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her-satanic-wiles · 8 months

Text

October 18th

Olfactophilia, Cardinal Copia x Reader (Dracopia edition)

Masterlist

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: Olfactophilia; public; mild cardiophilia; hickeys; cunnilingus; hair pulling; praise kink; cumswap; piv sex; vaginal sex; unprotected sex; biting; blood drinking; blood play; creampie;

Taglist: @sodoswitchimage @enchantedbunny @bitchywitchygardener @thew0man @sodomiser @the-did-i-ask @copias-sewer-rat @gehrmansbignaturals @deetz-ghuleh @onlyhereforghost

This is a favourite of mine, so I hope you love it just as much as I do.

🔞 MDNI 🔞

In the shadowy realm of the undead, where immortal creatures roamed the night in search of sustenance, there existed Copia. He was a creature of both elegance and darkness, cursed with eternal life and a thirst for human blood that gnawed at him ceaselessly. For centuries, Copia had roamed the earth, silently feeding on victims who were fully aware of just what he was and mewled for him to take them as he pleased. His existence a never-ending cycle of desire and despair.

But one fateful night, under the glow of a blood-red moon, Copia’s unquenchable thirst lead him to a discovery that would consume him like no other before. To you.

It was at a masquerade ball, one of Terzo’s many elaborate and luxurious parties he adored throwing, where the decadent scent of human lives filled the air, that he first laid eyes on you.

You were an enchanting beauty even behind the mask you wore, your hair cascading like a waterfall of silk, your skin glowing radiantly under the dim candlelight. Your scent, however, was what ensnared Copia’s senses. It was unlike any he had ever encountered, a heady, intoxicating aroma that beckoned him closer with each passing second. Your blood sang to him, a sweet and alluring melody that seemed to promise unparalleled ecstasy.

Copia found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame. He watched you from the shadows, his crimson eyes fixed upon you as you danced gracefully with other members of the Clergy. His sharp fangs tingled with anticipation, and his heart, though undead, raced as if it were still alive. He had never felt such a powerful pull before, and he knew he could not resist the allure of your blood.

Your blood was unlike any other Copia had ever encountered in his centuries-long existence. It was an olfactory masterpiece, a symphony of scents that intoxicated his senses with each passing breath. Akin to human perfume yet intoxicating to vampires, scents usually varied and had genetics to them as well as other cultural factors, such as diet or exposure to sunlight. To describe it required delving into the intricacies of your unique essence.

The first note that wafted to Copia’s sensitive nostrils was a delicate floral fragrance, reminiscent of the rarest and most enchanting blossoms that only bloomed under the light of the full moon. It was as if the very essence of a midnight garden had been distilled into your veins, creating an aroma that was both ethereal and intoxicating.

Beneath the floral undertones, there was a hint of something deeper, something earthy and grounding. It was as if your blood held the secrets of ancient forests, the scent of damp soil and the rich decay of fallen leaves, creating a harmonious balance between the ethereal and the primal.

As he inhaled more deeply, another layer of your scent revealed itself—a subtle sweetness, like the nectar of a thousand flowers condensed into a single drop. It was a sweetness that tantalized his senses, promising unparalleled pleasure and satisfaction, while at the same time reminding him of the forbidden nature of his desires.

But there was more to your blood than just these exquisite layers. It held a hint of warmth, a comforting aroma that spoke of hearth and home, of safety and sanctuary. It was a scent that stirred a longing in Copia’s cold, immortal heart, a longing for a connection that transcended the boundaries of his cursed existence. You were kindhearted and comforting - and somehow your blood gave it away.

As Copia continued to breathe in the intoxicating fragrance of your blood, he couldn’t help but be reminded of the most exquisite wines, aged to perfection, each sip a journey through time and flavor. Your blood was like the rarest vintage, a treasure to be savored and cherished.

Yet, it was precisely this exquisite aroma that made Copia’s struggle all the more torturous. The temptation to taste your blood, to lose himself in its complex and irresistible scent, was nearly unbearable. Tonight he would indulge and partake in you, with your consent of course. He gave himself a silent promise, and he hoped that you would allow him the pleasures of your body as he needed them.

As the night wore on, Copia’s self-control waned. His senses became overwhelmed by the scent of your blood, and every beat of your heart echoed in his ears like a hypnotic drum. He knew he was on the brink of losing himself, succumbing to his primal instincts, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from you. He sneered quietly at anyone who dared approach you and ask for a dance, and glared daggers into any men whose hands drifted far from where they should be on your body.

Finally, unable to restrain himself any longer, Copia approached you, his movements like a predatory dance. You looked up at him, your kind eyes locking with his, and in that moment, you too felt the undeniable connection between you both. It was as if fate had brought you together, two beings on opposite sides of the living and the undead, bound by an inexplicable attraction.

You danced. You were both enthralled by one another, hypnotised by an invisible force that forced a need to strengthen and bubble up inside you. With each dance step, your bodies got closer, and closer, and closer, until eventually not even a sheet of paper could be wedged between you. It was all too much for Copia. He was thirsty for you in more ways than one. Your scent overpowered him to the brink of insanity and he knew he had to taste you in every way he could. When the music was over, he took your hand into his gloved one and walked you both off the dance floor and away from the Clergy’s prying eyes.

In a secluded corner of the ballroom, Copia’s lips brushed against your neck, his fangs dangerously close to your tender skin. He could feel your pulse quicken, your breath hitch, and he knew you understood the perilous situation you were in. But neither of you could resist the magnetic force that drew you together. His gloved hand came to the other side of your neck, the leather rubbing against the front of your throat. “Not yet, bella. I wish to savour you first. Will you allow me the honour?”

Before you could change your mind, you nodded. “Yes.” Your voice came out as no more than a breathy whisper, which was fortunate given that just round the corner, Terzo’s party raged on.

He allowed himself to take another inhale of your scent at the pulse-point in your neck, eyes rolling back at the flavours that combined so perfectly it made goosebumps appear on his pale skin. He licked at that pulse-point, teasing himself with your taste and allowing him just a snippet of what was to come, his cock growing ever harder under his formal Cardinal robes. He allowed his lips to travel the expanse of your skin, following the flow of your veins and groaning as his nose hovered above your heart. He could hear it beating, sped up at your nervousness. He was so close to you and it made your heart skip many a beat, rushing your delectable blood around your body in anticipation of what was to come. That rhythm, that melody that proved just how vibrant and alive you were was only for him to hear - like a secret no one else needed to know. He placed a tender kiss on your chest above that hard-working, beautiful heart, before continuing down the length of your arm.

Your wrist was his next port of call, your natural perfume emanating strongly from the prominent blue veins that you relied upon. He pressed open mouthed kisses to it, again teasing himself with the smell and the taste of you. Yet the longer he hovered, the more tempted he became, and pulling himself away was so difficult he could hardly stand it.

He dropped to his knees in front of you, his leather-clad fingers playing with the hem of your dress that had been puffed out by a large hoop skirt, giving you the appearance of a 17th century princess. You watched him hesitate for a moment, before wide eyes stared up at you as if to plead with you to grant him permission. His eyes were mismatched and popped against his Cardinal paints, and the baby bat eyes had your heart skipping a beat. You couldn’t say no. You moved your hands from the waist of your dress and began pulling your skirts up, granting him access to your legs and eventually your panties. He took your left leg in his hands, lifting it gently and placing delicate kisses from your ankle to your knees. Those kisses became more and more heated the higher up his lips traveled, and once again his tongue came out to play. Though now, instead of just kissing, he also began to suck, marking your left thigh with not one, but many dark brown hickeys. No one would see them here, but you would be reminded of them every time you caught a glimpse of your naked body. The thought alone drove Copia crazy. “Ti voglio così tanto.” He confessed from below you, his deep voice soft and filled with desire for you. I want you so much.

As soon as he reached your panties, he hooked his fingers over the waistband and pulled them off, placing them in one of the deep pockets of his robe - not before giving them a deep inhale. They would serve him well for a few nights at least. But now he had total access to your most intimate part, and he was dizzy with your scent. Your arousal had flooded your cunt with blood and Copia could no longer control himself. His fangs didn’t come to play yet, but he dove straight in and began licking and sucking at your clit. He was so desperate and needy for your taste, he forgot to take it easy and instead allowed himself to just take from you want he wanted. The small and quiet whimpers that escaped from your partially opened mouth were enough to spur him on, and encourage him to continue his ministrations. You had, of course, spoken to him before this moment - your voice as melodic as your scent, but now your voice was more than a song. It was a calling from below, from Satan himself, rewarding Copia with praise and glory for his centuries of faith. “Right there!” You whispered, punctuating your sentence with a particularly breathy moan due to the harsh suction he performed.

One of your hands let go of the hem of your dress to clutch onto his hair, your own neediness manifesting in the form of a tight grip around his brownish-blonde locks. Copia’s corresponding hand came up to hold the dress still needing it out of the way to please you as much as he possibly could. The harder you pulled meant the better you felt, and that got Copia impossibly hard. He needed the relief. So, as his mouth worshipped you like the gift Lucifer had sent, his other (free) hand came to his own clothed cock, and began to rub over it to relieve some of the pressure building. The size of your skirts meant you couldn’t see exactly what Copia was doing to himself, but his shoulder was moving as though it were a ripple of disturbed water, and that somehow was even hotter. You saw nothing, but the implication of him touching himself because he simply couldn’t wait anymore had you gasping for air. The hand tangled in his hair released him and flew up to your mouth, covering your exceptionally desperate moans as you came on his tongue right as the music had stopped and the dancers were clapping.

Copia didn’t release you from his suctioned grip until he was sure your orgasm had ebbed away, his moustache and chin glistening with your wetness and a small grin on his face. “Bella,” he said gently, “you are exquisite.”

He stood from his knees and kissed your lips, his tongue begging for entrance which was granted. You could taste yourself on his tongue, your cum now entering your mouth and sending another wave of arousal down to your pussy. “Will you allow me entrance, dolcezza?”

You nodded.

“Grazie. Turn around for me.” You did as you were told, pressing your breasts against the wall and arching your back slightly to grant Copia easier access once again.

Each of his moves were calculated ensuring your modesty would still be intact in case someone passed by and witnessed him defiling you. He only lifted your skirts enough to grant him access. His cock rubbed against you twice before you felt his cold, bulbous tip at your entrance, slowly pushing in and forcing your jaw to drop at the sensation. He was much larger than any other man you’d taken, and while the stretch burned it was delicious. Your nipples hardened beneath the material of your underwear and every one of your hairs stood on end. Your entire body was sensitive, feeling his cock in every inch of you from your head to your toes that were curling in your heels. All the while, Copia buried his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent once more and trying to drown himself in it. With the head of his cock now pressed up against your cervix, his hands moved to grope your body, his desire for you becoming completely unbearable. You were soft beneath his touch, pliant, blood and adrenaline circling in all the right places to keep you warm. He tested the waters, tentative thrusts allowing him to make sure you were ready for him to move before he let his lust take over and call all she shots for him. And thankfully, you were ready.

Bracing his right hand against your hip and the left wrapped around your stomach, he began to move in and out of you, long, thoughtful, deep strokes that set your walls on fire with each one. All the while, his face never left the crook of your neck, his tongue coming out to lick and suck at the pulse-point and every inhale filling his nostrils like a drug giving him the energy he needed. After your first orgasm, your blood had gotten sweeter, the Oxycontin released into your blood providing a more honeyed note, the wine turning into mead. Intoxicating, truly.

Your moans were much louder now than they were moments ago, confident in the loudness of the next song in shielding you both from detection. Your left hand rested atop Copia’s that was wrapped around your stomach and you interlocked your fingers with his, the passion proving too much for you to handle on your own. You needed him to ground you despite the fact that he was the one sending you directly to nirvana. “C-Cardinal!” You called out to him and you couldn’t describe why. You needed him closer, moving faster, though he already felt glorious inside you, each ardent thrust ensuring the head of his cock hit your cervix deliciously. Your eyes were closed, and your right hand began traversing down beneath your skirts to play with your sensitive clit. You had no idea when Copia planned to drink from you, but the apprehension had you reeling.

Copia’s grunts were so close to your ear they practically vibrated throughout your entire body. “Sei così fradicia per me, bella.” You’re dripping wet for me, beautiful. “It is a wonder why I never took a bite from your sumptuous fruit before.” He gently began nipping at your skin, and nibbling at your ear. “Tell me, bella, did you want me to?”

“Yes!” You gasped at a particularly breathtaking hit.

“You touched yourself at the thought of this, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Cardinal!”

He chuckled lowly before going back to your neck. “Tell me what you thought about.”

“This… you… oh, Lucifer! I thought about how much you’d fill me - how good you’d feel inside of me. I…”

“Go on, dolcezza.”

“I thought about you biting me and drinking from me. I thought about feeding you.”

He released a deep and gutteral groan at the thought of it. He hadn’t known who you were before tonight, he’d never crossed your path, but knowing that you’d desired him for a while had his hips snapping much harder than before. His undead body revived by you and the lust for your lifeblood and cunt, your words and desperate pleas lighting a fire in his stomach making him even more ravenous for you. He intended on tormenting you further, but the image of you laying in your room with your legs spread and the image of him drinking from you as you came did more for his impending orgasm than he wanted to admit. “I need you to cum for me again, bella. Can you do that?”

“Yes, Cardinal.”

“Good girl.”

With a few more flicks of your fingers, and your breaths becoming more and more laboured, you tipped over the edge once more. Copia had picked up the exact point where your lungs briefly halted as you began to cum, and sunk his teeth into you. This earned a deep, breathless moan from you as your orgasm heightened at the sensation. Still thrusting as hard as he wanted, still pulling you as close to his body as he could, he began lapping up the crimson blood that poured from the two open wounds in your neck. He wasn’t as fast as he wanted to be, and when he opened his eyes he saw two trails of deep red spilling down your neck and over your breast, pooling between your cleavage at where your bra sat flush against the skin. He groaned at the sinful sight, and as he took his final gulp, he released his seed inside of you, cumming the hardest he ever had. You tasted as good as you smelled, he knew you would. But now there would be no letting you go. It was so difficult for him to stop, he’d realised when it was too late that he’d taken a little more blood from you than what he’d intended, and so he pulled back and out of you, and closed up the wound as best as he could with his saliva. You were on the verge of fainting, now covered in your own blood and had his cum dripping out of your cunt, there was no way you could go back to the party now. Instead, he helped you back to his room where he could keep an eye on you and feed you until your blood and strength had replenished.

He watched you sleep as you lay in the bed he never used, and gently caressed your smooth cheek. You were so peaceful and divine. It was truly a gift from Sathanas. He would spend the rest of his days thanking the Dark One for sending you to him.

Previous Day ⛧ Next Day

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safarigirlsp · 1 year

Text

Level Ten

Commander Mills x Reader

Word Count: 9.4k

Warnings: NSFW. Action. Smut. Violence. Blood. Hot Toxic Masculinity. Enemies to Lovers. Idiots in Love. The following warnings occur in a simulation in the story, so not really warnings, but just in case. Injuries to Reader and Mills. Alien Violence. Violence Against Children.

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: Let's run a competitive combat drill with Commander Mills! This is really just a lot of the self indulgent bs I like. Mills is named Nicholas in my canon and he's a fun cocky bastard here.

This is part of a big Mills story I'm working on that I'll post eventually, but this was also fun as a vignette. For purposes of this vignette, this sounds like the beginning because I’m incapable of just jumping into something without context, but it won’t be in beginning of the bigger fic.

A stout blonde knight in full body plate armor stood seven feet away from you on the tournament field. He was not wearing a helmet, letting you clearly see his ugly belligerent face and terrible mullet. Like you, he was sweating and breathing heavily, sounding like a snorting hog at this point in your battle. His sword and yours both lay broken and discarded somewhere on the field, along with each of your splintered shields. His last weapon was a long, vicious dagger, which he held in his right hand. You were armed with the same weapon, and you drew it now. Sunlight glinted off the sharp point of your dagger as you tested its weight and balance in your hand. Hundreds of peasants in the stands cheered.

The knight had bested you so far at swordplay, but he had lived on the wrong continent to benefit from martial arts and elite hand-to-hand combat training as you had. The knight squinted his beady eyes at you and charged, dagger slashing toward your throat from the side. You ducked below his sideways slash, you were more agile than the knight if not more powerful. You straightened as his arm passed over your head and immediately used your dagger to block his retaliatory backswing.

The daggers sparked with the clang of metal on metal, and you instantly struck a ferocious left elbow to the knight’s exposed jaw. Blood spewed from his mouth and he was momentarily dazed, his mouth hanging open from the broken hinge of his jaw. It was just the opening you needed. You reversed your left hand in an open bearpaw strike to his face with all your force behind it. You hooked your thumb under his pig nose when your strike landed, driving the sharp nasal bones straight up into his brain. It was a killing strike that required precise placement but relatively little force. The knight collapsed to the ground instantly, as quick as if you had shot him right between the eyes, convulsing and twitching spasmodically.

“Combat training session number sixty-nine, level eight complete,” the pleasant feminine voice of the ship’s artificial intelligence informed you. “Do you want to proceed to the next level?”

*******************************************************************************************

Years in stasis took its toll on a body. Even if you awoke quote ‘healthy,’ there were always physiological issues and side effects that came from being under for a prolonged period of time. Waking up from a relaxing nap that lingered too long or coming out from under anesthesia after a medical procedure could be hell, but that was nothing compared to a long-term stint in stasis. It was due to the body’s natural recovery and re-acclimation period that every human aboard the ship Artemis was awakened three months before reaching their final destination.

