booth to hide from her, “She knows I get the diner in the breakup. It’s part of our pre-breakup agreement!”

“Ah, the pre-breakup agreement. The prenup of the dating world.” Jerry nods understandingly, “While I’d usually agree with you on that, I think faking your own death gives her a loophole.”

“I died while we were together!” George counters, whisper yelling. He looks awfully frazzled and generally insane, “She’s basically my widow. How does she think you feel having to see my widow at your favorite diner? It’s outrageous!”

Jerry considers this. Ever since the infamous incident with the fancy plates, he’s instinctively crossed to the other side of the street when he’s seen her in public. He’s not sure he’d be able to hold it together if she asked him about his best friend and said best friend’s terrible fate at the hands of the mob. Cracking a grin would probably not be an acceptable response.

And George is technically right. If he was actually dead, Jerry wouldn’t want to see Lindsay at the diner. It would undoubtedly cause a chain of events starting with him thinking about George and moping around about it (Jerry’s not sure he’s capable of moping, but he’s too afraid to find out) and ending with him being all sad and ruining his comedy routine. How are you supposed to be funny when you’re busy thinking about your dead friend?

Jerry relents, “Well, I can’t argue with that logic.”

“What do I do?” George panics, shrinking further down in the booth, “She’s going to kill me, Jerry!”

“I think you’re overreacting. So what if psycho Lindsay sees you? It’s the nineties. Is a dead man not allowed to have a strawberry pastry without persecution?”

George deflates, “You’re not taking this seriously. Lindsay is going to kill me and you’re making your little jokes about it. Great. Thanks a lot.”

“Hey, it’s not like you didn’t bring this on yourself. Even Elaine said she knew this would come back to haunt you eventually. It’s about time you face the music.”

George doesn’t think that sounds appealing at all. He’s gone his whole life avoiding the music. Why should he face it now! In fact, only people who have given up in life subject themselves to the music. If you’re still alive and breathing then it’s your God given right to avoid the music.

“How does Elaine know about the fancy plates?”

“Kramer told her.”

“How did Kramer know?!”

“I told Kramer.”

And of course. Of course, everyone in filled in and up to date on George’s suffering. He shoots Jerry a scathing look and Jerry returns it with a lopsided teasing grin.

Jerry glances down at his empty cup of espresso and frowns. The whole lemon faced Lindsay debacle has distracted him from what’s most important. Caffeine. He’s sure that the waitress is avoiding him because George is causing a scene. Or maybe Jerry is being cut off like he’s a drunk at a bar. Are they allowed to cut you off from caffeine? Is there an unspoken caffeine limit that only waitresses and baristas know about? He decides to investigate further.

Just as he's about to signal for the waitress, Jerry makes eye contact with Lindsay. Her face drops and suddenly she has that lemon faced expression about her again. Uh oh. Lindsay says something to her friend and gets up from her seat, making her way across the diner and towards them.

Jerry gives an enthusiastic wave, the type of wave that you’d give an old friend you’re seeing for the first time in a while. After all, Lindsay was always friendly to him. And she was one of George's most humor-inclined girlfriends! Maybe she'd be able to tell him if the joke was funny or not.

George stares at him in horror, “What? What’s happening?”

“Buck up, buddy, looks like she’s coming over.”

George makes a face like he’s been hit by a bus, but he defeatedly slides back up in his seat. Suddenly Lindsay is beside their booth, arms crossed.

“So, I’m guessing this is a Weekend at Bernie’s situation?” She asks. Jerry appreciates her humor. She seems pretty chill for someone who just found out that her boyfriend has risen from the dead.

“Good guess.” Jerry says conversationally, “Actually, George was getting too cramped in his coffin. He doesn’t do well in small spaces and decided to call the whole death thing off. Good idea if you ask me, the whole funeral thing is always a bit too theatric in my opinion. Like we get it. You're dead. Move on."

“Real classy.” Lindsay shoots back, but Jerry can tell that she liked the joke, “By the way George, I knew it wasn’t real when I called your parents to offer my condolences and your dad laughed at me. Anything to say about that?”