That and the equally paramount concern of forming positive relationships with the other people aboard. This was often the trickiest part of such a long-term and large-scale mission, and the component that was least predictable despite the most impressive science available. Even the most predictable psychological profiles could grow deviant under such conditions.

The planet toward which your ship, the Artemis, flew was cerulean blue and inviting, encircled by azure and golden rings like Saturn but far more beautiful. It had been dubbed Olympus by the man who discovered it due to its ethereal visage that made it look like home to the gods. Also, because it may indeed be home to the architects of your home planet, as tantamount to living gods as anything mankind had discovered.

The man who made the discovery of both the planet and the evidence of its possible inhabitants was the CEO of the largest mining company on Earth who had the authority to drill into the very heart of the planet. It was there, hidden in the depths of what Dante would have labeled a Circle of Hell that he had discovered a ‘map,’ more ancient than any human artifact, that detailed a chart of the universe far more thorough than anything NASA had ever dreamed. Using this map and his almost limitless resources, the man had discovered Olympus and had mounted an unprecedented expedition to discover her secrets.

That man was your father. He was now too advanced in years to take part on the mission into the unknown, so he sent the future CEO of his trillion-dollar company, his first in command. You.

*******************************************************************************************

The months-long final approach to Olympus was the perfect opportunity to get in peak physical condition. A new, unexplored planet held infinite possibilities for what one may encounter, from environment to wildlife to populace. Most of those possibilities, likelihoods even, were frightening. Even the best scientific estimates were only fancy guesses, and no one really knew what to expect when you landed on Olympus. The best anyone could do was to be as prepared as possible, both mentally and physically, which included being in your best physical condition. You spent long hours in the gym each day, both to hone your physique and your combat skills. It also served as a valid excuse to avoid obligatory interpersonal interactions and as a useful distraction from matters that had become far too intrusive in your thoughts.

Besides, it would take you years to work through every combat training simulation programmed into the ship’s computer. And you had to admit, you enjoyed shooting aliens, slicing samurais, and kicking that ugly knight’s ass every time.

*******************************************************************************************

Nicholas Mills was pissed. He was the Mission Commander and the pilot. He was the man in charge of any and every decision involving flight or course, and every military action or inaction once on-planet. He should be head of the whole fucking mission, but this was a private expedition, not a miliary campaign, and he had been hired by a CEO with too much money. Mills was a hired hand, and he resented the fuck out of it. This is what his life had come to after earning more bars on his chest than most generals, because of one fated military transport mission that had literally crashed and burned with him at the helm. Mills used to hate mercenaries, and now he was one himself.

But by God, the things that were under his purview, his control, he was still the Commander, and he didn’t take it lightly when someone usurped his authority. It was fast becoming a problem on this particular expedition, due to one intrusive source.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Mills boomed as he burst through the door into the combat simulator. At his intrusion, the drama that had been unfolding in an alien landscape of immersive three-dimensional holograms and virtual reality sizzled like static on a tv screen and then evaporated. The room was plunged back into its dimly lit innocuous gray walls and black foamy training mat underfoot. A rack of weapons that interfaced with the program and were otherwise impotent hung on the wall by the entrance.

“Now?” you huffed angrily. You had spent the morning training in virtual combat and scaling obstacles in the landscape, only to be interrupted now near the end of your programmed mission. You were sweaty and sore and entirely not in the mood for Mills and the omnipresent chip on his shoulder. “Right now, I’m getting ready to reprimand a subordinate.”

“Subordinate?” Mills scoffed, stalking close to you with his chest puffed in an aggressive display of posturing. “Honey, I’m the highest ranking officer here and nobody’s fucking subordinate.”

“Did you come here to debate semantics?” you postured just as belligerently, stepping close to him, unintimidated. “I would say that every man, woman, and animal on my payroll is my subordinate.”

“Animal, huh?” Mills glared at you, his jaw clenching and a little aggravated twitch jumping beneath his left eye. “I’ll agree I may be your beast of fucking burden since you’re technically the boss of this expedition, but I’m damn sure not your subordinate.”

“What was that?” You leaned in toward him, sarcastically raising a hand to cup your ear. “What did you call me exactly? I didn’t quite hear you.”

Mills continued glaring at you. Silently.

“Did you call me the boss?” Now, you smiled icily. “I’m glad you at least understand that simple concept. Yes, Commander, I am the boss.”

“I don’t give a damn what little pet names you like, you have no business overriding my flight commands.” Mills took another step closer to you, his amber eyes ferociously boring into yours. “You altered my course on approach to Olympus. I spent weeks charting the best course before we disembarked. Not to mention your proposed course will take us an extra two weeks to navigate. That impacts every resource on this ship, fuel included.”

“Your charted course takes us through an asteroid belt,” you accused and continued cruelly. “Didn’t you learn about flying too close to asteroids a couple years ago? I seem to recall hearing something about that.”

Mills glared at you for a long moment before releasing a controlled breath. “That was an undocumented field that my ship didn’t detect. This is totally different. I know it’s out there and where every rock is. I can fly through anything, including a known asteroid field. It’s cake.”

“I, for one, prefer my cake without large chunks of debris inside it.” You turned back to re-engage your combat training. “And since I am the boss and the owner of this ship, my preference is the one we will be abiding.”

Mills grabbed your arm, stopping you from walking away from him, and spun you roughly back around to face him. He leaned toward you and his deep voice was gravely. “I know what it’s like to have a ship full of deaths on your conscience because of a mistake. Believe me, Boss, you never want to know what that feels like.”

“I’d also prefer living a nice long life without knowing what it feels like to be blown to smithereens by flying into an asteroid.” You glared right back at him, meeting his eyes confidently.

“You hired me for a reason,” Mills growled, changing his tactic. “I did my homework and I charted the best course. You hired the best man for this job and you better fucking listen to him. I’m right.”

“I don’t take orders. I barely take suggestions.” You smirked and cocked an eyebrow. “Occasionally, I’ll make an exception in bed.”

“You want me to prove I’m man enough for you, is that it?” Mills smirked too, issuing a challenge he assumed you wouldn’t meet.

“I do enjoy some good old-fashioned chest pounding.” You looked around the stark simulator room, thinking. “There are thousands of scenarios based on what we know of the planet we’re orbiting. The simulator imagines all possible types of hostile alien species that we might encounter. And then for training purposes, creates a survival mission.”

“I know what it does, Boss. Haven’t you checked who’s in the top marks in the simulator’s history?” Mills quipped, intentionally flexing his massive chest and taking note when you watched hungrily. “I’ll give you credit, though. You do alright on the girly levels.”

“Girly levels?” you laughed angrily. “I train on levels seven and eight out of ten.”

“Isn’t that cute,” he said nonchalantly with every intention of poking you. You felt your skin heat with indignance as your eyes seared into his. Mills let his eyes trail down your body and then back to hold yours. “You sure are pretty when you’re mad.”

“If I’m pretty when I’m mad then you must want to be fucking dazzled, Mills.” You narrowed your eyes at him and addressed the computer. “Run combat drill, level ten.”

“Loading combat drill for two participants, level ten,” the pleasant voice replied.

“So, you like it rough, huh Boss?” Mills prodded you as he walked to the weapons rack and grabbed you each a blaster.

“I’m waiting to be impressed, Commander,” you told him as you took one of the blasters. The room around you began to transform into a dense green jungle as the program initiated, complete with the sounds of birds, insects, and the current of a distant river. You adjusted the watch on your wrist that interfaced with the ship’s computer.

“Hmmm,” he gave you a rich bedroom growl and cocked his blaster. “I’d never want to keep a girl like you waiting.”

“How shall we play, Commander?” you asked, adding a sultrily teasing lilt to your voice, intentionally pulling his focus away from where he needed it most for the simulation. You noted with pride when he shifted on his feet and cleared his throat. “Whoever makes the most kills wins?”

“If you can even make it to the finish line on level ten without an endgame wound, I’ll count that as a win in your corner.” Mills reached into his pocket and retrieved a cigar as thick as his finger.

“Ready to begin?” the computer asked.

Locking eyes with Mills, you both stated “Ready” at the same time.

Mills bit down on the butt of his cigar and smirked around it at you. There was rustling in the bushes beside you both. “I’ll play however the pretty girl wants.”

The jungle materialized fully and you were immersed in the world of the simulation, every sight and sound as real as if you were living it. You and Mills stood in an Amazonian jungle, claustrophobic with vegetation. The ground underfoot was mud the consistency of oatmeal. The sky above was bright crystal blue. In the jungle around you, the enemies were unknown and innumerable. In this drill, the enemy would attack until you completed the mission by reaching an escape pod.

An alien creature that looked something like a purple-black velociraptor with four legs and a bifurcated whipping tail leapt at you out of the trees from behind, too sudden and too fast for you to react in time. Mills yanked his blaster up to his shoulder as fast as a striking snake, firing a shot right past your ear into the open mouth of the alien. Its head exploded, splattering you both with black blood.

“Impressed yet, gorgeous?” Mills winked at you as a black droplet of alien blood ran down his cheek. Still holding his blaster by the grip with his thick forefinger resting on the trigger guard, he tipped the barrel back onto his right shoulder. “No? It’s only fair that I spot you one. Now, you better move that perfect ass of yours.”

A few steps into the jungle and there was a rush of bodies through foliage. You were prepared this time as a pair of the same dark alien creatures charged out of the bushes, gnashing their razored jaws and whipping their bifurcated tails. You had your blaster to your shoulder just as fast as Mills this time, and you were a millisecond faster on the trigger because you had less of an arc to swing onto the lunging bodies. Your first shot tore through the open mouth of the lead animal. Without even waiting to see its stride falter, you sighted on the second and sent a blast straight through its red eyeball.

“I like my game better.” You winked back at him, mocking his cocky flirtation. You now had two kills to his one. “Try to keep up, big boy.”

You walked abreast through the dense jungle, each of you alert to the smallest sights and sounds, your every sense on edge. Although competitive, you each trusted the other’s formidable skill in combat situations. You inherently trusted Mills, even if you didn’t show it – it felt oddly comforting to place your life in his massive hands. Mills’ prowess on the battlefield was almost unmatched, but it was his twenty-ten vision, preternatural reflexes, and predatory hand-eye coordination that secured him a seat in the cockpit of the finest spacecraft money could build, pioneering the most adventurous exploration in human history. You had read his military history, studied it like a collegiate textbook. Mills’ dishonorable discharge after the fallout of his infamous crash was a blemish on his impressive record, but it was a singular event and it did little to overshadow his legion of other remarkable accomplishments. Mills was a war machine, highly trained and battle-hardened. It gave you a searing flush of pride that was almost erotic when you realized that he was not watching you closely or double checking your gear or the way you handled your blaster – Mills trusted his life to you too, and that was perhaps the finest compliment he could ever pay you.

The sounds of animal life filled the jungle, behind, in front, beside, all around you. Most of the noises were alien to your ears, impossible to know if they were dangerous or innocuous. You and Mills followed a more open section of the jungle, a kind of path through the denser foliage that filtered you onward through the program toward your goal of locating your escape pod. Close ahead was the sound of rushing water. Mills pushed ahead of you, following his natural instinct to put himself between you and any oncoming danger.

“If something jumps out at us, I don’t want you to botch it,” Mills teased to minimize his natural chivalry.

“Trying to make excuses ahead of time for when you lose?” you challenged to his broad back.

“Nah.” He shook his head pausing in his navigation of the jungle to turn around and beam at you with amusement, his eyes as warm on your face as the morning sun. “I’m just playing the long game.”

“The long game?” you scoffed. “Can you think that far ahead?”

“I figure you’ll be in a better mood if you win.” Mills shifted his cigar, grinning lasciviously. “Maybe you’ll want to celebrate. Maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“Your luck is notoriously bad, Commander.” You smiled wickedly. “You really think I’d get involved with a subordinate?”

“Good thing I’m not a subordinate.” He picked up his pace, easily making you jog to keep up with his long strides.

The jungle ended in a small clearing with a rock ledge that overlooked a rushing river fifty feet below. A treacherous looking rope bridge was strung across the river, anchored to the sturdiest trees on both sides. Wooden slats were strewn haphazardly between the rope sides, offering a widely spaced and rickety morse code of steps across the chasm. It looked like something from one of those old campy adventure movies your parents made you watch as a kid, the kind with rugged men who snapped bullwhips and wore torn-open shirts.

“This looks promising,” you deadpanned, skeptically eyeing the bridge.

“Ready to get nice and wet?” Mills quipped, enjoying the sight of you bristle at his double entendre.

“We couldn’t survive a fall into that river?” It was more of a question than a statement, and you looked down over the edge at the rushing, white-crested current.

“Level ten is meant to kill you unless you get lucky, and I never did have the best luck.” Mills joined you at the edge. He pointed to an eddy that was a darker blue than the rest of the river, indicating greater depth. “That’s the spot to aim for if we have to take the plunge. Be sure to hit feet first. Better a broken leg than a broken back.”

“Very helpful,” you said sarcastically. Even though it was a simulation, your pulse thundered and your mouth went dry. Your palm was slick with sweat on the grip of your blaster.

“I try.” Mills grinned around his cigar, shifting it from one side of his mouth to the other. He gestured to the bridge. “Ladies first.”

“How chivalrous of you,” you sniped, narrowing your eyes at him.

“It is, actually.” Mills used the barrel of his blaster to point out at the frayed rope and missing slats in the center of the bridge. “I’m a heavy bastard. The bridge is a lot more likely to fall apart under me. Don’t you want a chance to get across first?”

He was right, but you still rolled your eyes before stepping up the bridge. You hesitated a moment, deciding whether to sling your blaster over one shoulder, which was less secure but would enable you to raise it quickly, or to sling it across your back, which made it impossible to drop but slow to bring into a firing position if needed. Mills guessed your conundrum and assured you, “I’ll cover you, Boss.”

Securing your blaster across your back with the sling crossing over your chest between your breasts, you tentatively stepped onto the first splintered wooden rung. After only a few steps, the rope bridge began to swing and bob precariously under your weight. The remaining boards were spaced far apart, forcing you to stretch out to reach some and hop across a gap to reach others. All that remained of some of the broken slats were splintered ends that would fray any flesh that was unlucky enough to catch on them during a fall. Fifty feet below you, the river churned in deadly rapids.

A shrill screech filled the air above you accompanied by the slicing of wings through air.

“Incoming!” Mills roared as he shouldered his blaster and bowed backward to train his gun high up into the air. Mills fired almost instantly and a flying black creature with a long pointed snout fell out of the sky, its leathery bat wings drawn into its body in death like a diving falcon. The creature’s large body fell so close to you that you felt the air move around you and the bridge swayed dangerously.

You fumbled with pulling your blaster sling back over your head to ready your own weapon as Mills shot again, sending another creature tumbling down. The bridge bucked under your feet from your flailing movement.

“Four,” Mills shouted, counting out his number of kills as the third flying alien fell from his shot. “Keep moving!”

Blaster in hand, you hurried further out onto the bridge. You took aim at the flying alien closest to you and fired, killing it instantly, sending it falling down to splash in the river far below. You mentally counted three and kept moving. The bridge was ricketier with every step. The wooden slats were crumbing away and the ropes were fraying, unraveling right before your eyes.

“Five!” Mills called as another creature fell down toward the river.

You looked up just in time to see the enormous black body falling toward you like a missile. You couldn’t dodge it on the uncertain bridge, but you raised your blaster to block the impact. The creature struck your blaster on its plummet, knocking you down hard against the wooden slats. The slat beneath you broke in half into ragged splinters and your leg shot through the new opening, making you fall down to one knee with the other leg dangling through the hole in the bridge. You tried to pull your leg back out, but your pants caught on the splintered edges and tore. You gasped when the splinters cut into your skin and blood flowed down your leg. You pulled harder, but the splinters only impaled you deeper. You couldn’t pull your leg free without breaking off half the splintered slat inside the meat of your leg. The injury wasn’t real and would be gone when the simulation ended, but the pain was real. Pain was a great training mechanism for humans and animals alike.

“Damnit to hell!” Mills growled at your predicament. He stopped himself before following his instinct to run straight to your rescue. “Wait, I’m ahead. If I just let you fall through and take a little dip, I’ll win our game right now.”

“Yes, and I’ll be in a wonderful mood after that. Think wisely, Mills!” you shouted, struggling to free your leg. “Besides, you’re one of those meat-headed hero types. If you let me fall, guilt will eat you up over not saving the damsel in distress.”

“I can’t argue that I’d rather fight aliens than deal with one of your nasty moods,” Mills grumbled and ran out onto the bridge, unconcerned about the way it lurched dangerously under his heavy weight. He shot another flying alien as he dashed toward you. The bridge swung and bounced under him, making the splinters dig deeper into you.

Mills shouldered his blaster and dropped to his knees beside you. The bridge swayed and the slats that now supported both of you groaned like dying animals. Mills grabbed the broken slat that impaled you and broke it off from the bridge, tossing it away. He quickly plucked out the biggest pieces from your thigh and pulled you to him, lifting you back up fully onto the bridge and incidentally into his arms. His voice was gravelly when he looked at your bloody leg. “Can you walk?”

“Of course,” you huffed and shoved up to your feet. Your leg stung like hell, but you could manage. You looked down at Mills, still on his knees, and forced a smile. “Waiting on you now, Commander.”

“Sure, Boss.” He smiled at you genuinely and pushed up from the bridge floor. Two slats broke beneath him with a crack like a gunshot, and he fell through the new opening. Mills caught a remaining rung, stopping his fall when his chest was level with the bottom of the bridge, his lower body hanging free and long legs kicking wildly in thin air. He grunted with effort as he began to haul himself back onto the bridge. The slat he held creaked portentously.

You rushed to help pull Mills up as he had just done for you, but movement below caught your eye. In the river, sitting in the calm eddy Mills had pointed out to you, was a pair of yellow eyes the size of basketballs, their slitted pupils focused on Mills’ dangling legs. You stopped cold. Before you knew what was happening, the creature shot out of the water, jumping up toward Mills. It was an enormous crocodilian animal with short horns decorating its brows and skull. Water cascaded off its scales as it flew up at Mills like a dolphin jumping up to snatch a fish. Mills jerked his legs up into a cannonball position as the creature bit at him. Its jaws filled with teeth as large as railroad spikes snapped closed inches below Mills’ boots. The leviathan fell back into the river with a torrential splash.

“See what being a hero gets you?” you asked sarcastically as your mind raced.

“Take your sweet time!” Mills growled at you, as he struggled to haul himself back up onto the crumbling bridge.

“Patience is a virtue,” you said with equal mockery. You shouldered your blaster and aimed it down at the creature as it readied itself for another jump at Mills’ legs.

“Not right now it fucking isn’t!” He kicked his legs as he hoisted himself onto the bridge.

Before Mills could draw his own blaster, the creature jumped again. You had it centered in your sights, but you waited a heartbeat longer until those deadly jaws opened wide. You fired straight down into the creature’s open mouth, down into its vulnerable pink throat. You fired again and again on automatic fire as blood erupted in the creature’s mouth and spewed upward in a fountain of gore. The creature growled in pain, gurgling through the blood gushing down its throat, as it collapsed back into the river. The animal thrashed like a dying fish, turning the river water red with blood and white with foam. Mills staggered to his feet beside you and watched the splashing death throes of the animal for a moment before pushing you on ahead of him across the bridge.

Firm ground beneath your feet had never felt so good. Almost as good as the huge hand Mills placed on your back when he stood beside you, just to ensure himself that you were safe and sound. This side of the river was home to a pink flowering tree, its branches hanging down low near Mills’ head. You looked at him, haughtily raising your chin and cocking an eyebrow. Your unspoken sentiment was clear. You saved his ass and made the bigger kill.

“It still just counts as one,” Mills grumbled, fully taking your meaning. “By my count, that puts you at four. I’m at six.” He winked at you again and leaned in close to you. “What do I get when I win, gorgeous?”

You reached to the low-hanging branches of the tree under which you stood and plucked the fullest pink blossom you could find. You brought it to your nose to inhale its scent while looking up coyly through your eyelashes at Mills. When he leaned closer to you still, you pulled back and tucked the flower into his hair above his left ear. His thick forest of hair held it easily. You laughed heartily at his scowl. “Even better than a blue ribbon!”

“Cute.” Mills glared at you playfully, but he indulged you and left the flower in place.

“Shake a leg, gorgeous,” you said flippantly, using his favorite term for you to mock the pink flower in his hair.

The vegetation was sparser on this side of the river, allowing you to walk ahead easily without having to bushwack through jungle. You both held your blasters in casual readiness, the barrels pointed at the ground and angled away from one another, but each with your fingers resting on the trigger guards. From that position, it would take less than a second to raise, aim, and fire. Mills eyed your competent bearing with pride – the way you moved, the way you handled your blaster, the stubborn set of your jaw. He had given you a few lessons and he was pleased to see that you had taken his instruction seriously, even if you would never give him the justification of telling him so.

A clearing opened before you, the grass shorter, only calf high. The clearing was filled with large green pods, covered with a mucus membrane. They were organic and omitted a putrid odor. There was a veritable minefield of them.

“This is new,” Mills commented, his jaw clenched and expression severe.

“Some form of alien life the program has anticipated.” You shrugged and raised your blaster.

“Whoa, let’s not get too trigger happy. We don’t know –” Mills was cut off by the sound of your blaster as you shot the nearest pod. It exploded like a ripe pumpkin, spewing green substance. It struck your cheek and Mills’, hot and the consistency of snot. It burned your skin like acid. You frantically wiped at your cheek while Mills creativity strung expletives together as he rubbed the substance off his own skin.

A figure rose from where it had been crouching in the center of the innumerable alien pods. A young girl, maybe nine years old, stood hugging her arms and shivering in terror. She was adorable, looking at you with huge dark doe eyes. The pods surrounded her, trembling like hatching eggs about to open. She hiccupped a sob and pleaded to you and Mills, “Help me.”

“Cover me,” Mills instructed you, already moving toward the girl, compelled by his heroic instincts.

“Like hell you are!” you hissed and fast as a ninja, you kicked out and hooked Mills’ boot mid-stride, tripping him. Mills hit the ground hard with a grunt. He looked up just in time to see you fire at another pod, the pod closest to the unfortunate urchin. The pod blew apart, coating the girl in acidic green ooze. She screamed, blood curdling and terrible, as her frail body melted and sizzled until she collapsed in a steaming heap on the ground.

“Oh fuck, you killed the kid!” Mills looked at you with an expression of shock. Then he grinned at you. “Bitch.”

“I’m not just a bitch, Commander.” You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m the bitch, and don’t you forget it.”

“You get a program bonus for saving the kid.” Mills pointed at the smoldering corpse of the melted child with his blaster. “The program inserts kids here and there to manipulate your emotions. Make sure you can fight on when you’re really under duress.” He sucked his teeth with amusement. “But you need to have a heart to have something pull at your heartstrings, huh Boss?”

“I’ve never been burdened with that particular Achilles heel,” you replied easily.

Mills took his attention away from the pods long enough to let his eyes trail over your curves. “I bet if I try hard enough, I can find some spots on you that are nice and soft.”

“Don’t be such a whore with your heroism, Nick,” you told him seriously. “That’s an order. You’re authorized to use it on me, not on every other female of the species you may stumble across.”

“Jealous?” He grinned as he returned his blaster to his shoulder and advanced toward the pods.

“Territorial.” You followed at his side, blaster at the ready.

The other pods opened, blooming like obscene flowers, emitting an almost unbearable stench. The burning on your cheek suddenly faded into the back of your consciousness. A creature leapt out from a pod, something that looked like a huge slimy crustacean. It sailed through the air straight at your face. You and Mills swung your blasters at the unknown creature, shooting simultaneous bursts into it, exploding it mid-flight.

“I shot first,” you said, counting it as your kill.

“I got a feeling there’s plenty more where he came from.” Mills was ready when the next creature launched itself out of a neighboring pod, then another, and another. Mills fired immediately before you, and you both shot in rapid succession at the aliens that leapt from their pods like quail taking flight from underbrush.

In unison your blasters clicked impotently, indicating you were both out of firepower. You looked at your blaster incredulously and punched the breach as if you could clobber more charge into it. “What the hell! These aren’t supposed to run out of charge!”

“Welcome to level ten.” Mills slung his dead blaster over his shoulder as more pods opened. He grabbed you by the back of your shirt, yanking you with him as he ran from the clearing into the thicker brush. He drew a large hunting knife from his belt, holding it in his free hand. You had a knife of your own, supplied by the program.

Mills crashed through trees that caught on his clothing and brush that scratched his face, bowling a path for you as you ran behind in his wake. The alien crustaceans seemed unable to pursue you through the vegetation and you quickly outstripped them. Or perhaps, the program had better foes in store for you.

You were both panting for breath when a rock wall appeared ahead of you, halting your run. Mills turned to look back the way you had come, again automatically putting himself between you and any creatures that may be chasing you, but there were none. Satisfied that you were safe for the moment, Mills leaned back against the rock wall with a groan and let his breath steady. It was impossible not to stare at the rise and fall of his thick chest; not to follow the path of a bead of sweat as it ran down the cord of his neck and down below the collar of his shirt to follow the cleft of his chest.

“You sound practically pornographic,” you teased his heavy breathing. With an effort, you tore your eyes away from his heaving chest and disheveled hair and studied the wall.

“Are you turned on yet?” he asked with equal sarcasm, intentionally deepening his voice. He had already made his own appraisal of the wall, but he would let you come to your own conclusion.

“It turns me on knowing I have more kills than you,” you mused to poke him. You both had lost count after your last encounter.

“I’m not a sore loser.” Mills grinned at you wolfishly. “I’ll help you celebrate your victory.”

You rolled your eyes. “There’s no celebration until we figure out how to climb this.”

The vertical rock wall was about twelve feet tall with scant ridges of rock that could be used for hand and footholds. It wasn’t an impossible grade. A professional climber could free climb it, but you were not a professional climber. You suspected Mills could muscle his way up it. The man was in peak physical condition, agile, and powerfully muscled.

“Hop to it.” Mills waved at the wall, making no effort himself. “I’m just your subordinate, right? I’m waiting for your orders, Boss.”

“I think I can reach the top if you give me a boost,” you said, still looking up at the wall. Mills was well over six-feet tall, he could probably push you up at least seven or eight feet off the ground.

“Here I thought you were a capable, independent woman who could kick ass on level ten without needing any help from a lowly man like me.” Mills looked casually at his fingernails, stifling another grin. He used the blade of his hunting knife to scrape some alien blood out from under a fingernail.

“Are you trying to piss me off?” You pointedly didn’t ask him for help.

“You sure are pretty when you’re mad.” He pointedly didn’t offer any.

You planted your hands on your hips and sighed angrily. Mills ignored you. There was no other feasible option for you to scale the wall. “Fine, you arrogant bastard. Come help me.”

“Pretty please?” Mills suggested with raised eyebrows.

“Now.” You narrowed your eyes at him, and Mills figured he would have more opportunities to risk his life without angering you further just now.

Grinning at his small victory, Mills pushed away from where he leaned against the rock and walked to stand beside you. He propped his boot up on a rock so his thigh was a level ninety degrees. He looked at you and patted his thick thigh. You stepped onto his thigh and it felt just as solid as the rocky ground. He patted his opposite shoulder, helping guide your boot up and secure your foothold. Mills didn’t falter or shake as you used his body as a ladder. When you had both feet planted on both of his shoulders with your hands braced on the wall right in front of your nose, Mills put his hands under the balls of your feet and pushed you up as high as he could. He finally grunted with effort when he had you hoisted up at the full reach of his arms.

The top of the rock wall wasn’t far above you now. You scrambled for only a moment before finding a purchase to haul yourself up the rest of the way. Taking a seat on the ledge, you looked down at Mills. Neither of you had any rope or other means of climbing. He studied the rock briefly, choosing his climbing route. He stepped up onto a thin ridge of rock and hefted himself up high enough to reach a handhold. Grunting with effort, Mills lifted himself higher and higher as he climbed. Every muscle in his massive body stood rigid, keeping him in perfect balance, and his strong hands held his weight easily. He made scaling the twelve-foot rock wall look effortless, and you suspected he could keep up the same climb for long enough to scale a true rockface as well as the best climbers in the world.

Mills pushed to his feet and pulled you up to stand beside him. “Ready to admit level ten’s a little, ah, over your head?”

“Did you have to practice waving your dick around at all times or does it come naturally?” you huffed, shaking your head.

“Careful, your envy is showing.” Mills stepped close to you until your chests were nearly touching.

“Envy?” you scoffed. “Never in a million years –”

Mills ducked in to you, crashing his lips to yours and silencing your arguments. You moaned in protest for only a moment before your lips were moving in tandem with his. When your lips parted with a pleasured sigh, he deepened his kiss, his tongue sliding against yours. The feel of his lips on yours and the heady taste of him weakened your knees more than any exertion in the combat simulation. You swayed against him, feeling the hard length of his powerful body pressed against you. Mills wrapped his arms around you, drowning in the feeling of your body, lost in your kiss.

“Ready to call it a day?” Mills asked against your lips. “End the program and skip right to the celebration?”

“Never.” You smiled and pulled away from him.

Mills groaned as if in physical pain from the parting of your lips from his, hamming it up for your amusement, and set off into the jungle. The terrain was now a thicket of scraggy bushes and overhanging trees. Brush scraped your clothing and twigs crunched underfoot. You were about to suggest how Mills might celebrate your victory with you when an animal snorted in the bush ahead of you. Mills froze as did you beside him.

Gripping the handle of his large hunting knife, Mills looked into the impenetrable brush. The attack didn’t come from ahead, from the direction of the sound, but from the side. Noiselessly, a golden speckled animal lunged at you. It was an enormous feline with long saber fangs, razor claws, and glistening golden eyes. You too, held your knife, prepared to attack. Mills reared back his right arm and threw his knife at the charging animal, sending his blade flying end over end. His aim was perfect, striking the giant cat right in the center of its golden eye. The creature dropped in its tracks, instantly dead and twitching.

The second feline charged from ahead of you. It was the much larger male, the mate to the female Mills had just killed– a Nemean lion with its dark red mane whipping around its enraged face like wildfire. Mills was unlucky in that he stood between the animal and you, the first in its path. He had no weapon. Mills raised his left arm as the leonine creature jumped at him, shoving his forearm between its jaws as the lion tackled Mills to the ground. Mills roared in pain at the feeling of the creature tearing his skin and crushing the bones in his arm. The wound wasn’t real, but the pain was. Using his mangled forearm, Mills was able to hold the creature away from his face but barely so. The lion snarled and bit harder into the flesh of Mills’ forearm, ripping its head from side to side to get at Mills’ face.

The hunting knife in your hand felt small and feeble, but it was all you had. You rushed to where Mills wrestled with the lion, your blade held overhead like a slasher aiming for a cheerleader. You plunged your knife down into the back of the lion’s neck, at the junction of its spine and skull, feeling it cut through flesh and bone beneath like butter. The animal collapsed dead on top of Mills, entirely covering the man’s massive body. Mills groaned beneath the enormous carcass, struggling to push it off him. You threw your weight against the animal’s body, helping Mills to shove it off of him and onto its side to discover that Mills was laughing. Lying on his back, clutching his profusely bleeding left arm to his chest, the jackass was laughing, low and rich.

“Not bad, gorgeous.” He smiled up at you through the dirt and blood that streaked his face. “While I’m down here, you want to tend to my wounds?”

“I’m half tempted to give you more,” you replied, unable to keep from smiling. You went to the lion to retrieve your knife. The knife was stuck in the creature’s body as though it were in cement. You yanked on the knife with both hands, pulling so hard you moved the animal, but the blade held firm. “What is this? Is the program taking our knives now too?”

“Bingo.” Mills laughed again.

“So, what do we do?” you asked, frustrated. “You have the highest scores in level ten. How do we win?”

“Level ten doesn’t teach you how to win. It’s programmed to be unwinnable.” Mills sobered and looked up at you from his back. “It teaches you how to deal with fear in the face of certain death and to master that fear. Level ten teaches you how to die. To accept death as a possibility and to die well. To make your death count.”

“Who programmed that kind of bullshit?” you huffed, planting your hands on your hips. “I’m going to kick his ass when we’re done here today.”

“Now that, I’d pay to see.” Mills sat up painfully and tested his injured arm, flexing his hand into a fist. It was painful and bleeding, but functional. “I’ll give you three guesses, but you’ll only need one.”

Pursing your lips angrily, you extended a hand to Mills. His enormous hand was slick with blood when he took yours, letting you help pull him up to his feet. He grunted and winced in pain, but otherwise masked his discomfort to conceal it from you. He draped a heavy arm across your shoulders as you both walked on through the thicket. You knew he didn’t need any support walking, but you didn’t mind either.

After only a few painful steps, a thunderous roar tore through the jungle, louder and more ominous than anything you had heard before. The sound of something gigantic running toward you, crashing through brush, immediately followed and the ground shook with tremendous force. Mills took your hand and ran.

The jungle thinned into an open grassy meadow. The escape pod sat in the center of the meadow, gleaming like a silver bullet. Sprinting hard, you and Mills ran for the escape pod. Seconds behind you, the animal that pursued you burst from the trees – a huge brindle-colored creature that looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex with fully developed forearms. Using its forearms, it galloped after you with remarkable speed. You had no chance, it would overtake you in seconds. Mills hazarded a glance back over his shoulder, just in time to see the creature make its final lunge, its jaws ready to close over you both. Mills tackled you to the ground hard, pinning you beneath his heavy body. He couldn’t save you, not this time, but he could die a hero and buy you a few more seconds of life with his own body. Mills looked down into your eyes, engraving the sight of you beneath him onto his memory, taking a breath to steady himself for the inevitable. He never liked the dying part of level ten. Despite having endured it for countless rounds, it was always disconcerting.

Suddenly, you shifted your body beneath him and raised your arm to point at the charging animal like a superhero ready to fire a bolt from your fingertips. With your other hand, you entered a command on your watch.

“Program override accepted,” the pleasant female voice of the onboard computer intoned.

The creature vanished as did all the menacing noises from the world of the simulation. You and Mills were left alone in the grassy meadow, you lying on your back with Mills’ massive body covering you. The light changed too, glowing rosy pink like the light of a soft dawn, giving everything it touched an ethereal glow. Mills propped himself up on his forearms, caging you inside them as he looked down at you incredulously.

“Personally, I’d rather learn how to cheat death than how to die well.” You smiled up at him mischievously. “My ship, my rules.”

“Clever girl,” Mills told you proudly. He noted the wounds on his arm and your leg had vanished along with the enemy creatures. “Does this mean we won?”

“No, just that we transferred to one of my own personal programs.” You sighed and let your legs relax and fall open to better accommodate Mills’ large body. “Do you like it?”

“I like what’s in it.” He hungrily eyed your body spread out invitingly beneath him.

Around you, the meadow had become more of a grassy cove in a secluded garden. Rose bushes encircled you, blooming in pinks and reds. More of the luscious trees with hanging branches and vibrant pink blossoms draped around you, making it romantic and intimate. Lush green grass spread out beneath you, littered with fallen flowers. The sky above was streaked with pinks and blues, looking like swirled ice cream.