George shrugs, the gig is up as they say, “Admittedly, the art of not being an idiot is extremely challenging for me.”

Lindsay rolls her eyes, "You know what, I don't care." She heads back over to her friend and doesn't look back.

“Huh. She took that pretty well.” Jerry says when Lindsay is out of ear shot, “The way you talk about her I assumed her reaction would’ve been far more deranged.”

“Trust me,” George says seriously, “If you weren’t here she would’ve unhinged her jaw and swallowed me whole like a snake.”

“Too bad. I would’ve liked to see that.”

Finally, the waitress comes back over and Jerry orders another espresso. He considers his joke again.

“Should I ask Lindsay if she thinks the joke’s funny?” Jerry asks seriously. Lindsay is still sitting across the diner with her friend, “I need a woman’s perspective.”

George shrugs, “Jerry, I’m telling you right now, just improvise. Or do the lifeguard bit again. It’s your best.”

#seinfeld #seinfeld fanfic #prompt requests #ao3 tag

[originalwinnercheesecake]

Chain of Iron theories: who becomes a Downworlder

Alright so I took a break from posting my theories to enjoy the comedic hijacks of the letter game, but March 2 draws closer and I have more theories to release on to the masses. So I decided to jump back in with a hot one. We will be seeing more of the downworld in books to come, including esteemed members such as Magnus Bane, Camille Belcourt, and Woolsey Scott, and  someone in TLH’s future is not with the shadowhunters, but as a downworlder. I am assuming that this person will turn into a vampire or a werewolf, as warlocks are born and turned fey usually have to grow up in fairy. Also because (minus the rare warlock) werewolves and vampires are what make up the predator Lupus and we know we are going to revisit TPL and see it develop more as an organization. As always theories are below.

3.) Thomas Lightwood becomes a downworlder {werewolf (retracted)}

When I first hear that someone was turning into a downworlder I immediately theorized Thomas because I knew the found family tree says he dies at 30 and I was looking for a way for that to be wrong. So my idea was that maybe Thomas got turned into a downworlder at 30, had to leave to learn to control his powers, and that the clave wrote him off in their records as having died because they are just that terrible. I am retracting this theory though on a few grounds. One learning that the silent brother who wrote the found family tree was Brother Zachariah. Jem would not do do such a cruel and bigoted thing, he is and has always been better than that. Secondly 10 years after TLH the world wars happen and I cannot imagine that Shadowhunters are not negatively effected by something so catastrophic and wide spread. I googled when the world wars happened rechecked the Thomas’s wiki page and sure enough he is said to die one year into the first world war, at the same year the air attacks started in London.

My conclusion is that while I would like Thomas to become downworlder, if it would allow him to live past being 30, I find it unlikely. I now believe that Thomas dies trying to help mundanes evacuate London or take shelter during air attacks. (Drying my own tears, handing everyone who needs one a tissue, and moving back to the downworld theories)

2.) Charles Fairchild becomes a downworlder (werewolf)

So I preety much think if it is a Shadowhunter it will be one of the Fairchild brothers. they’re just about the only ones left where it is a tose up whom continues the family line. I know Matthew is more likely, but until I read Matthew’s trandformation written by Cassandra Clare herself it could still be Charles. How it would happen is a little more tricky for me to explain, but I might have something. See Charles is on my list of potential characters Belial may possess and turn into the killer. I also said that if he is the killer than I only see a 50% chance he will be freed from that control by Matthew or one of TLH gang. But what if Belial sends him to attack the Merry Thieves when hey are at The Devils Tavern or Hell’s Ruelle, you know a place that also has werewolves, and before he can vanish he is bit by one? Then he transforms at the next full moon. What if Belial can only control human minds and since a werewolf is half animal changing into a wolf snaps Charles out of Beial’s control? Then him turning into a downworlder wouldn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. He could meet Matthew later and tell him about the change freeing him, then Matthew could go tell Will and Charlotte, and they could make new alliances with the downworld to help take down Belial.