Chirping birds could be heard from somewhere in the meadow and from further away the sound of a bubbling brook met your ears. The fresh aroma of roses and grass after a rain filled your nose when you inhaled. Even the light itself was soft and hazy in the verdant landscape, like that in a dream, and the twinkling yellow of luminescent fireflies danced through the air and between the rose bushes.

“Do you admit defeat, Commander?” you teased, arching your body sensually so your breasts pressed against his chest. “Do you concede I beat you?”

“If I do, are we going to celebrate properly?” Mills captured your lips, groaning in anticipation. He kissed you slowly, languorously, grinding his hips against you, pressing you down into the grass and letting you feel the heavy weight of his body. When he broke your kiss, he took your bottom lip between his teeth as he pulled back from you. “You want to do this here? Now? Where anyone could walk in and see you fucking your subordinate?” He all but ripped open your top, hastily freeing your skin to his touch and rubbed his calloused palm over the sensitive skin of your breast. “You don’t want to keep this – us – confined to your cabin as usual, like the dark secret we are?”

“Does it look like I care who sees?” you moaned impatiently as you struggled the rest of the way out of your top. You clawed at Mills’ clothing, yanking his khaki henley off over his head and throwing it away. His hair was even more handsomely disheveled, hanging down around his face and eyes. “I don’t care who knows about us, Nick. You should know that by now.”

Looking down at you with a grin, Mills admired your perfect tits, wolfishly trailing his tongue over his teeth. He pushed up to his knees long enough to yank your pants down and off along with your boots. “We’re both going to win now, my darling.”

“Darling?” You smiled and ran your hands over the bare expanse of his enormous chest. “What happened to Boss?”

“I’m the boss now.” Leaning over you, he rested his weight on his palms on either side of your body as he bent to kiss your navel. “And you’re going to be a good girl and cum when I tell you to.”

His lips trailed lower until they kissed at the waistband of your panties. He teased your skin with the scratch of his goatee before taking the thin material between his teeth and pulling your panties down your legs with his mouth. A rich, pleasured growl purred from his lips. With your panties still held in his bite, he met your eyes like a wild beast. He pushed your thighs wide enough to settle between them, relishing the sight of you glistening with arousal for him.

“You must like it rough,” Mills said huskily, lifting your legs to rest over his broad shoulders. “To be this excited when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You know how I like watching you sweat and grunt,” you sighed at the feel of him. “In all ways.” From his fingers to his tongue to his cock, Mills could make you shudder with every part of his body almost effortlessly. You twisted your hands into his thick hair and bucked your hips against his face. “Of course, being a badass while sweating and grunting doesn’t hurt things.”

“For you, darling, I’ll be the baddest man alive.” He groaned deep and hungrily into you, savoring you, his voice thrumming through your flesh. Licking, kissing, caressing you with ardor, he quickly rendered you too incoherent with pleasure to continue teasing him. Your thighs trembled on either side of his head with each sensation, your whole body asking him for more. He pulled away just enough to put two of his thick fingers to work, sliding and curling into you, feeling you tighten and quiver. “I think I found a trump card when I need to win our next argument.”

You thought of contestations, but they died on your tongue and escaped your lips only as lewd moans. A rush of heat ran rampant through you as your first wave of pleasure hit, flooding you with electric heat. The cool grass was a reprieve under your searing skin when you collapsed back, sated and recovering. Mills shoved his pants down his thick thighs, freeing his huge heavy cock that matched the rest of his massive and impressive body.

As Mills crawled over you, you gazed up at him in a portrait of sheer bliss. Looking down at you in return, his expression was just as full of adoration as yours and darkened with lust. Covering you completely until he was the ceiling of your world, he settled his huge body between your enthusiastically open thighs. Reaching your hands up to tangle into the dense waves of his hair, you pulled him down to meet your lips again.

Mills kissed you slow and deep as your arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. One of his hands rested by your head, his fingers softly caressing your cheek and hair – a sharp contrast to his rough, almost harsh thrust into you. You loved it. In the beginning, his incredible size had been an adjustment. Now, the feeling of being so full, so possessed, was nearly enough alone to send you into a frenzy. Mills rumbled praises and adulations against your lips, rocking your body with his motions.

Feeling his heavy body over you and his powerful muscles tensing beneath your hands, you could feel the way he used all of his great strength for your pleasure. Mills could be measured and sensual or frantic and rough, but he was always masterful at prolonging your pleasure indulgently. Your nails dug into the dense muscle of his shoulders, trailing faint pink lines across his skin as your pleasure built again, swirling in your core. Your hips moved in time with Mills’ rhythm, meeting his deliberate thrusts.

Your orgasm crashed over you in a wave of euphoria, your body seizing and clenching. Mills gritted his teeth in pleasure at the sensation of you growing impossibly tighter and hotter. With a primal groan, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and came in time with you, cresting with you and riding the high of waves and pulses together.

You dragged your nails across his wide back, soothingly now, and pulled him down closer against you as you felt his muscles begin to relax. Mills kissed up your neck, trailing his lips across your jaw and over your cheek. He rubbed his large nose against yours affectionately before kissing you for another long moment and then raising his shaggy head to gaze down at you.

With another heady groan, Mills rolled off you and onto his back, pulling you with him to rest on his chest. His arms wrapped around you, holding you close in his embrace, while his lips ghosted at your hairline. When he spoke, his hot breath brushed your skin. “I’d say we both won at level ten, Boss.”

You propped yourself up on his chest and looked down at him with a sultry smirk. You plucked a nearby pink blossom from where it lay fallen on the ground near you. It was even more resplendent than the last one. You tucked it into Mills’ hair, ignoring the scowl he gave you. “I’d say you deserve another blue ribbon for that performance, Commander.”

*******************************************************************************************

Tagging some buddies!

@babbushka @in-silks-and-flesh-and-leather @mrs-gucci @mrs-zimmerman @iamburdened @gabesprincess @reborn-rekall @maybe-your-left @rynwritesstuff @candycanes19 @caillea @cas-backwards-tie @queeniebee @lumberjack00fantasies @mythrielofsolitude @ghoulian13 @icarusinthesea @darkhairedmenrule @reyloaddict55 @fizzywoohoo @heartlight-starlight @richbrittstein @clydesfavoritegirl @thepalaceofmelanie @celiholland @durangoninetyfive @reveluving @vedavan @reylokisses @srorgana1

#my stuff!#my writing #adam driver #commander mills x reader #commander mills x you #65 movie #65 #best #fic #summer

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kstarlitchaotics · 3 months

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Once more I know people don't want to ship Zutara and honestly I am fine with that but if people understand the theme then it's not hard to understand that it's about balance I'm not forcing anyone to ship Zutara that's not why I'm doing this just saying that people will quickly bash on a pairing just because it's a rival against the main pairing I have shipped Kataang in the past when it first came out but after rewatching it later on in my teenage years a lot of things clicked with me when it comes to Zutara and that is balance maybe because I'm looking at sun and moon art but the earth needs balance and while the substance of earth do rely on every one of them it really relies a lot on the sun and moon since with the day the sun is risen and it gives life while the moon calms the plants and animals it's in the teachings of JonJon and Iroh things require balance and while nature also requires earth and air it also very much more so relies on water and sunlight which is why I find it interesting during the North Pole Zuko said those famous lines that got me rethinking about the balance of the elements and how almost every element and living beings does rely most on sunlight and water I'm not good with this type of explanation but it's what came to me 🤷‍♀️

#maybe others can help #whether if you ship or not #but tagging it under the ship name anyways #atla #avatar #the last airbender #zuko #katara #zutara #avatar the last airbender #avatar fandom

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invadertem · 7 months

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HUB PLANET: IRK

(Not my art, I just like how it looks so I didn’t bother to do my own, made by this person)

Irk is a solitary celestial body, devoid of neighboring planets, and was historically held in place by the balancing influence of two opposing gravitational forces, each vying to draw it closer to their solar system. However, in its current configuration, Irk's position is maintained by a network of artificial gravitational thrusters.

PRE-TECH ERA OF IRK:

The Pre-Tech Era of Irk signifies the period preceding its transformation into a highly technologically advanced entity. While there are no extant photographic records depicting Irk in this earlier state, there exists documentation pertaining to the planet's geography, indigenous wildlife, and plant life. It's important to note that during the Pre-Tech Era, Irk's planetary dynamics differed significantly from its current state.

The most important feature of the Pre-Tech Era was Irk's leisurely rotation, resulting in an extended day-night cycle. Irk experienced 24-month cycles instead of the present-day 12-month format. This elongated rotational period impacted the planet's climatic conditions and the life forms that inhabited it. Unlike the contemporary Irk, the Pre-Tech Irk closely resembled other terrestrial planets in terms of its ecosystems.

What sets the Irk apart from its other terrestrial planets even to current day is its unique energy source. Instead of relying on solar radiation, the flora and fauna of this period thrived on the planet's internal heat. Consequently, plant life on Pre-Tech Irk did not necessitate exposure to sunlight, resulting in a characteristic purple hue instead of the familiar green. Notably, Irk remained perpetually enshrouded in darkness, given its considerable distance from a star. However, the planet's core temperature remained substantially high, providing the necessary conditions for sustaining life.

The climate on Pre-Tech Irk exhibited variations, including intermittent cooling phases within the 24-month cycle, during which the planet experienced extremely frigid conditions. To adapt to these extreme temperature fluctuations, the indigenous creatures of Irk developed remarkable abilities to regulate their body temperatures.

Furthermore, the Pre-Tech Era featured diverse biomes across the planet, contributing to a rich and complex ecosystem. Regrettably, our knowledge of this era remains limited, and further exploration is required to unravel the full extent of this intriguing period in Irk's history.

This period exerted a profound influence on the early development of the Irken race. To adapt to the perpetual darkness of Irk, Irkens underwent evolutionary changes. They developed enlarged eyes to enhance their vision in the absence of daylight. Additionally, their distinctive claws on both hands and feet evolved to facilitate movement and grip in the rocky terrain.

During the Pre-Tech era, Irkens primarily sported tails, which served multiple purposes. These tails not only aided in maintaining balance but also provided warmth during the colder months. Furthermore, communication among Pre-Tech era Irkens primarily comprised a vocal language consisting of chirps, trills, and hisses. However, for more information see the “Irken anatomy and traits” sector.

MODERN IRK ERA:

Irk in its current state is a meticulously organized, hollow celestial body comprised of distinct layers, each serving a crucial role. This architectural design has been engineered to cater to the diverse needs of the Irken Empire while ensuring efficiency and advanced capabilities.

The first layer, known as the 'Outer Ring,' encircles the planet and serves as an expansive artificial extension. Its purpose is to provide additional space beyond what the planet's natural surface can accommodate. The Outer Ring remains in stable orbit thanks to Irk's gravitational forces.

The second layer, referred to as the 'Atmospherical Shield,' encompasses the planet, functioning as both a protective barrier and a symbol of Irken Empire. This shield not only safeguards the planet but also prominently displays the emblem of the Irken Empire. Furthermore, it emits artificial lighting, ensuring a perpetual illumination.

Upon the Outer Ring, the third layer, 'The Surface,' is accessible through teleportation technology. This surface is home to towering cities teeming with industrious Irkens, encompassing both the workforce and civilian populations. Civilian Irkens are responsible for the production of various resources, including weaponry, medical supplies, and official documentation.

The final layer delves into the innards of the planet. Irk's hollow interior offers an array of subsections, with notable areas such as 'The Smeetery' at its core and the 'Training Grounds' just beneath the surface. This comprehensive structure has been meticulously designed to meet the needs of the Irken Empire, ensuring it operates from a robust and technologically advanced home base.

Remarkably, the process of hollowing the planet has accelerated its rotation, leading to a transition from a 24-month period to a 12-month period. In fact, Irk's rotation now synchronizes with that of Earth. Notably, the previous ecological diversity, or biomes, no longer exist on Irk, as it has been transformed into an expansive cityscape.

Irk serves as the central hub and operational headquarters of the formidable Irken Empire, boasting a sizeable and highly advanced Irken populace.

Irk employs a sophisticated dating system structured around 12 distinct months: Lunaris, Celestria, Nebulon, Quasar, Zephyria, Astracon, Solara, Galaxis, Interstella, Orbulon, Novaris, and Cosmara. Complementing this, the society adheres to a unique seven-day week, which aptly reflects their culture's vertical hierarchy: Lowgrav, Stiltday, Leviturn, Skyspan, Vertix, Atmoshif, and Apexday.

Years in this system are demarcated from the inception of the Irken Empire and consist of a numerical value, ranging up to 10,000, followed by a letter. This letter signifies how many times this 10,000-year mark has been reached. Presently, the dating system designates the year as 2030x. This comprehensive calendar system reflects the historical significance and innovative nature of the Irken civilization.

#invader zim au #invader zim #invader zim t5-6 #invader zim headcanon #headcanon #almighty tallest #irk #irken empire #dib membrane

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lvoryingrid · 2 months

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Healing Flames Chapter 16

Dabi x fem!Reader

Synopsis: (Y/n) grapples with her growing attraction to Dabi, conflicted by his dark past and enigmatic aura. As she navigates her feelings, (Y/n) is left wondering if there's more to Dabi than meets the eye, if beneath the layers of darkness lies a glimmer of hope and redemption.

As the first light of dawn gently seeped through the parted curtains, it painted the room in a soft, golden hue, coaxing Dabi from the depths of his sleep. With a languid stretch, he gradually fluttered his eyes open, taking a moment to shake off the lingering tendrils of slumber. His gaze wandered to (Y/n), whose presence nearby was comforting, her serene smile reflecting the warmth of the morning sunlight as she observed him with tender affection.

She felt her breath hitch in her throat, her heart pounding like a drumbeat against her ribs, as she fixed her gaze upon Dabi's hand suspended in the air. In that tense moment, uncertainty danced in his eyes, akin to a flickering flame fighting against the darkness. It was as though she could almost touch the turmoil swirling within him, the conflicted emotions pulling at his very being.

She sensed the intricate battle raging within him, a fierce struggle between the yearning to connect and the fortress of defenses he had meticulously constructed around himself. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, suspended in the delicate balance of their shared gaze. Every heartbeat echoed in the silence, a rhythmic reminder of the fragile connection they shared.

As Dabi's trembling hand slowly retreated to his side, (Y/n) felt her heart sink, a wave of disappointment washing over her. The mix of emotions swirling within her—anticipation, longing, and a tinge of sadness—created a complex tapestry of feelings. She couldn't help but acknowledge the profound significance of the scars that marred his skin, each one telling a story of resilience amidst unfathomable struggles and battles fought in the shadows.

Despite the physical withdrawal, there was a gentle warmth that persisted in Dabi's eyes, like embers flickering in the darkness—a silent reassurance that transcended words. It was as though his gaze spoke volumes, revealing the depth of his emotions and the vulnerability he dared to show. In that poignant moment, (Y/n) came to realize the intricate nature of healing, understanding that the journey toward trust was paved with obstacles and required patience beyond measure.

With a heavy heart, he slowly rose from the warmth of the bed, the soft embrace of the sheets slipping away as he made known his forthcoming departure. "Regrettably, duty calls," he whispered, a tinge of sorrow lacing his words. "The others need my help."

(Y/n) nodded understandingly, her brows furrowing with concern as she absorbed the gravity of the situation. Standing up from the edge of the bed, she shifted closer, her gaze unwavering as she spoke, "Can I accompany you on this mission?" Her voice carried a mixture of determination and sincerity, a reflection of her newfound sense of purpose as a member of the League. "I want to contribute in any way I can."

Dabi's hesitation was palpable, evident in the furrow of his brow and the uncertainty in his gaze as he turned to meet her eyes. With a conflicted expression etched across his features, he drew in a deep breath before responding with unwavering determination "Absolutely not," he asserted, his voice laced with a potent mix of frustration and concern, his anger igniting like a flickering flame in his eyes. His tone left no room for negotiation, emphasizing the gravity of his words. "It's too dangerous. I can't risk putting you in harm's way."

As his words reached her ears, a weight seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach, dragging her spirits down into the depths of disappointment. She could see the concern etched across his face, a reflection of his genuine worry for her well-being, yet it couldn't erase the pang of abandonment she felt at his decision to leave her behind.

With a heavy heart, she attempted to swallow the lump forming in her throat, struggling to come to terms with his choice. Though she knew his intentions were rooted in love and protection, it was hard not to feel a twinge of resentment as she realized she wouldn't be accompanying him.

"I'm capable of looking after myself," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, her eyes unable to meet his gaze as she battled to conceal her disappointment. "Just... promise me you'll stay safe out there, alright?"

Dabi's expression softened at her words, a flicker of remorse flashing in his turquoise eyes. He reached out, gently lifting her chin with his fingers to meet her gaze. "I will," he promised, his voice filled with sincerity. "I'll be back before you know it"

A delicate curve graced her lips as she considered his proposition, a flicker of optimism rekindling deep within her heart. "You better be," she responded, her tone laced with a subtle touch of playfulness, hinting at the possibilities that lay ahead.

As the hours stretched on, (Y/n) found herself grappling with a longing she couldn't quite comprehend. It wasn't just for the familiarity of her old life, the comfort of her small apartment, or the laughter of friends and family she left behind. No, this yearning ran deeper, stirring something unfamiliar within her.

The haunting visage of Dabi lingered relentlessly in her thoughts—the enigmatic figure whose very essence held her in a paradoxical grip of fascination and trepidation. She found herself entranced by the enigma of his being, a man whose countenance bore the weight of untold shadows, each step he took seeming to flirt with the boundaries of mortality and perilous recklessness.