(Is this whole theory me tying to convince myself Matthew woun’t be turned and James and Matthew won’t lose their Parabatai bond?) Who’s asking? Its like 97% that. The other 3% is me really wanting Charles to go talk to Woolsey Scott because I felt really bad for him in TLH when he implys that the reason he hates being gay is because as far as he knows gay men are not allowed to be political leaders. I get it, representation is important.

1.) Matthew Fairchild becomes a downworlder (Vampire) 

Matthew is the most likely one. We all know it, there have been hints foreshadowing in every one of Matthew’s appearances dating back to his first appearance in Nothing But Shadows, when he first said he does not like the way shadowhunters live their lives and  wishes he were not one. We know he prefers to associate with downworldrs and frequents their establishments as an escape when his life as a shadowhunter gets to be to much for him. While I doubt he would ever ask someone to turn him (he wouldn’t want to leave Henry or the Herondale’s) as we saw in Cast Long Shadows when at downworld establishments Matthew isn’t always careful and can be too trusting. Throw in the alcohol he is always drinking and something is bound to happen. Judging by that line where he tells Cordelia that he would “like a portrait of himself that shows that... while he stays forever young” something will happen with him and a vampire. Matthew might make a better downworlder than a shadowhunter, especially if he eventually joins the Predator Lupis. That is a care taker job and he is loves/ is great at being James and Henry’s care taker.

It would be heart breaking for Matthew to no longer be able to see Henry or to lose his Parabatai bond with James. Lets remember though that James and Cordelia likely become the London Institute Heads after Will steps down, and in COHF Sebastian said that the London Institute and Predator Lupus head quarters had famous ties to each other once upon a time.  So if Matthew Changes into a vampire he may not lose James and Cordelia for good. His and James’s their will change yes, but it can withstand. Just like Will and Jem’s bond changed but withstood Jem becoming a silent brother.

Bonus) Bridget Daly (Vampire??? possible fey connection??? )

So Bridget Daly. The London institutes crazy,  dark ballad singing, child watching, frying pan brandishing, over all amazing resident is still somehow alive in TDA, and if we keep  reading TLH we will eventually know how. (She is just to tough to die. The grim reaper hasn’t come for her soul because she terrifys him). Lately I have seen theory’s crop up that the person who becomes a downworlder won’t actually be a shadowhunter, but it will be Bridget, and that is how she gains immortality. I love this. But I need details and no one is providing me. Is Bridget attacked? Who hurt this women? Is this the result of some dark spell? Or did she have some downworlder do it to her by choice? Did she know that Shadowhunters   were just going to get moe stupid and crazy as time went on, and decide that for Londons (if not the worlds sake) she needed to stick around and sing/beat some sense into their heads?

Make me cry. Stephen Herondale grew up at the London institute. Stephen knew Bridget. He had this amazing (possibly downworlder) women in his life for 17 years and he still fell into Valentine’s trap after moving away. Did Bridget grieve over him? In another life Jace could have grown up at the London Institute. He could have grown up helping Bridget cook and learning her dark ballads!!! (hey fanfic writers)

I don’t know what we will get from these books regarding Bridget Daly’s future, but she is an amazing character, and her story better do her justice.

#Chain of Iron #COI #Chain of IRon theoires #Shadowhunters #The downworld #Thomas Lightwood #Matthew Fairchild #Charles fairchild #Bridget Daly #James Herondale #Will herondale #Jem Carstairs #Heronsatairs #Woolsey Scott #NBS #CLS #The MErry theives #Cordelia Carstairs #The Last hours #TLH #The Shadowhunter chronicles #TSC #The predator Lupis #Parabatai #Jesse Blackthorn #Lucie Herondale #Alastair Carstairs

[discotreque]

LwD 1.10, “No Small Parts”

Well, that was the most fun I've had watching Star Trek in literally a quarter of a century.

I had high hopes for this series. I love TAS, largely because of its wacky outsized concepts that could only have worked in animation—not that they all did work, but the potential was so apparent to me, even as a kid reading the Alan Dean Foster novelizations—and as an adult, there's something about the imagination of Lower Decks's FX setpieces that transcends even the glorious CGI bonanzas of Discovery.