It perplexed her how she could be so inexorably drawn to one shrouded in such an aura of darkness and danger, his presence a tempestuous dance upon the precipice of existence, leaving her both spellbound and disconcerted in its wake.

Her thoughts circled back to his eyes, those pools of turquoise that held secrets she dared not uncover. Despite the shadows that lurked within them, there was an inexplicable warmth, an allure that beckoned her closer against her better judgment.

And then there was his appearance—the tousled black hair that begged to be touched, the way he carried himself with an air of quiet confidence that left her breathless. It was all so contradictory, so absurdly irresistible.

She couldn't deny the pull he had on her, the way her heart raced whenever he was near, even as her mind screamed warnings of danger. It was a contradiction she struggled to reconcile, torn between the allure of his presence and the fear of the darkness that lurked beneath.

But despite the chaos of her emotions, one thing remained clear: (Y/n) couldn't ignore the magnetic pull of Dabi, no matter how irrational it seemed. And as she wrestled with her conflicting feelings, she couldn't help but wonder if there was more to him than met the eye, if perhaps beneath the veneer of darkness, there lay a flicker of light waiting to be discovered.

Masterlist

#dabi #dabi x reader #my hero academia #fanfic #dabi x fem!reader #touya todoroki #touya x reader #touya todoroki x reader #mha #mha dabi #mha touya #mha todoroki #touya x y/n #dabi x y/n #dabi x you #mha x reader #mha x y/n #bnha x reader #bnha x y/n

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expectodragons · 8 months

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Bitter Water || Chapter 6

✦ Summary: Guided only by a thin paper trail and a promising job offer, Catherine Hart returns to the school of her youth. Taking on the mantle of Beasts professor, the young witch must find a balance between her lessons and her continued search of the Highlands. Especially when under the watchful eye of the Potion Master. ✦ Pairing: Aesop Sharp x Female MC ✦ Word Count: 15,500 ✦ Rating: Mature, 18+ only - minors do not interact. ✦ Tags / Warnings: Age difference, colleagues-to friends-to-lovers, dual POV, language, mild injuries, slow burn. ✦ Story Playlist: Listen here ✦ Read on: AO3 || Tumblr (continue below)

The merriment of the holiday season had faded like warm breath on a window pane and all that remained was the bitter sting of January’s fury. It doused the valley in snow drifts higher than one’s knee. Pointed icicles threatened to plunge down upon anyone who dared walk under an archway or a line of barren trees – frozen in the silence like toy soldiers amongst the desolate winter landscape.

While Catherine found herself eternally grateful for her late Christmas gift from the potions professor, even the furious heat from the warming charm in her new gloves did little to battle off the wretched chill of the stinging wind.

She hurried through her morning chores each day – finding comfort at the Fire Crab’s enclosure more often than not, though she certainly didn’t dare to stand too close. As though she needed another third-degree burn marring her skin.

Most days the courtyard remained empty apart from the students coming to and from her class. Sometimes, she would spot the bright robes of the quidditch teams as they made their way across the snow-packed path to the pitch. In a world washed out by white and gray, the blur of color was a welcomed sight.

As she fed or groomed the Unicorns and Kneazles, she would sometimes find herself lost in the practice runs and mock games of the teams.

On one particular morning, before the sun had even fully risen, Catherine was out braving the cold. Wrapped up in the warmest clothes she could manage, her eyes alone peeking out from the soft fabric of her scarf. The last of the Mooncalves were out in their paddock, prancing through the snow when she approached with their breakfast.

She checked over all sixteen of the furry big-eyed creatures. Nora’s bandages would need changing by afternoon from the looks of it. And Harold would require another bout of supplements lest he fall ill again.

“Yeah, go on then,” she says softly, patting the head of June – the newest member of the cluster.

They disappear off into their covered enclosure – likely refusing to come out until their lunches are brought about.

With a flick of her wand, the large woven feed sack floats out from the shed and levitates across the yard to the unicorn’s paddock, where five usually stoic creatures were just beginning to rise from their slumber.

“Come on, come on. Before I catch my death, thank you.”

Sometimes, she missed the temperate weather of the lower continents. As much as she had complained of the overbearing direct sunlight during her time in the Golden Coast and Cairo, she would give just about anything for a warm ray of natural light these days.

As she begins portioning out their specially mixed feed into the long wooden troughs, she hears a distant shout from the neighboring quidditch pitch.

“Come on, Parson!”

The Gryffindor team had been out practicing before even Catherine roused to tend to the beasts. She had watched the whirl of red robes ducking in and around the stadium’s towers with a belated interest. They stood a decent chance at the Cup this year if their training was anything to go by. That was, until…

“Watch out!”

She barely has time to lift her head up when a noticeable thump crashes into the top of the classroom’s wards and bounces off into the canopy of trees before slamming down onto the forest floor.

The young professor slashes the warding in an instant and takes off towards the small figure crumpled near the bottom of a towering Scots Pine.

With her scarf now tugged down to her neck, she asks in a harsh breath, “Are you alright?”

The girl tries to roll to her side but lets out a rather pathetic moan.

“Okay, easy now.”

She takes a quick visual assessment of her positioning – nothing twisted, nothing noticeably broken – before she eases out the girl’s legs. Now fully on her back, the young player lets out a long breath, her hands resting on her chest as she stares up at the empty canopy above her.

“I’m fine… I think. Just… wind knocked out of me.”

Catherine pulls up onto her knee, staring down at the student.

“No wonder, flying like you just did.”

The girl’s eyes roam across to her, a thin smile on her face, “New broom.”

With a nod, she extends her hand out to the prone player.

“Think you can stand?”

Another jerk of her head and then Catherine’s hauling her up onto her feet. She casts a wary eye upon her, almost expecting a sudden injury to emerge. After a moment, the girl reaches down to grab hold of her forgotten broomstick – a flush creeping across her cheeks that the young professor assumes isn’t from the sharp sting of the wind.

“I… I better get back.”

“As long as you think you can manage.”

She mounts the broom, looking momentarily hesitant before she gives herself a reassuring nod and kicks off.

Catherine watches her go – swaying back and forth through the trees before she dips down over the crumbling castle wall toward the pitch. With a shake of her head, she walks back over to the paddocks and finishes up her rounds.

It just so happens that she’s walking back to the castle at the same time the Gryffindor team is trudging along – likely heading back in an attempt to grab breakfast before classes were due to start.

“The hell are we gonna do?”

A blonde-haired player lingers back alongside a stout boy who strides forward with an air of confidence.

“She just needs more training – one on one.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do. Are you sure we can’t convince Miles to –”

“That’s a null and void conversation. Don’t even bother.”

Her eyes travel through the group – counting them all off – before she realizes one sole player is missing from the troop. She glances back at the pitch and spots a tiny blur of red still circling the stadium.

As the team heads inside, Catherine pauses near the frozen fountain.

It’s a split-second decision that has her wandering through the snow drifts away from the warmth of the castle.

Standing in the middle of the field, she watches the young girl fly lap after lap – her eyes never straying far from a small glittering winged ball of gold. Only once she’s able to nab hold of it, does she even look down to see the bundled-up witch in the center of the pitch. She swoops down just a foot away from the professor.

“So, you’re the new seeker then.”

The girl’s fingers tighten around her broom’s handle as she gives a quick nod.

“Teller, well, his Mum and Dad weren’t too happy with his last grading report before Christmas and they had Professor Weasley kick him off the team. And no one wanted to try and take on the position – he’s been on for the last five years now, you know. And, well…”

“And here you are?” Catherine surmises.

She nods again.

The young witch stares down at the third-year – spotting a familiar look in her nervous features. A soft smile graces her face as she beckons the girl forward – the two beginning to walk back to the castle together.

“You know… I was Gryffindor’s seeker in my seventh year. Never even played the game before they had me doing laps at try-outs.”

She can feel the sudden gaze at her side, “Really?”

“Mhmm. Plenty of talented players, people who knew every bit of trivia about the game – all the tactics and high-profile people on the National Leagues. Felt like I was a Porlock in a sea of Graphorns.”

Catherine glances down, spotting the curious look on the girl’s face.

“What… what did you do?”

Staring forward, toward the approaching castle doors, she replies, “I put my heart into it. Studied everything I could between classes, and started following the big teams in the papers each week. And practiced. Every free moment I could spare.”

A contemplative look befalls the young student’s features. A frizzled brow and a scrunched nose.

“I don’t know if that’d work for me.”

“Why not?”

With a steadying breath, she finally says, “I know all the moves. I follow the Harpies and the Tornadoes every play. It’s just… when I get out there with the rest of my team, I just…”

Her expression grows distant and a brief moment of understanding crosses Catherine’s mind. At last, they climb the steps to the Bell Tower. But before she can push the door open, the professor pauses.

“You know, as a fellow Gryffindor and an ex-player, I would have every right to offer my… wisdom, should your captain welcome it?”

A smile, slow at first but soon stretched wide in awe, greets her.

“Would you?”

She smiles down at the girl in return.

“I’m sure something can be arranged. Miss…?”

“Parson. Laura Parson, professor.”

Aesop peers up from the cauldrons currently resting under a stasis charm in a secluded corner of the classroom at the sound of a gentle rapping of knuckles against the door. He finds himself fighting to contain a smile as the young woman crosses the room, beaming back at him in return.

Though classes had resumed on the fifth, he had scarcely seen the Beasts professor since her arrival back from her winter holiday in France. There had been passing words in the staff lounge, of course. A curt greeting when they happened to cross paths in the tapestry corridor. But a full conversation had been waiting in the wings ever since that last chaperoning trip to Hogsmeade together in December.

“Hello again, properly,” she smiles as she crosses the flagstones.

He watches as stray snowflakes fall from her hat and the shoulders of her cape, toppling to the floor as they leave a melted trail of droplets all the way from the door to where he stands.

“It has been some time,” he admits in his gruff tone of voice.

“Well, hopefully, what I have here will more than make up for that!”

His eyes flicker down to the bright white of her smile as she licks her chapped lips and unceremoniously deposits her leather bag on his desk. Aesop folds his arms across his chest, peering down at the pouch as she begins to pull two small containers out.

“My fifth-years just sorted these this afternoon. Don’t worry – the Gryffindors collected them while my Ravenclaws handled the actual grinding.”

He doesn’t even attempt to smother his smirk as she easily pokes fun at her own House. Grabbing hold of one of the jars, he holds it up to the candlelight and examines its contents with an assessing dark eye. The Unicorn horn was a fine white powder with barely a blemish to be found within the granules.

“It was quite lucky, actually,” she continues on, unprompted. “I noticed the beginnings of shedding Saturday evening and sure enough, this morning I had three unicorns rubbing against the fencing trying to rid themselves of their own horns. Two weeks early, at that! I just hope the other two hold on long enough for my other fifth-years to get a chance at it as well.”

Sharp gives a hum of acknowledgment as he sets the container down, “My compliments to your teaching skills, Hart.”

That makes the young witch quirk her brow as a roguish smile graces her pale features.

“Oh?”

“Clearly you’ve instructed your students well. Perhaps better than even my own attempts…” he trails off, considering the state of some of his older students under his tutelage and their inability to properly slice, dice, and grind ingredients after several years of instruction.

“Ah, that. Well, I merely explained that part of their grade for this quarter was dependent on how well their potions professor found the quality of their ingredients. That might have done the trick.”

He feels his own brows rise at that.

“I mean,” she begins twisting her fingers together as her blue eyes leave his face to gaze down at the floor.

“Creature handling is usually thought of in such limited terms, but there are so many different aspects to it that I think some of my students forget. Like harvesting byproducts for potions, or rehabilitative work, even healing situations – there’s a whole branch of veterinary work out there. It’s not just all – ”

She flaps her hands out for a moment, trying to tie together her next words as if they were an invisible item just out of reach, “– pet the Puffeskein, play with the Kneazles, and earn an Outstanding. You know what I mean?”

A half-smile graces his lips, “I believe so.”

She stares up at him then with this… unreadable expression on her face. It makes him feel both put on the spot by it and equally lost in the warmth of its intensity.

And then she smooths her hands over her trousers and says, “And on that note, I do actually need to go groom some Kneazles right now.”

Collecting her bag and resettling her powder-blue hat upon her head, Aesop watches as she prepares to leave and he finds some inner part of himself reaching out – a phantom hand trying to grab hold of the invisible strings that lay between them like dust in the sunlight. They had not shared a common space and been able to fill it with familiar conversation in so many weeks that he was reluctant to see her walk out the classroom door just yet.

Just like Mirabel, Abraham, and Dinah, he found himself drawn to her presence and welcomed the warm interactions they shared together. He could not say that for many other members of the faculty. There was just something about her that made him seek out her candor. Finding a smidgen of pride bubbling up in his chest whenever he managed to pull a genuine laugh from her lips.

“I never did thank you.”

That makes her pause mid-step as she slowly twirls back around, her face struck with an air of curiosity.

“For your gift,” he clarifies.

A rather amusing blush crosses her cheeks as she looks toward the adjacent brewing station before she meets his eyes once again.

“I know it probably seemed a bit out of place from what you usually get, or what I assume you usually get.”

He smiles down at her, resting his hands behind his back, “All the more reason I enjoyed it as much as I did.”

A swell of pride swoops through his chest at the smile she bestows upon him. And he finds himself falling down a path of rambling thoughts before he can even blink back to awareness at his surroundings.

“I assure you, Hart, it was a welcome change from the stacks of brewing books and paperweights that are typically sent my way over the holiday. I must admit, I found myself looking through the portraits well past the midnight hour that evening.”

Slowly, she lowers herself onto a stool – swiping her blue pointed hat from her head, her eyes never leaving his – as if in a trance.

“Which was your favorite, if I may ask?”

Aesop ponders this for a moment as he joins her at the empty station – this was their shared free period at the end of the day, there was little more to do now besides grading papers – with his right foot resting on the spindle of the stool and his left foot placed on the ground beside the corner of the station.

In his mind, he can see many of the images from the book in near clarity. A few notable favorites, some less so. But finally, he settles on an answer.

“A Bar at the Folies-Bergère by Manet.”

And then he blinks and he finds himself focusing in on the lazy smile on the woman’s face as she stares up at him with another unreadable thing flickering around in her crystalline blue eyes.

Clearing his throat, he asks, “Out of curiosity, do you have any opinions on the art movement?”

She straightens up, resting her hands on the table as she leans forward with this ringing air of excitement, “Yes, absolutely! While I’m partial to Monet’s Water Lily Pond, I actually favor more of Van Gogh’s work.”

“Really?” he asks, leaning forward as well – drawn in by her enthusiasm.

“Yes, his Starry Night –”

Aesop gives a playful groan, rolling his eyes for the full effect.

“Why does that not surprise me, Hart?”

Her brows pinch together, clearly taken aback, “What?”

“A typical museum-goer could point to a handful of classical renderings. The Mona Lisa, or Girl with a Pearl Earring, or… Liberty Leading the Peoplefor example, and claim it to be their favorite simply by having such a limited range of exposure to the arts.”

She bites the corner of her lip and gives a little roll of her shoulders that makes it seem as though she’s preparing for a battle on an artistic plane. He finds himself even more intrigued.

“Okay, Sharp,” she begins, leveling him with a steely gaze.

“I was about to say my favorite Van Gogh is Starry Night Over the Rhone, even though it’s typically overlooked by the more famous Starry Night painting. I find the subdued colors more appealing, for a start. And his work with the lighting is impeccable: the way he has the stars reflect off the water. And the texture! It practically jumps off the painting to the point where I feel like I could actually touch the waves as they were truly there on the canvas.”

Slowly, a curved smirk rises from his lips as he folds his hands together into a fist on the countertop.

“All right, that’s a marginally reasonable answer. But you can’t deny the fact that Van Gogh wasn’t actually an Impressionist painter.”

With an audible groan, she rakes a hand through her ice-blonde tresses, “At the beginning of his career he was! Almost every Impressionist moved onto the Post-Impressionism movement beside Monet.”

“And if I might say,” she jabs her finger on the table for emphasis. “Impressionism in itself uses color as a way to represent landscape and how light affects it. Post-Impressionism just uses color to convey emotions. You can’t tell me that Over the Rhone is a post-impressionist landscape.”

“And yet, as a whole, it is Monet who is frequently accredited with the first movement. While Van Gogh is solely recognized in the post-movement,” he surmises.

“Actually,” she interrupts. “Manet is the sole founder of the movement. Does Le Déjeuner sur l'herb ring any bells?”

Aesop finds himself momentarily stunned by the graceful way the French title falls from her lips before he grins – pressing forward with another retort. He hadn’t enjoyed a conversation this much in ages.

“Which further shows your inability to accept the fact that your precious painter is not in fact a part of the Impressionism movement itself. Merely inspired by the true artists in Paris. Was it not Van Gogh himself who admitted he was completely unaware of the style until he visited the city in 1886?”

“Well, yes, but –“

“And while one could argue that an artist’s style is capable of changing over time, perhaps it can be said that Van Gogh was never a member of the original movement, merely a user of the muted Dutch palette of the time.”

Hart shakes her head in disbelief, muttering to the table’s surface, Merlin give me strength, before she fixes her gaze on Aesop and starts back up.

“Well, one could say, that Monet became stagnant in his process of painting hazy pastel landscapes while the rest of the artists in the original Impressionism movement moved on with the times and adapted their styles accordingly. Which isn’t to say I don’t enjoy some of Monet’s work, because I do – but the point I’m trying to make is –”

A flicker of fight dies from his lips as he finds his curiosity piqued.

“And which paintings would those be?”

He watches as she exhales through her nose, the frightening height of her argument brought back down to a respectable level for polite conversation – though he almost immediately misses the blaze of determination in her eyes.