Pause for a confession. I've long pushed back against criticism of serialization in new Trek. That's just how TV is now, okay? Might as well complain about it being in widescreen. But I'm backing down a little, because I've realized there is something about Star Trek that's inextricable from at least a partially-episodic format. And while Picard was telling a different kind of story, I can't deny that my favourite episodes of Disco have been the ones with a mostly self-contained A-plot. After 10 delightfully episodic instalments of LwD, its focus on long-term development of characters instead of a season-spanning puzzle-plot (okay, mostly just Mariner, but we only have 10 × 22 minutes and she is the star) has been downright refreshing.

So here we are, at the end of the most consistent and well-executed Season 1 of a Star Trek series since, arguably, Those Old Scientists. And sure, if they'd had to produce another... yikes, 42 episodes? Then sure, they probably would have dropped a clunker or two—but they didn't, and winning on a technicality is still winning. I'm practically vibrating with excitement for Disco to come back next week, but damn, I'm going to miss this little show while it's on hiatus.

Spoilers below:

Something I've been keeping track of finally paid off this week! (Which never happens to me, lol.) The destruction of the USS Solvang marked the first present-day death(s) of any Starfleet officer on Lower Decks, the only other on-screen killing at all being a flashback in "Cupid's Errant Arrow". Which makes sense, being (a) a comedy, and (b) about typically "expendable" characters: it hasn't been afraid to flirt with a little darkness here and there, but killing people off at Star Trek's usual pace wouldn't just be wrong for the tone, it would be downright bizarre.

But... people die on Star Trek. That's one of the core themes of the show, really: space is full of knowledge and beauty, but also danger and terror, and believing that the former is worth the risk of the latter is (according to Trek) one of humanity's most noble traits. I'm the least bloodthirsty TV watcher I know, but the longer we went with a body count of nil—ships completely evacuated before they were destroyed, main characters hilariously maimed without permanent consequences, etc.—well, I didn't mind per se, but the absence of truly deadly stakes was definitely getting conspicuous.

Turns out they were saving it up for maximum impact. And holy fuck, I've never felt such a pit in my stomach watching a ship get destroyed that wasn't named Enterprise. It felt grim and brutal and somehow both much too quick and dreadfully inevitable—and yeah, it looked extremely fucking cool—and I'd like every other Star Trek property for the rest of time to take notes under a large bold heading labeled RESTRAINT.

Comedy doesn't need to do this, but my favourite comedy does, and in a way that few other art forms can even approach: lower my emotional defences by making me laugh, endear character(s) to me with goofy-but-relatable antics—then BAM, sucker-punch me in the motherfucking feels. M*A*S*H is probably the classic example on TV, Futurama was notorious for it, and even Archer has pulled it off a few times; it's also a staple of some of my favourite standup. I wasn't sure if Lower Decks was going to go there in Season 1—and wasn't sure if they'd earn it—but I knew if they did, that they'd nail it, and damn. Feels good to be right.

Last batch of notes for the season!!! I rambled enough already, so let's do it liveblog-style:

I fucking KNEW they were going to use "archive" visuals from TAS at some point, I KNEW IT :D

"THOSE OLD SCIENTISTS" ahahahahahahahahahahahaha

I like chill and confident Boimler a lot? You can really see—

oh bRADWARD NOOOOO

That opening shot of the Solvang tracking down to the red giant was extremely Discovery-esque... minus the motion sickness, that is

A lady captain AND a lady first officer? That's—oh hey, it's Captain Dayton's brand-new ship. Hahaha, that means they're totally fucked, right?.

Yep! They sure a—umm, wh—shit, okay, but—oh no—no, you can't—wait DON'T

...fuck

FUCK.

Narrator: "And then Amy needed a five-hour break."

[live-action Star Trek showrunner voice] "Gee, Mike! Why does CBS let you have two cold opens?"

Okay, yes, the bit with Rutherford cycling through all the different attitudes in his implant was transparently an excuse for Eugene Cardero to vamp while waiting for something to do in the story, but as far as I'm concerned they can contrive a reason for him to do a bunch of different silly Rutherfords in a row any time they damn well want, because that was classic!!!

EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP EXOCOMP

AND THE EXOCOMP IS PAINTED LIKE THE EXOCOMP IS WEARING A LITTLE EXOCOMP-SIZED STARFLEET UNIFORM

EXOCOMP!!!!!

The slow burn and now the payoff of the Mariner-is-Freeman's-secret-daughter plot has been executed so well. I'm beyond impressed with this writer's room, y'all—they are threading a hell of a needle here

"Wolf 359 was an inside job" would have been a spit-take if I'd had anything in my mouth

...how many memos do you think Starfleet Command has had to issue asking people to stop calling the USS Sacramento "the Sac"?

CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW THEY'VE DECORATED THE SHUTTLECRAFT SEQUOIA THOUGH

Is, uh, is it weird if I'm starting to ship Tendi and Peanut Hamper a little? It is weird, isn't it. I knew it was weird...

Coital barbs??? I take back everything I said about wanting to know more about Shaxs/T'Ana.

The "good officer" version of Mariner is... kind of hot, tbh! But Tawny Newsome has done such a great job of building this character all season that her voice getting uncharacteristically clipped and martial and "sir! yes, sir!" is also deeply, deeply weird

Ah, so this is literally exactly like when TNG (and DS9) would bring in, and then blow up, a never-before-seen Galaxy-class ship, just to underscore that we're facing a real threat this week, baby. And hey, it fucking worked—my heart was in my throat, omg, for the reveal of the—

PAKLEDS?????????

The fucking PAKLEDS have been gluing weapons to their ships for the last 15 years. GREAT.

(We interrupt the SHIP BEING SLICED INTO SCRAP for an interesting bit of world-building: on Earth, the traditional First Contact Day meal is salmon!)

"I need a dangerous, half-baked solution that breaks Starfleet codes and totally pisses me off! That's an order." I'm starting to think Captain Freeman might actually be overqualified for the Cerritos, y'all—she's REALLY awesome

OH SHIT IT'S BADGEY, this is a TERRIBLE IDEA

"How much contraband have you hidden on my ship?" "I don't know! A lot!"

Awwww, Boims!!!

AHAHAHAHAHAHA, FUCK THIS, PEANUT HAMPER OUT

BADGEY NOOOOO

AUGHHHHH WHAT THE CHRIST DID HE JUST—BUT—RUTHERFORD'S IMPLANT????

RUTHERFORD!!!!!!!!!!

SHAXS!!!!!!

F U C K ! ! ! ! !

ahaIOPugdfhagntpgjrq90e5mgu90qe5;oigoqgw4ouegrw5SP;IAEHURVa IT’S THE TITAN???????????

IT'S CAPTAIN WILLIAM T. RIKER ON THE MOTHERFUCKING TITAN??????????

i'm screaming I'M SCREAMINGGGGGG​TGGGTGQER;​LBHAOIBVNV;​OAPBIJNVagr;h;​oagruipuwtnaetbaetgq35ghqet

I'M SO GLAD THIS WASN'T SPOILED FOR ME WTF

I AM WEEPING LIKE A CHILD

...

(Just a brief 20-minute pause this time)

And oh wow, seeing Will and Deanna hits different after Picard too, in a few different ways, which I may even get into later now that my heartrate is back to normal, lmao

Oh, I am always here for some jokes at the expense of the Sovereign class. The Enterprise-E sucked. They should have built a new bigger model of the D and new Galaxy-class interiors for the TNG movies, and I will die on that hill

OKAY, FINE, YOU GOT ME, RUTHERFORD × TENDI WOULD BE ADORABLE AND THIS IS ACTUALLY A PRETTY GOOD SETUP FOR IT

Awwww, Shaxs though :( Congrats on the single most badass death in Star Trek history, dude. The Prophets would—well, the actual Prophets would probably be slightly confused about most of it, but Kira Nerys would be proud of you and I feel like that probably counts for more. RIP, Papa Bear

I am here all damn DAY for the Mariner–Riker parallels, ahahahahaha

Pausing it to record my prediction that Boimler's commitment to not caring about rank anymore is going to last 3... 2...