“Woman with a Parasol and Bordighera.”

With a quirk of his lip, Aesop adds in an easy, soft sort of tone, “I find myself partial to Van Gogh’s Almond Blossoms and Café Terrace at Night.”

They both stare at each other for a breathless moment before Hart tips over with her wide smile and ringing laugh – one that Aesop finds himself quick to replicate with his own low chuckle.

“So,” she wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye, her face still flushed with laughter. “What I believe we’re both agreeing to is the fact that we’re capable of enjoying many artists despite their reported in or out status within the Impressionism movement?”

Shaking his head, unable to hide his smile, he says, “I believe so.”

He looks at her then, truly looks at her. At the near-permanent smile on her face, the flicker of amusement dancing in her eyes, and something else. Something he can’t quite put a name to – there, in the depth of her expression when she blinks and looks up at him – her closed smile growing impossibly wider.

“So…” she breathes out, giving a little shake to her head as an errant curl falls across her cheek. “Is your stance firmly settled on just Impressionism, or do you have varying opinions on other eras?”

Aesop bares his teeth in a wolfish grin, “I find Impressionism to be one of my least favorite movements, in all actuality.”

Her eyes bulge and a frown begins to form on her unblemished face.

“Not to say that I don’t enjoy it, obviously,” he makes quick to explain. “But out of several centuries worth of painting, I can hardly claim it to be my absolute favorite, now, can I?”

“Okay then,” she crosses her right leg over her left knee, leaning back to fold her arms over her chest. “Let’s hear it then. Where do your loyalties lie?”

“Baroque has its merits, of course.”

She scoffs, “If you’re interested in a darkened palette and exaggerated movement, I suppose.”

“You find fault with it?” he raises his brow, sensing another well-placed debate brewing in the downturn of her lips.

“Obviously.”

Aesop smirks, folding his own arms across his chest as he stares at her.

“Then, by all means, enlighten me. What era do you find more appealing?”

She seems to mull it over for a moment, as her tongue peeks out to wet her lips before she finally settles on: “Rococo.”

He chuckles, “You’ll argue against the merits of Monet but you find Rococo-style works to be just fine?”

With a shrug of her shoulders, she says, “I prefer the palette, for one. And the more natural movement. Baroque-era styling just feels so… dramatic; heavy. Whereas Rococo brings a more, I don’t know… easy-going sort of feeling. I suppose you’d also be so bold as to say that Classicism holds a special place for you as well?”

“Nat as much, but there are some portraits that I find… welcoming on the eyes.”

Hart gives a little nod, “And your thoughts on the Renaissance era?”

At that, he snorts, “Over-rated.”

“Oh, thank Godric,” she sighs, placing a hand over her heart as if she had expected him to tell her the worst sort of news. “You’re still capable of some common sense, that’s truly a relief to hear.”

Raising a lone brow, he dryly says, “I’m pleased to find that I’ve met your high standards.”

She lets out a short laugh, shaking her head as she says, “Hush. I was just afraid you would sit there and spew some snobbish nonsense to me about how that style is far superior to any other in the entire history of the world of art.”

“Decidedly not.”

She offers him a small smile then, flicking her gaze from his face to her hands on the countertop of the brewing station.

“So… if that’s not a favorite of yours, then what exactly would you say is?”

Aesop stares up at the curved stone arches of the classroom ceiling, pondering the question for just a moment, before he replies.

“Romanticism.”

Catherine blinks; once, then twice. Her mouth forms a curious little o shape before she presses her lips together and asks, “Really?”

“Is that somehow surprising?” he wonders, uncrossing his arms as he stares down at her – trying to place the pieces of the puzzle that was her expression.

“Well, I thought perhaps you would say something more… I don’t know, obscure? Like Tonalism or something of that nature. But, Romanticism, genuinely?”

He hums in return, finding his gaze lost in the dumbfounded look upon the woman’s face.

“Wha– uhm, what artists do you favor?”

“Well,” he lingers on this for a moment before finding the answers rather easily. “Friedrich, J.M.W. Turner, Eugène Delacroix – of course –”

“Of course,” she murmurs along.

He nods, “And, perhaps… John Constable.”

“Oh, his stuff is quite good,” she agrees.

“Indeed.”

They sit there for a moment in the draping silence of the conversation before several thoughts cross through Aesop’s mind. The first of which, he is quick to voice.

“You never said.”

At the lift of her eyebrows, he reiterates.

“Your favorite style.”

“Oh.”

Hart looks away, twisting her fingers together once again. He finds a desire to uncover the reason for the strange response. Leaning forward, offering a warm expression, he teases.

“Come now, Hart. Afraid I’ll tear apart your answer as you did mine?”

She looks up, eyes bright and alert, “No, of course not. It’s just… well, it’s not a common answer.”

He gives a little hum, “Consider me intrigued then.”

Readjusting herself on the stool, he can feel the light brush of the toe of her boot against his left knee – nothing hard, or discomforting. But a gentle press as she bounces her foot in thought.

“Have you ever heard of Ukiyo-e?”

Perhaps he had been expectant of too common an answer, some strange little movement of the American or Eastern European variety. But he has to shake his head in response, “I’m afraid I have not.

“It’s a, uhm, Japanese art style. Usually in the form of printed woodblocks. Two summers back, I was trekking through Imperial Japan, and I happened upon a village in the mountains. This muggle sutler had these blocks displayed out across a cloth sheet on the ground and I was just immediately entranced by them. The color, Aesop. It just pops off the wood. The lines were so crisp, I don’t even know how to properly describe it to you.”

She shakes her head then, giving a little laugh that seemed to stem from some sort of place of embarrassment, though for what reason he’s not sure.

“I actually have one on display, down in my room. It’s a copy, obviously.”

Aesop leans forward, steepling his index fingers together.

“How did your interest in the arts come about?”

Hart lets out a low breath, leaning back on the stool once again. Her gaze grows distant for but a moment before the electric blue of her irises meets his eyes.

“Traveling, in all honesty. Certainly didn’t have the time or funds to go to a museum when I was younger. And obviously being here at the school changed those prospects for me quite a bit as well.”

She absently chews on her lower lip, teleported back to the memories of her youth. And for a moment, Aesop is reminded of the clear and undeniable fact that the girl who was once his student is in fact a fine young woman now. He would have never imagined, nearly a decade back, that he would be sitting here with the new fifth-year having an in-depth conversation about art, of all topics.

“When I was assigned to an encampment in France, at the beginning of my tenure with the Ministry, they placed me with a man – Edmund Hughes.”

Aesop found the name familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it to any particular face in his mind.

“Anyway, we kept busy most of the days we were there. At the time, we were tracking down this aggressive Bretagne Vouivre Dragon that was encroaching far too close to a muggle town. Well, one night, we were stuck dealing with negotiators from the French Ministry who felt they were better equipped to handle the situation, even though the Department had requested our assistance with the matter in the first place. Uh, sorry. Anyway…”

She waves her hand as if to clear the memory from the air.

“Hughes knew we were stuck with our thumbs in our pockets, as it were, for likely the next week or so while bureaucratic dealings went on. Just up and decided – after downing a lovely French port of wine, of course – that we should enjoy the evening on our own terms. He rounded up our little team and we apparated to Place Cachée. Led us straight down to the Louvre.”

Hart gives another little bubble of laughter, “I had never stepped foot in a museum before that night.”

Aesop feels his own heart clench at the admission. Admittedly, his own upbringing had brought about many opportunities – perhaps a few that he hadn’t been completely grateful for at the time. Not necessarily a silver spoon sort of life, but well-off in many senses of the term.

A no-nonsense governess had given him his first introduction to the world of art at the tender age of five. He was well-versed in all the classical wizarding artists: Monsieur DeBlanc, Cetus Barringer, Andorra van Kemp. It was only thanks to his own natural pursuit of knowledge that he became acquainted with the greats of the Muggle world.

While wizards and witches had the astounding ability to create life-like moving portraits, the muggle world was restricted: forced to make a painting capture a single moment, a multitude of emotions. Aesop almost considered that feat more awe-inspiring than that of their wizarding counterparts.

“Have you been to many others since then?” He wonders, his tone softened by his musings.

“A few, if I’m given the chance,” she admits with the crack of a proper smile.

“Over your travels, have you ever found your way to the National Gallery in Trafalgar Square?”

“I’m afraid I have not,” Hart sighs in admittance.

Aesop gives a half-curved smile in return, “You should go: if you find the time to do so. I find it to be an appealing institution dedicated to the arts.”

“Perhaps I should,” she gazes up at him under the flutter of her fair-colored eyelashes.

It was not unusual to find the Beasts and Potions professors walking together for dinner in the Great Hall most nights. In fact, it was a very common occurrence, one that the general populace rarely – if ever – took note of. In the same way, Professors Ronen and Weasley could be seen making the journey together during the lunch period. Or, in the opposite case of Professor Onai and Shah, who avoided each other like a severe case of Dragon Pox.

No, it could be said that the sight of Sharp and Hart walking into the Hall together right after the food graced the tables was nothing to pay much attention to.

But tonight, Catherine noted, several curious eyes followed their path as they breezed past the outer section of the Slytherin table. She only noticed it given the fact that she had looked away from Aesop to laugh in another chastising tone.

Their conversation from that afternoon had continued, nearly non-stop, well into the evening hour. When the final period bell had sounded for the day, they had both made attempts to resume their duties and go their separate ways. Until she made a follow-up comment to something he had said earlier in their little debate, and then they were both drawn back to the brewing station – tucked into yet another conversation.

And it hadn’t let up.

They were well past the point of reasonable small talk or friendly collegial conversation. But neither one of them seemed particularly interested in bringing an end to it. And so, it continued on, all the way to the Great Hall several hours after it had first begun.

“I find quite the inspiration from Delacroix’s printing techniques.”

She snorts, “You would.”

Sharp shoots her an amused look with another hitched eyebrow as they make it to the table, “Meaning…?”

Catherine presses past him as she finds her seat. Aesop pushes in her chair for her after she sits down before he moves to the vacant spot to her left. She stares after him for only a second more.

“Meaning…” she begins, portioning out bits of roasted garlic potatoes and rosemary-scented asparagus onto her plate. “That I find it fitting that you would see greatness in a French printmaker’s work.”

She can feel his curious expression gazing into the side of her face, though she thoroughly ignores it. There’s a bitter-sounding scoff of disbelief. She thinks she can even see the shake of his head – the billowing of his chestnut-colored hair.

“Is that all?”

Finally affording him a look, she continues, “An outdated technique is where you find your muse. You have an interest in older art movements, it’s truly not all that surprising.”

Aesop snorts, “I’m not sure I would consider it to be outdated if one could still find it in use within nearly every newspaper currently in circulation.”

She faces him then, “Printmaking, in itself, is not an outdated technique, Sharp. If it was, I most likely wouldn’t be calling Ukiyo-e a current favorite art movement. But as it is, that is a form of relief printing. Whereas what you’re referring to with Delacroix’s portfolio is lithography – a far older version of printmaking that is far less frequently in use than you’d like to believe it to be.”

With a huff of self-determined breath, she looks at her companion. There she finds the darkness of his eyes staring back at her, though there’s a warmth radiating from them that leaves her feeling less than discontent.

“And the reason you find printmaking – sorry, lithography, so foul is –”

“What I mean to say is,” she sighs, placing her spoon down and leaning towards him, “It’s rather silly that a Frenchman had taken up printmaking techniques when the near entirety of the artists in his country were devoted to oil painting at the time. Now, sketches I could understand. But where was he hoping to advance the realm of lithography?”

Aesop’s lips curve into a slight smirk, giving another shake of his head, and then he picks up his own cutlery once again, “I merely said I found inspiration in those particular works, Hart. Certainly, you can’t find fault in every statement I make.”

At that, she grins.

“I most certainly can, and will, if you keep making such ridiculous statements.”

There’s a lapse in conversation, but it lasts perhaps two bites worth of food more before it continues right back up again.

Her gaze rarely strays from the man next to her, if only for a moment to look away with a laugh spilling from her lips or to give another wry shake of her head. But, she is at least aware of the instant the noise in the hall begins to fade as the students lift themselves from the benches and begin to head toward the corridor once again.

“I believe,” she leans over to say with another tired smile. “That this is a conversation we’ll need to continue another day.”

Sharp seems to agree as he stands up and offers her a hand of help – one which she takes with a grateful look.

“Professor,” he bows his head, his eyes trailing back up to her face – focusing on her own eyes for just a second more – before he takes his leave of her, heading down the stairs and making his way out of the Great Hall.

Catherine watches him go for a moment more before she redirects her attention to the remaining faculty members. A memory of her ongoing lists of things to accomplish before the weekend jolts to the forefront of her mind when she spots Aragon pressing past Satyavati.

“Oh! Headmaster? Could I have a word, sir?”

The older man’s face lights up with curiosity.

It wasn’t a particularly common occurrence for Catherine to seek out candor with the Headmaster, if ever.

“Something I can do for you, Hart?”

Even though she was nearing thirty, standing before any sort of authority figure, like Aragon, still made her body awash with nerves. As if she was about to be on the questioning of a lifetime for some accused thing she had no part in.

“I was wondering, sir, if there were any particular rules in place that would keep an outside source – say… a professor – from assisting one of the Quidditch teams.”

That inquiry clearly takes him back, but it’s a smile that graces his face as he seems to ponder over the question.

“Well…” he drawls. “To the best of my knowledge, there aren’t any rules that keep a non-player from offering assistance to a team. So long as nothing is being done to give an unfair advantage in the form of, say… self-braking brooms or charmed uniform pieces that enable higher aerodynamics, for example. Or, obviously, the use of illegal substances such as Felix Felicis. No, I should think there would be nothing that would keep a professor from offering their help.”

He pauses for a second, giving her a bitten-down look of amusement.

“Any particular reason you asked?”

Catherine can barely contain the smile that wants to shine on her face, but she makes a valiant effort at it.

“Perhaps… sir.”

An appearance of understanding falls across his face and he gives a short nod, “Of course, of course. Send my regards to Mr. Spinnet, yes?”

He then gives her a gentle pat on the shoulder before he departs.

Schooling her features into something resembling a normal expression, she heads down to her quarts with a slight skip to her step. She had a letter to write.

Catherine rouses even earlier that following Friday, keen to finish her work in the classroom before her meeting time with Arthur Spinnet was set to take place. Bundled up in two pairs of trousers and a heavy woolen sweater, she collects her gloves and a warm hat before she ascends the stairs to the courtyard with her broom in tow.

Just as she’s finishing up her rounds with the Porlocks, she hears the familiar warble of voices across the grounds. Grabbing hold of her broom, she wanders over to the Pitch.

Spinnet already has the team working through a series of exercises up above the field when she arrives, while the young man stands contemplatively still in the center of the stadium.

“Merlin’s balls, Bell! My gran can fly smoother than that!” he calls out to a lanky-looking boy sailing by.

With a smile, she approaches the ambitious fifth-year.

“Mr. Spinnet.”

His eyes drop back down to the ground and he quickly uncrosses his arms, extending out a hand, “Professor! Thank you for meeting with me.”

She had shared a series of three notes with the Gryffindor boy over the past week. The first expressing her willingness to aid in any form of advice or training. The second was an agreement for a day that would best suit both parties. Catherine didn’t have a first period to teach today and she was already planning on taking the free hour to massage her sore muscles after whatever hell she went through at this early morning practice.

Taking on a vigil beside the boy, she watches the team up above. Their flying was fine, by all appearances. The two chasers and two beaters flew together in near synchronicity. It was the lone, small-statured player at the rear that seemed most out of place from the rest of them.

“I stand by what I said in my first correspondence, Mr. Spinnet,” she says, keeping her eyes trained on the players overhead. “It’s not just your new Seeker who needs a spot of extra help.”

He snorts, crossing his arms once again.

“I’ll believe it when I see it, Professor. No offense, of course. But this team has been a solid front for the last three years.”

“Complacency in that idea is what is causing your stagnation, Captain. Take my word for the next two hours and we’ll see how everything plays out, as agreed upon. Yes?”

With a jerky nod, the boy shoves his fingers into his mouth and lets out a sharp whistle – alerting the players to make their descent. Once the group of six students lands and takes up a half-circle formation around her, Spinnet gives a vague the floor is yours gesture and backs up to join his team.

“Good morning,” she smiles. “I’m sure your esteemed Captain has informed you all as to why I’m here today. I come offering only advice and wish to impart a bit of time-earned wisdom upon you all. I think we can all agree, we want to see Gryffindor take the Cup this year.”

“Yeah!” two boyish voices holler at once, followed by several nods of enthusiastic agreement.

“All right then,” Catherine claps her hands together, pocketing her broom in the crook of her right elbow. “Let’s see how well you know one another’s positions, yeah?”

Several confused looks are spared her way as she assigns each player a new position. Spinnet, for his part, takes it all in stride – following upon the terms of her agreement to do this little training session with them today.

“You’re a good team – I’ve seen you practice these past few months. But a player who’s only capable of doing their position to perfection isn’t a team player. You need to know the moves of your fellow players. Anticipate how your next action affects them.”

Throwing a beater’s bat to Georgina Wilkes, one of the three chasers, she pairs her off with Cassius Diggory – one of the actual team beaters. Melinda Mason takes on the role of Keeper for Theodore Bell. While Laura Parson switches places with the team captain.

When she tosses the Quaffle into play, the ensuing match is chaotic – to say the least.

While the chasers merely have to score against a single Keeper and have no real outside interference, their technique is severely underpar. But this wasn’t an attempt to watch them fully succeed at another position, Catherine wanted to press home the point that every role on the team mattered. That they needed to work together in harmony if they stood any chance at winning.

Wilkes sends the bludger directly at Bell’s head, while Oscar Clark fumbles the Quaffle and watches it fall for several feet before Parson soars after it.

She lets them go on like this for several minutes – scoring only one singular goal in the process – before she calls them back down to the field.

“Well, that was entirely pointless,” Clark whispers to Bell.

“Was it?” she asks just as dryly.

When she’s met with a mixture of sheepish and questioning looks, she rests back on the handle of her broom.

“Mr. Clark, I would hope you would gain an appreciation for the skill it takes your Chasers to garner to successfully handle a Quaffle. Perhaps, instead of begrudging newcomers to your team, you could take a moment to offer wisdom.”

Referring to the conversation she had been privy to last week when he had been bemoaning his frustrations over the new Seeker to Spinnet, seems to make the boy blanch.

“A well-oiled team knows the intricacy of every team member’s position. If your strongest player is incapable of filling in for another, then what is the point of proclaiming you are the best team in the school?”

Giving them a purposeful look, floating to every player, she continues, “Yes, you succeeded in past years. You had wonderful victories. Don’t let that keep you tethered to mediocrity. I have watched the other teams practice – they all move in cohesion. While I can offer you tips and plays, I can not turn you into a perfect machine. That’ll be up to you to manage. But for now…”

Her eyes roam across the team until they land on Laura Parson.

“I think I agreed to teach your new seeker a move that no one else at this school knows.”

The girl’s expression immediately brightens under the glow of the morning sunrise.

After a beat, she asks, “How many of you follow the international teams?”

Bell slowly raises his hand, “Sure. I went to Sydney to watch the World Cup last year with my Da.”

A few similar nods follow his statement. Catherine gives a knowing smile.

“And outside of the largest sporting event in the game’s history?”

Silence meets her in return and she grins.

“Well, it looks like this might just be a new play for you all. Has anyone here heard of the name Josef Wronski before?”

She spends the next hour introducing Parson to the Polish tactic. It was only introduced into the world of the sport seven or so years back and hadn’t truly taken off in many places outside of its country of origin. Catherine had managed to catch a game when she was passing through the country on her way into the German Empire back in 1897.

It’s a different sort of freedom when she’s flying around the pitch with the team. While her flight times with the Hippogriffs last semester had been a liberating experience, with the wind whipping against her frozen cheeks today, she felt a determined thrill ringing throughout her body. An old sensation buried after graduation. Maybe she could convince Matilda to start up a faculty league.

“That’s it, Laura!” she shouts behind her as the girl gains speed on her. “As far as you can go, come on!”

It was a matter of zigging and zagging across the pitch before taking a sharp dive down to the field – almost to the point of crashing – before you managed to pull your broom up at the last possible second. The intention was to have your opponent crash or become so distracted that they didn’t notice the true location of the snitch.

Parson had been doing beautifully in replicating her moves and as she glanced back at Spinnet, the team captain seemed equally impressed down on the ground.

After touching back down beside him, she instructed the chasers on an old tactic that had worked for her team a decade ago. Apparently, it was one that Spinnet said had fallen out of use over the years and might just prove to be a game-changer against the other houses.

In the end, there’s a group of sweaty, exhausted, but completely exhilarated students who wave their thanks to her as they trudge back through the snow to the castle. Both Parson and Spinnet offer her another few words of gratitude, and the captain gently hints at having another possible training session in the future.

“We’ll see,” is all she says in return – beaming at the feeling of tired muscles and aching bones now plaguing her body. It wasn’t every day the twenty-eight-year-old powered through a full morning of training, after all.

With how many paces she was putting her broom through these past few days, Catherine found herself in Hogsmeade on a blustery Saturday afternoon to purchase a new set of flying gloves. While her Christmas present from Aesop had been a true treat for the winter weather, their grip wasn’t quite what she needed for early morning training sessions with the Gryffindor team. The frost had a nasty way of clinging to the handle of her broom before the sunlight managed to melt away the ice crystals.

The wizarding village was rather emptied out for a Saturday, though she placed the blame on the dismal weather entirely.

While the Christmas season had brought the joy of shopping for friends and loved ones which enticed several people to go out and peruse the local wares, January had no such draw.

In fact, most people would prefer to stay at home near the fire if given the choice.

And she would have too if it wasn’t for the need of new gloves and a particular desire to converse with the tavern boy at the Hog’s Head again.

Though, unfortunately, Aberforth had no amount of news to share with her. A sad fact that was piling up in her private life as well. There had been nothing from any of her contacts and she was trying to place it further from her mind – devoting her attention to classes, Quidditch training sessions, and art debates (of all things).

But the fact was, Catherine was desperate for a new lead in her case. Every new smuggled shipment could be her ticket. But almost all of the major operations on the northern coast of the country had ceased shipping – finding new, hidden, locations most likely to resume their trade.

Which did not bode well for her mission.

“Oh! Professor Hart, are you headed up to the Three Broomsticks as well?”

She whips around at the call of her name over the windy street. There, near Ollivander’s doorstep, stands Mirabel all bundled up in a thick cloak and a knitted pastel scarf. Her nose is as red as a rose petal as she offers up a stiff arm in a sort of wave.

“I wasn’t planning to, no. But I couldn’t say no to a warm Butterbeer right about now,” she smiles as she crosses the street to meet the other woman.

“Honestly, I was thinking just the same,” her words form a billowing stream of frozen breath.

With a nod, she finds her arm looped through the herbology professor’s who quickly leads them both up the road to the tavern in question.

The instant rush of heat once they step through the doors feels strong enough to melt the frost that clings to their outer clothes and hair. With an almost visible sigh of relief, the two women look toward one another before eyeing the vacant table near the roaring fireplace. If ever there was a place to thaw out in front of, it would be there.

For a weekend afternoon, the inn is surprisingly empty. Another thing she’ll blame the weather for. But with ripe pickings and fast service in return, Catherine can’t find much of a reason to complain.

“Helga’s heart,” Mirabel sighs after taking a sip of her steaming drink. “I feel as if I haven’t seen you since last month. Are you usually this terribly busy?”

Catherine gives a laugh as she wipes a bit of frothy foam from her upper lip. She didn’t want the news that she was assisting the Gryffindor team in their training sessions to become common knowledge. So, instead, she comes up with another easy answer.

“No, I’m afraid the Mooncalves have kept me rather busy as of late. I don’t know how they manage to injure themselves so frequently, and yet, here I am every day bandaging up one and forcing a healing draught down another.”

“So, is that why we never see you for breakfast?”

The blonde witch gives a slight shake of her head, resting her elbows upon the wooden tabletop, “That’s all thanks to my morning chores. Even if I have a first-period class, I’m still responsible for getting the creatures sorted out first thing.”

Mirabel gives a warm chuckle, “You sound so similar to myself when I first started on. I’m not sure even Matilda could pull me from the Greenhouses before or after any of my classes. There was always something to be dealt with before my students arrived.”

“I suppose plants and beasts are almost one and the same with the sense that they require a constant form of care.”

The other witch gives a soft hum of agreement.

For a short while, as they work through their mugs of Butterbeer, the two women converse on all matters of topics. From Mirabel’s current fascination with foreign tea blends to Catherine’s assessment of Mr. Macnair and how she believes the boy will surely fail her class.

Tucked into the warm corner of the tavern, the heat radiating off of the crackling fire, the Beasts professor feels truly at ease. Even when Professors Kearney, Weasley, and Kogawa walk in. With a wave of her hand, the three women join their comfy spot in the corner of the room.

“It’s rather brisk out there today, isn’t it?” Matilda comments, rubbing her arms as a sudden chill sends her body into a shiver.

“A good sort of cold though. Good for the lungs,” Kogawa smirks, resting her arm across the back of Catherine’s chair.

“So,” Roslin beams. “What are we gossiping about then?”

Catherine gives a roll of her eyes, though her sense of amusement does not fade, “We were just trying to figure out which of our students will be repeating a year and which will fail out entirely.”

Kogawa snorts, slamming her glass down, “If we’re placing galleons on it, I’d put them all on Mr. Collins. That boy still can’t hold an ounce of control over his broomstick. It’s been almost three years’ worth of remedial classes.”

Matilda, ever the mediator, gives a courteous thin-lipped smile, “Let’s save the betting for the next quidditch game, shall we?”

“Fine then,” the flying instructor sulks, crossing her arms over her chest. “But don’t be surprised when that boy’s held back for another round of third year.”

“Oh, that boy,” Mirabel sighs – rubbing a tired hand over her forehead. “I want so badly for him to take on my help. I’ve offered afternoon sessions and everything. He’s got a thumb as black as they come, I’m afraid. Even the Tentaculas shy away from him. Please tell me he fairs better in your class, Matilda.”

The older witch gives a sigh, followed by the slightest shrug of her shoulders.

“That bad?” Catherine muses, lifting her second mug of Butterbeer to her lips.

“Well,” the Deputy Headmistress smooths out her robes for a moment as if pondering the question with great consideration. “He’s not currently at a Troll if that’s what you mean. He… oh, I really shouldn’t say this, but… he’s quite on the edge of it, as it were.”

Roslin then gives a soft cough, which causes four sets of eyes to peer over at her.

“It’s just, well, if we’re referring to Benjamin Collins, I have him every Thursday as part of the choir. He has a real talent there – quite a natural actually.”

“Hmmm,” Chiyo hums. “Maybe all he needs is a recommendation to the Academy of Dramatic Arts?”

“Not the W.A.D.A, surely?” The Deputy Head says, fully aghast.

“Why not? If he can’t fly, and he can’t care for a plant, and he’s barely passing Transfiguration –”

“Poor sod,” the Beasts professor sighs with a shake of her head as she lifts her mug to her lips once again.

Matilda’s hazel eyes seek her out, almost imploring, “You don’t have him in any of your classes, Catherine?”

“No,” she snorts. “I get the likes of Adrian Macnair – ”

The mention of the seventh-year Slytherin’s name brings about a few curious reactions: pointed disgust, a compassionate grimace, and shock – which certainly said more than words could manage.

“– and Nereus Bulstrode.”

That name also pulls a similar reaction from her colleagues.

Even though she’d been teaching for barely even five months at this point, Catherine was all too aware of the fact that those particular boys were just barely scraping by in her class. No thanks to their own prideful egos that gave them a disturbing boost of assuredness that they knew more on the subject matter than the actual creature expert.

Their behavior had become so abhorrent that she found the need to split them up during the practical lessons. Usually with one sent to muck out a pen and the other sent to handle the feed.

Some people were considered naturals in the field of beasts. Others were more interested in the academic aspects of the class. Those two, however, she couldn’t quite pin down. And that thought kept her frequently on her toes whenever they were around.

Even with students like Mr. Kettleburn, she knew her animals were in safe hands. With Macnair and Bulstrode though… well, that was still to be fully determined.

“Oh, such awful boys,” Roslin frowns, downing a shot of whiskey with not so much as even a grimace.

“Talented,” Weasley placates. “But with wasted whims, perhaps.”

“Trouble’s more like it,” Chiyo mutters.

Catherine nods, tapping her glass against the flying instructor’s, “Here, here.”

“Now, now,” Matilda chides lightly. “It is our role as educators to guide them down a higher path. Not just forsake them to the wolves.”

“Wolves would be a merciful fate,” Chiyo snorts into her ear, causing Catherine to cover her mouth with her hand to avoid openly laughing.

“Matilda,” the music professor laments in a drawn-out whine, her accent coming out in longer grasps as she finishes off a third shot. “Ye can’t exactly fault us in our beliefs when someone like Abraham even finds nothing of promise to say about ‘em.”

“If it came from Aesop, perhaps it’d be more understandable,” Mirabel chimes in.

The young witch feels her brows rise as she quickly butts in, “Why’s that?”

From across the table, the redhead meets her gaze with a rather curious quirk on her lips, “Well, Aesop never speaks too highly of any particular student – even within his own house. It takes a true talent to get him to sing any sort of praise.”

“A certain Hero of Hogwarts, you might say,” Matilda grins none-too-subtly as she sips from her glass.

“Now that I find serious doubt with –” she starts to say.

“Oh no, it’s quite true. It must have been after the well…” Mirabel blinks, clears her throat, and changes her angle of approach. “After your fifth year. I think all of our opinions of you changed quite a bit, Catherine.”

At that, she stares down into the bottom of her mug where a thin layer of amber-colored drink resides.

Her silence must settle a little too heavily over the group because Matilda is quick to clear her throat, “So, what are the going bets for next week’s game? I want to know who’ll be going up against me this round.”

She drowns out the debate over the two teams – Gryffindor and Slytherin, quite the infamous match-up if ever there was one.

Instead, she shuffles the glass between her hands. Letting the warm drops of condensation slip between her fingers as she contemplates the earlier conversation. The title had followed her up until graduation, even trailing a little further on to her job at the Ministry. In fact, it had been some time since she had last heard the name being directed her way.

The name, that silly godawful name that the Prophet had coined twelve years back, had taunted her. She certainly hadn’t felt much like a hero in the aftermath of the repository battle.

Catherine raises her near-empty mug in agreeance when Matilda claims Gryffindor will be victorious, but otherwise keeps to her thoughts for the remainder of the meet-up.

So much has changed since then. Perhaps too much.

From a factory girl to a witch overnight. Destined to fight a war she didn’t know she was signing up for. Taking on a goblin rebellion at fifteen. Was it any wonder her professors looked at her differently after Fig’s memorial? They had been truly oblivious to her… extracurricular activities at the time.

Maybe they just thought she held promise – discovering magic so late on in life and having to work incredibly harder than her peers to catch up to five years worth of studies.

But no. She had just been fooling them all. Taking classes by day, a few supplementary lessons here and there to catch her up to speed, and then there she was taking down poacher encampments and goblin mining facilities by nightfall.

Was that the act of a hero or an act of reckless insanity?

Even after all this time, she’s still not entirely sure.

“We really must do this again,” Mirabel smiles as the five women finally push up from their seats, grabbing hold of their cloaks.

Matilda nods, “This was quite fun, really. Just us girls.”

Catherine hums in agreement as she wraps her blue cloak back around her shoulders. Pulling her chestnut-colored gloves from within her pocket as she braces herself for the bitter wind outside of the tavern’s sanctuary.

The swoop of wind catches her breath as the tip of her broom handle slams into the ground, rocketing her forward into a somersault that leaves her head aching and her bottom even worse off.

“Professor!” someone screams from behind her.

With a quick shake of her head, she brushes her tangled curls from her eyes and peers up at the triumphant smile of the young third-year floating just a few feet above her.

“You pull that off tomorrow, and you’ll be sure to win,” she smiles.

It takes a moment, pushing up onto her left foot before she manages to fully stand upright once again. Oh, there were certain to be bruises come morning.

“Are you all right?” Melinda Mason questions with a clear voice of concern.

Catherine supposes it would be rather unfortunate to be the cause of injury for one of your professors. But she turns and gives the girl a warm smile.

“I promise that I’m quite well, Ms. Mason. I have sustained far more grievous injuries in my time than a flying fumble.”

As Parson dismounts, holding the snitch in her tight grasp, the Beasts professor surveys the team with a pleased eye and a nod of approval.

“I think you’re all more than prepared for the game. But, if I may offer a final parting piece of advice?”

Spinnet nods quick and sure. The young captain had, admittedly, surprised her. She had expected a certain cockiness, perhaps similar to her own team captain back in her seventh year. But this boy was destined for something great in the future, she was sure of it.

“Never underestimate the power of deception.”

When she’s met with a sea of confused looks, she elaborates.

“If you come into the Hall acting like you’re the kings of the game, they’ll double down even harder to get you knocked out of the match. But, if perhaps, a rumor was to be placed around the school… your dismay at the prospects of your new player, or the state of your team without your old seeker? Then their guard will be lowered and you’ll have the higher ground when it comes to the actual game. They won’t know what hit them.”

Sly smirks and secretive glances finalize her words into a proper plan. To be fair, her advice had been intended to bolster the team, but it would also give her and Matilda a bit of advantage with the betting that was to take place in the faculty stands tomorrow.

But the Gryffindor players certainly didn’t need to know that fact.

Her advice clearly met the landed mark she had hoped it would, as when she appears in the Great Hall the following morning for breakfast – passing by the Slytherin table – she notes that the green team is looking particularly smug as they sit together. While the Gryffindor team is dispersed across the length of their table, looking thoroughly annoyed with one another.

Catherine knew it was an act, despite what the rest of the populace would believe.

She had watched the way that they had bonded these past few weeks during their training sessions. Parson had been accepted as part of the team and their synchronicity was almost unparalleled.

“Ah, Hart. What a rarity.”

Offering a smirk toward the potions professor, she takes her seat beside him.

“It would be a shame if I was ever fully predictable.”

She can feel his turned gaze upon the side of her face as she fills up her bowl with porridge and syrup. His black coffee steams in a mug beside her left hand, the aroma of roasted beans filling her senses.

“Would it be right to assume you’ll be attending the match today, or would that be too predictable?” he muses in a rich, gravelly tone of voice.

“No, in this case, it would be completely predictable. And rightfully so. I intend to watch the dismal expression that will crest your face when Gryffindor wins.”

His warm chortle feels like wading through honey.

“Oh, quite the optimist today, aren’t you?”

She hums in return, savoring another spoonful of her warm meal.

“Is it wrong to have pride in one’s house?”

“Maybe not. But if you have any intention of keeping your money purse full, perhaps you’ll avoid the betting pool this time around.”

Catherine lets her gaze fall upon his dark eyes for a moment, as she sighs, “Meaning…?”

Aesop scooches his dish forward, the plate nearly cleared of his breakfast, “Well, if you must know, word travels rather quickly through the castle; even in the dungeons. Though perhaps you don’t hear it all the way out there in your paddocks.”