Yep.

Bradward, how DARE YOU.

"Those guys had a long road, getting from there to here." OH FOR THE LOVE OF—

What a brilliant way to resolve and renew the various character arcs and relationships moving into Season 2! The writers could easily have brought everything back to status quo—chaotic Mariner fighting with her mom and being a bad influence on Boimler, etc.—and done another 10 just like these, but I suspect that wouldn't have been ambitious enough for these writers. What a blast. I cannot wait for more.

Thanks for following along, friends! Stay tuned for my (similarly patchy and amateur) coverage of Discovery, starting next week!

#star trek #star trek lower decks #lwd spoilers #lower decks spoilers #lower decks #amy's episode notes

[capricornus-rex]

A Shadow of What You Used to Be (10)

Chapter 10: A Home Away | Cal Kestis x Irele Skywalker

Cal Kestis x Fem! OC

Requested by Anon

Summary: There is another! Years after young Anakin Skywalker departed Tatooine, his mother Shmi delivers a second child—this time, a daughter. Whilst the circumstance of the girl’s birth remains unexplained, Irele Skywalker has yet to choose the true path between those laid out for her.

Tags: Fem! OC, Irele Skywalker, Force-sensitive! OC, Anakin’s Younger Sister, Skywalker! OC, Darth Vader’s Secret Apprentice, Long-lost Sibling

Requesting to be tagged: @heavenly1927​

Also in AO3

Chapters: Prelude – 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 | Previous: Part 9 | Next: Part 11 | Masterlist

11 of ?

The maintenance droids only needed an hour to prepare a dorm for Irele within the command ship. Not that she would need a personal room in every ship she boards, but it would help if she did in the near future. The human guards did not need to wait for Irele to come to, they barged into the cell, pulled the poor girl by the arm to stand her up and then drag her out of the prison block while she could barely use her own two feet.

Irele’s eyes have not adjusted to the changing tones and gradients of lights of each part of the ship she passes through. She thought she said the question “Where are we going?” when the guards only heard an incoherent groaning at the throat.

The way from the prison block to her new chambers was a ten-minute walk, if one marched faster it would have been lesser. Upon reaching their destination, only one escorted her into her room and sat her down on the bed—to which she immediately fell limp and ended up lying down instead. While she was out cold, a nanny droid entered her bedroom to tend to whatever it can in the quarters; it took its time, in fact, until the girl came to. The droid’s sensors picked up the spike from Irele’s heart rate from slow to normal, it briskly turned around.

“It is fortunate that you’ve come to, milady. The serum from the probe has completely worn off. Should you feel slight nausea, do not be alarmed for it is normal as well. I can administer some painkillers to you with your choice of pill or syrup.”

The droid is programmed to speak in Basic and had a rather lulling, female voice—perhaps the most appropriate if you are to manufacture and program a droid for nursing.

“Milady? What are you talking about? Who are you? What are you?”

“You are here as a ward under the strict order of Master Vader. I am HY-L33, Nanny Droid,” it brought its head into a bow, “At your service, Milady Irele.”

“Why call me Milady when I’m kept hostage here?” she sits up and examines the room.

“Oh, you are mistaken, Milady. You are Lord Vader’s ward,” HY-L33 corrects. “And I have been tasked to take care of your basic needs and whims, if need be.”

“What I need is to go home! I don’t like being holed up in anywhere!”

The nurse droid lowered its head slowly, it stayed like so for a moment; with a rather sympathetic voice, HY-L33 responds, “I’m sorry, but I am incapable of fulfilling that whim, milady. I would suggest that you make yourself comfortable in this new one.”

Irele sighed, knowing that she’s talking to a wall here. She gave herself time to calm down and breathe. She passed her hands across her face and sighed.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be lashing out to you…” Irele inhaled. “What are you called again?”

“HY-L33, madam.”

Irele quietly parroted the name, “That’s a mouthful. How about I call you Haylee, is that alright?”

“If it proves to be more convenient for you, milady. Although personally, I do adore the name you’ve given me.”

Irele hummed as she managed a small smile, she hinted the chirp from the droid’s voice, relieved that she found some company out of the droid in this inorganic, cold room, she walked around to get a better feel of it now that the serum from the interrogation droid has worn off.

“Say, Haylee, do you know where we are?”

“We are aboard the command ship Anathema, the ship is within the Ulgoro system, and we are passing by the orbit of the planet Yelen.”

“How far are we from Tatooine?”

Haylee ran a quick scan from her processors, “We are approximately twenty-five parsecs away from the said Outer Rim planet.”

Irele breathed deeply, her heart sank, “That’s so far away…”

The droid’s photoreceptors picked up Irele’s increased heart rate and temperature. The girl was manifesting signs of anxiety: shivering hands, failing voice, and cold sweat.

“You are suffering from homesickness. Unfortunately, I do not have the appropriate medication for that, milady. Neither can I administer any medication for you. This is absolutely natural as you have been extracted from your real home to your current location.”

Irele took the deepest sigh and made a mantra.

Don’t lash out on the droid, you just screamed at it ten minutes ago.

She told this to herself mentally until she’s calmed herself down.

“Yeah, I am homesick. I left my family behind and…” she trailed off, realizing that the last people she was with were her friends. “My friends. They must be all worried sick about me.”

“You will be well taken care of here, Lady Irele.”

“Heh,” the girl huffed. “No need to be so formal. Just call me Irele.”

“As you wish… Mistress Irele.”

“Droids, gotta love ‘em…” she mumbled very quietly, knowing how acute droids’ hearing could be—depending on the model, that is.

–

Fortunately enough, Irele is indeed being taken care of.

Ever since she was moved to her own chambers in the Star Destroyer Anathema, she was thoroughly pampered—more or less—than anyone else in the ship, aside from Darth Vader. Never has she ever been well-fed in sixteen years! The serving portions were generous and they were quite tasty, but she had her moments where the food somewhat reminded her of home.

A uniformed officer enters Vader’s quarters to report of Irele’s adjustment to the new environment. Most of the officers feared that they’re speaking like a broken record, reporting the same thing to Vader every week—they had probably imagined it vexed him to be hearing the same thing over and over; it did them little comfort when adding their own personal observations of her such as asking for seconds with her food and interacting with the nanny droid, since she’s still shy and cautious from everyone else on board.Additionally, she was not yet allowed to wander off alone beyond her room. So, by all means, she is pretty much a hostage still—a rather pampered one, at the very least.

“Has she stopped her erratic behavior?”

“Fortunately so, Lord Vader, she has. Perhaps about a week and a half since her extraction, she had become somewhat… docile.”

Vader paused. He had presumed it was the effects of the interrogator droid’s syringe, but surely during the time the nanny droid was tending to the girl, the substance has flushed out since. Realizing that he truly knows nothing of what kind of person Irele is—compared from his earliest reference of her—he sighs with a quiet frustration under his mask.

“Very well. We are right on schedule. Carry on, captain.”

“Yes sir,” the captain bowed and dismissed himself militarily. His true posture showed when he rejoined his companion who had been waiting for him by the door. He hissed, “I didn’t conscript myself to the Imperial Fleet to be a babysitter!”

“Be more frustrated when Lord Vader does appoint you the official babysitter of the girl.”

“She’s quite a handful, don’t you think so?”

“Temperamental, to say the least,”

Only Vader and the droid, HY-L33, know what’s in store for Irele. Very soon, the plans for her life under the Empire’s wing—unknowingly under her brother’s care, or the walking shell of him perhaps—will be put into play.

For many weeks, HY-L33 patiently watched over Irele—especially in the medical aspect—and a mandate was programmed into her that once a diagnosis of the teenager would show optimum by the end of three weeks since her extraction from Tatooine, Irele would be considered physically eligible and be subjected to training. Eventually, HY-L33 was the only companion she has ever had in this ship since day one; so in exchange for medical knowledge and advice from HY-L33, Irele repays it with stories from her homeworld of Tatooine, but knowing that the droid is under Imperial property, she was cautious of what she ought to say, and rather told her adventures she had done on her own or with a friend instead of her family life.

“It seems as though your rigorous lifestyle has contributed to your increased stamina throughout your developmental stage.” HYL-33 commented once while listening to Irele recall one job she did where she would deliver goods door-to-door across the town of Mos Espa.

“Yeah well, I had to work. Because if I didn’t work, that just meant, I’ll be sleeping hungry—or if I’m lucky, with a half-full stomach.”

HY-L33, being the medical nanny droid that she is, went on to lecture Irele that it was ill-advised to sleep on an empty stomach for it will cause ulcers. The girl politely listened and heeded the advice, until she calmed down the droid that she had been fine for the rest of the time she was growing up.

She had only been staying for a week and a half. HY-L33’s sensors indicate a lesser trace of homesickness and anxiety within Irele, her body mass index has not changed drastically at all since her food intake was increased rather than imposing an eating strike—a few of HY-L33’s references cite that most human teenagers are more rebellious, especially when it comes to being fed after being thrown into a stressful situation. However, this was not the case with Irele, which made the nurse droid’s circuits cooler.

Eventually, the three weeks were over. Irele noticed HY-L33 seeming to be in full preparation. She did not mind this, but kept a close eye, until she could find the right timing to ask. After lunch, Irele went to the bath by rote, and quickly dressed herself in a dark gray shirt, black pants, and low boots.

Irele could truly sense something different in their routine.

“Haylee?”

“Yes, Miss Irele?”

“Is there something new added into the routine?”

“Yes, Miss Irele, we are about to perform a full health assessment on you. Please follow me and I will escort you to the medical ward.”

This was the first time Irele had been outside of her bedroom. For three weeks, she had been holed up in that metal room with no one and nothing else but HY-L33—to which she had grown fond of anyway—and then she finally comes out for a medical check-up.

Along the way, she could not look into the eyes of the crew, although she perfectly blended in with her gray and black clothes. She was nervous and afraid of what they’re thinking of her—because she felt like she knows what they’re saying about her, it’s a feeling that she can’t explain but it still manifests in her. Eager to avoid the stares and attention, Irele walked directly behind HY-L33 until they got to the said medical ward.

When they got there, the interior of the medical ward was a little bit brighter than most of the rooms in the ship. The walls were still metal, of course, but it was a cooler shade of gray which somewhat eased the people who are admitted and confined here—instead of the intimidating dark grays and blacks on other parts of the ship. At the center of operations was a 2-1B surgical droid stationed by a medical bed; it was approached by HY-L33 and Irele, when the droid’s photoreceptors saw the girl’s face, a deep male tone started speaking in a monotonous, continuous fashion.

“Irele Skywalker, human female, age is sixteen standard years, height stands at five feet and three inches…”

“Okay, okay, I think we got enough of my vitals already!” Irele interrupted.

“Were you briefed of your purpose here?”

Irele made a side-eyed glance at HY-L33, who didn’t move at all, “I was only told I was getting a check-up.”

“Correct.”

The surgical droid cleared out what HY-L33 failed to when they were still in the bedroom. It started with the physical examination—taking down her age, height, and weight, until it pored into analyzing the fluid levels and vitals of her organs to see if they were normal. It was all strange for little Irele, but she held up and did as she was told. She wasn’t getting hurt by the droids anyway, save the one pinprick that they had to do in order to conduct a blood test.

From Vader’s chamber, he was receiving real-time transmissions of the medical ward’s database. Whatever diagnosis the droids encode into the database under Irele’s profile, Vader saw it all firsthand—every revision, every new entry, every number.

Midichlorian count: 20,598.

Seeing this number and then recalling his impression on Irele baffled Darth Vader.

This child has lived sixteen years in a backwater planet, with a high midichlorian count… and yet her sensitivity is dormant.

#cal kestis #cal kestis fic #cal kestis x fem oc #fem oc #irele skywalker #cal kestis x irele skywalker #force-sensitive! oc #anakin's younger sister #skywalker! oc #darth vader's secret apprentice #long-lost sibling #fic request #anon fic request #for anon #anon #star wars #star wars jedi fallen order #jedi fallen order #swjfo #jfo