She blinks, curious to see where this will go.

“The prevailing rumor seems to be that your team has had quite the trouble filling their seeker position after the holidays. In fact, I don’t even think they’re speaking to the poor girl,” at that, he points his chin toward the Gryffindor table where Laura Parson is sitting, dutifully, alone – pushing her eggs around her plate.

Playing the part exceptionally well, actually.

Catherine snorts, returning to her meal, “I never placed much faith in rumors, Sharp.”

“Yes,” he murmurs. “Of that, we’re quite in agreement.”

Their conversation takes a momentary lapse as the sound of owls hooting in the rafters takes their focus. The great birds swoop down over the tables, depositing mail and packages. A large gray owl drops a rolled-up Prophet onto Aesop’s empty plate. Nothing arrives for Catherine, much to her dismay.

She had been hoping today would be the day she would get another tip-off.

Pulling the twine free, she watches as the potions professor unfurls the newspaper. On the front page, a rather large moving image captures her attention – making her lean across the table, shoving her head beside his shoulder, to peer at the article.

SON OF MERLIN KILLER CAPTURED

There, on the front page, the repeating image of the distressed-looking man with his hands tied behind his back with shimmering strings of magic screams on the front steps of a dark shopfront. Beside him stands two stoic-looking Aurors in their work robes and the very familiar face of one of her dearest friends.

“That’s Natty!”

Sharp seems to scrutinize the image for a second more before he looks across the staff table.

“Mudiwa, you might wish to seek out your own copy of the Daily Prophet.”

The seer smiles, waving her hand in dismissal, “Bah, I already know all about that.”

“Of course,” Catherine groans – the woman probably knew about it weeks before it even happened.

“Natsai sent me a letter last night. She wished to keep me from happening upon it myself in the morning edition.”

Oh, well, that was slightly surprising.

“Shall we be expecting the wedding invitations soon then?” the young witch calls out to her.

Mudiwa merely offers her a knowing smile as she resumes drinking her tea.

Aesop offers her a bemused look before the two of them begin to read the article together. He at least has the courtesy to angle it to the right so she can see it without straining too far out of her seat.

“A man has been arrested in Knockturn Alley in connection to a series of killings that have plagued the Great London area for the past year, authorities announced in an interview with the press late Friday evening.

Robert Dryer, 38, was arrested overnight while “out celebrating,” said lead investigator Natsai Onai in an interview with the Daily Prophet with Minister for MagicVenusia Crickerly and Head Auror Simon Hendrick. He was discovered outside of The Golden Thestral pub in an inebriated state where he was heard, by passersby, saying he was going to “carve up every [redacted slur] witch this side of the Channel.”

Dryer is facing several charges in regard to the 47 bodies that have been discovered in the city baring what investigators called his “signature” – a series of dark runes that Dryer burned into all of his victims. The last victim, a Miss Eugenia Drood, 25, was found near the banks of the River Thames, which required the assistance of Obliviators after the local Muggle police force happened upon her branded body.

Aurors confirmed that he is the sole suspect at this time.

During the interview, Investigator Onai revealed that Dryer has lived in London for nearly six years. He has a criminal record, though Aurors did not reveal the details of his past crimes.

According to trustworthy sources, Dryer holds criminal convictions in both Scotland and England for charges such as: performing magic in front of Muggles, improper use of Horklumps, drunkenness in a public venue, and destruction of private property.

Minister Crickerly said that the public will now be able to move on without fear and that public safety is her number one concern after obtaining office.

“Let it be known, to the people of Great Britain, your world is safer now than it was yesterday. When the wizards and witches in our community work together with our law enforcement agencies, anything can be accomplished. The scrum of society will be cleaned off our streets and people will know peace once again.”

Dryer will be facing trial at a later date while he is held in Ministry custody. Head Auror Hendrick said that the Wizengamot is working to determine the charges against him.

Officials are still unsure of the extent of his intentions behind the killings but said his patterns were consistent.”

“Godric’s heart,” Catherine sighs in disbelief as she watches Natty’s stern, but clearly pleased, expression as she watches the other Aurors lug Dryer down the steps, over and over again.

“I’ll be surprised if he’s not sent for the Kiss itself after his trial.”

“Or,” Catherine nods. “If you don’t see one of the victims’ family members trying to enact justice beforehand.”

Aesop gives a sullen hum of agreement, folding the paper in two.

“What horrid business,” she finally settles on, pushing the paper as far away from herself as she can manage.

“But, he’s in custody now. At least tonight the people of London can rest easy.”

“And perhaps receive some justice in a few months’ time,” she adds.

Sharp gives a nod, “Indeed.”

Looking out over the hall once again, Catherine notices the empty seats dispersed across the tables as more and more students head out into the corridor.

“The match should be starting within the hour,” Sharp comments dryly, offering her a pointed look.

The change in conversation washes over her like a cleaning charm, pulling with it the awful images that the article had created in her mind.

Allowing a teasing smile to befall her lips, she looks over at him, “Well then… shall we?”

Sharp stands before she can even scoot her chair back, pulling it away from the table for her as he offers up yet another hand of assistance.

On the way out to the pitch, wrapped in a warm cloak and a fur-lined coat, respectfully, they pass by several students on their way to the stadium. With painted red and gold or silver and green faces, carrying felt flags, and large hand-made banners. She can hear cheers for both teams from large groups of teenagers.

“We are the Lions!”

“Mighty, mighty Lions!”

“We’ll kick your arse in!”

“Better flying Lions!”

“They really could do better than that,” she teases, looking over in Sharp’s direction to gauge his reaction.

The potions professor shakes his head, calling out over the large pack of students, “That’ll be twenty points, Mr. Bartlett, for the use of foul language!”

The boy in question flushes a brilliant shade of red as his friends all tug him in, ragging on him like he’s a triumphant gladiator in the ring and Sharp is nothing more than a maniacal Roman emperor.

“Twenty points, really?” Catherine gently pushes against his right arm. “Are you just trying to start a feud before we even get there?”

Sharp scoffs, glancing down at her, “I don’t recall hearing any Slytherins shouting profanities at the top of their lungs, Hart.”

No, they were more than likely setting up dungbombs in the Gryffindor stands before the match began. Or perhaps enchanting a cloud of rain to follow around certain students. Gryffindors, for their part, were loud and brash when it came to their gloating. Slytherins were far more subdued and tactful about their approach.

The path to the pitch is slick with ice. The recent snowfall masked the dangers, though many students were wise enough to press through the drifts along the sides of the path instead.

Catherine was barely that lucky, as she felt her boot glide across the frozen ground with absolutely no traction. Her heel lifted up and nearly sent her tumbling backward if not for Sharp’s quick hand flying out to catch her arm.

She stares at the blanket of gray sky above her as snowflakes begin to settle across the grounds. Her chest heaves with the exhilaration of almost falling when she looks over at her savior.

He chuckles as he pulls her upright, “Careful.”

She blinks once, twice at him before the embarrassment clouding her vision simmers.

“I do endeavor to be, Sharp.”

“Of course,” he smirks, offering his arm to her once again.

She lets her gloved fingers grip the fabric of his gray coat sleeve before they begin forward. The journey is slow-paced. Not just in thanks to the man’s noted injury, for once. But it doesn’t matter, as only a portion of the stadium is filled out when they arrive at the faculty’s section.

Together, they find a spot to sit in the center of the allotted seating, where a clear divide can be drawn once the other professors join them.

Rubbing her gloves together, Catherine pulls her cloak tight over her shoulders so it can drape across her knees which she presses together as the wind picks up over the valley. Beside her, Sharp radiates off a warm aura of heat that she finds herself leaning into.

They do not speak, as there is nothing further to stumble through. The silence is comfortable, as it usually is between them. And she can sense his gaze when he looks down at her over the bridge of his nose. She can feel the rumble in his body when he clears his throat, or the press of his foot against her own.

Slowly, one by one, familiar faces make their way up the stairs. With the majority of the staff choosing to sit beside Sharp, showing their clear favoritism in the betting pool this time around.

Next to Catherine, Matilda, Mirabel, and Mudiwa find a spot to sit. Maybe it would be more apparent where the outcome of the game was set to lie when the noted seer chose your team. But alas, she watches as the rest of the staff fills up the left side of the wooden benches.

“All right, all right,” Roland beams as he stands on the lowest level of the stands. “Let’s hear the bets, people!”

The blonde witch watches as her colleagues quickly place their easy bets for the match.

“Put me down for 10 galleons, Sterling,” Crestwell grins, leaning back on the bench as he nudges Waterford.

“And eight for me, please.”

Sharp glances down at her, “You still have time to switch sides, Hart.”

She fixes him with a sturdy glare before she calls out, “Forty galleons on Gryffindor!”

“Forty?” Sterling exclaims, furiously writing it down on his pad of paper. “Willing to risk it all today, are you?”

Catherine settles back on her seat with a knowing look at the stadium. She can feel Aesop’s warm breath on her left shoulder as he stares down at her with a scrutinizing eye.

“What do you know?”

With the most innocent of expressions, she looks up at the potions professor.

“Me? Why, nothing more than house pride, Professor.”

Sharp lets out a huff of breath, biting his tongue as he looks away, “That remains to be seen.”

“Mark me down for twenty galleons, Roland, if you would please,” Matilda says in a rush of excitement, looping her arm through the Beasts professor’s.

Perhaps Aragon had let his Deputy Head in on Catherine’s plans to assist the Gryffindor team after all. And what could a true lionheart like Matilda Weasley do if not place down a heavy amount of money on her house’s team?

Mirabel, noticing this, quickly adds twenty-five galleons to the pot and offers a cheeky wink at them both.

The other faculty members, sitting firmly on the Slytherin side of the staff tower, fix the three women with equal looks of bewilderment and – in Sharp’s case especially – suspicion. But Catherine merely holds onto Matilda’s arm as the student announcer settles into place.

“Welcome to the first match of the new year: Slytherin versus Gryffindor!”

Cheers of enthusiastic team pride ring out through the stadium and she can’t help but smile as the wind picks up – sending her blonde locks billowing backward – as fat snowflakes rain down on the pitch.

The dark green robes of the Slytherin team fly out first, in a perfect arrow formation as they glide past their house members down in the lower stands. Beside her, she can barely make out the predictions being laid out by the male professors, though Sharp remains oddly silent. With his arms fixed across his chest, he flexes his fingers as he watches the students slow to an easy glide in the center of the pitch.

What starts out as a dull throb of noise turns into raucous shouts as Gryffindor soars out onto the field in a surprisingly synchronized V-formation with Spinnet leading the charge.

They fly directly over the heads of the Slytherin team – earning more cries of excitement – before they turn into a left-flanked spiral, breezing past the Slytherins in the stands. They turn their heads away in a clear sign of disinterest as they zoom towards the opposite side of the stands where the noise level is at its highest.

Red and gold banners blur together as the student section cries out.

Catherine can’t help but clap in delight, sharing an equally excited look with Matilda who gives a quick shout of encouragement toward the team.

As Kogawa flies out into the center of the pitch – her light-colored robes barely visible against the beginning of a true blizzard – Sharp leans toward her. Lowering his mouth close to her ear so that his words can be heard over the noise.

“What did you do?”

She glances over at him with another doe-eyed blink, “Why, whatever could you mean by that?”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs, eyes trailing back to the start of the match.

The young witch beams when he pulls back, unable to contain her joy.

“And it’s an immediate fight for the Quaffle as Captain Cygnus Black secures the ball! Ooh, that’s quite a hit by Macnair – Gryffindor better watch their backs this match. The Slytherin team will not be holding back this time.”

Catherine can feel her breath catch in her throat as Black soars past, nearing the goalposts. But as the storm picks up, Bell swoops down and kicks the Quaffle away before it can make it through the hoop.

“Yes! Come on!”

“Spinnet’s in possession of the Quaffle now. Can the Gryffindor captain keep a better hold of it than Black? Here come Mason and Wilkes, forming a blockade on either side of their captain. Will Slytherin be able to break it down?”

Warrington and Macnair team up, smacking one of the bludgers at the trio of chasers, but Cassius Diggory flies up at the last moment and sends it right back at the two Slytherin beaters.

“Gryffindor scores! That’s ten points on the board!”

Matilda lets out a whoop of pure thrill at the announcement. Catherine can’t even look away to spy on her fellow colleagues’ faces as the three Gryffindor chasers begin tossing the ball back and forth between each other.

“Tabitha Walsh is on a collision course with Spinnet, and she – yes! She has the Quaffle. Quite the nasty concussion for the Gryffindor captain.”

A line of Slytherins careens down across the lower half of the pitch, avoiding the Gryffindors who were soaring much higher above them. But as they approach the goals, they’re slowly picked off one by one as Wilkes kicks Cygnus Black directly in the stomach – sending the poor boy spiraling into a freefall – with the Quaffle back in her safe grasp.

“And that’s another ten points!”

Blasts of ice and freshly fallen snow are tossed up into wide arcs across the stands as the players fly past – desperate to maintain a hold of the ball for more than a minute. Catherine’s cloak is coated in a thin layer of snow and flakes dangle from her eyelashes as she blinks furiously to see through the blinding white blizzard.

“Yes!” Aesop gives a sharp call, followed by thunderous claps as Slytherin makes their first goal of the game.

She glances over at him, at his newly decorated snow-white beard and hair. The flakes cling to the fur of his coat, though he doesn’t seem to mind as he squints to see through the storm.

“Third-year seeker Laura Parson has spotted the snitch!”

Catherine freezes in her spot as she watches the blur of red robes soar across the stadium at lightning speeds, with the trailing of green not too far behind her. And then, to the gasps of shock from the stadium, she takes an immediate nosedive next to the Slytherin’s central goalpost.

Swirling around the metal pole, she drops to dangerous heights with the Slytherin seeker immediately on her tail.

With a giant whoosh of snow flying up on either side of her, Parson pulls up at the last possible second. Even having a moment to spare as she looks behind her, just in time to see the other seeker slam into the ice-covered ground.

“Marcus Vance is out! And, what’s this? Has Parson lost sight of the snitch?”

An immediate grin of victory crosses Catherine’s face when she realizes that the young seeker had just played the entire stadium, as she leisurely glides past, offering a wave to the Beasts professor in the faculty stands.

“What on Earth –” Matilda begins, staring at her with wide brown eyes.

“That was the Wronski Feint.”

“Oh! How clever!”

“Yes,” Sharp sneers to her left, fixing her with a pointed dark gaze. “Very clever.”

Before she can form a proper retort, the announcer calls out yet another goal for the Gryffindor team.

“That was a close call for Parson! Macnair is not happy that their seeker’s been fooled.”

With bated breath, Catherine watches the back and forth as the two green-robed beaters send bludger after bludger at the Gryffindor team. Determined to strike one of them out of the match entirely. After Parson’s little play, the other team holds absolutely no punches back as the game becomes increasingly bloody.

By Gryffindor’s seventh goal, Spinnet is sporting a blooming purple bruise over his right eye and Wilkes has a massive seeping cut across her cheek. Bell gives a roar as he slams the Quaffle right back into play, repelling yet another attack from the Slytherins.

Warrington goes after the Keeper then, zooming past the rest of the players as he sends the next bludger directly at Bell. It slams into the boy’s helmet, tossing him back into the goal and he nearly slips off his broom.

Dangling by a single hand, Cygnus Black manages to throw the ball through the right-hand post before the Keeper manages to straddle his broom once again – a clear face of annoyance on his features as he claps his hands together, ready for another assault.

“That was a little too close for comfort,” Matilda worries her hands together, watching with a concerned gaze as Spinnet soars past Berle and Walsh – knocking the Quaffle from her hands.

“That’s eighty to twenty! It’s anyone's game now with the snitch still in play. Though how anyone can see it out there in all this mess is a mystery to this announcer!”

Catherine couldn’t agree more as the sky opens up with another torrential downpour of thick snowflakes that nearly whites out the entire pitch. Her body shivers against the bitter sting of the prevailing wind – even under the canopy of the tower. She holds onto Matilda’s arm even tighter as Mason goes careening past – having been hit with a bludger straight to the back.

The girl slams into a neighboring tower, ripping through the outer fabric, before falling several stories down to the ground. Her unconscious form topples out onto the snow-covered pitch. Both her and Matilda stand up then, peering over the edge of the stands with gasps of worry.

“Gryffindor’s now one chaser down, but Spinnet isn’t calling for a substitute! He’s barreling toward Black now with clear intent! Yes, ooh, that’s quite the hit! Another ten points!”

Blainey, down on the ground, bundled up in a thick red coat, levitates the seventh-year girl off the pitch on a stretcher as the match continues on above them.

“Kogawa has called on a foul on Macnair! That’s five points from Slytherin and the Quaffle is back in Wilkes’ possession!”

Blasting through one another, the chasers battle for the ball. The duo of Black and Berle manage to toss Slytherin ahead two more goals, while Diggory and Clark send an onslaught of bludgers at the opposing chasers. Their keeper, Rosier, ducks out of the way to avoid a particularly powerful swing, giving Spinnet another shot at the goal.

“Vance has spotted the snitch!”

Her gaze flies across the pitch just in time to catch the Slytherin seeker soaring after the tiny ball that even her own eyes can’t quite see through the whipping winds of the snowstorm.

Like a shot of lightning, Parson takes off after the boy.

“Come on, come on,” she mutters under her breath, standing up to watch as they travel across the pitch – circling the blue and bronze flag of one of the Ravenclaw towers.

Shoved together, side by side, the two seekers zoom past – sending up an arc of frigid cold winter air. Catherine cranes her neck to follow their path. Up and over the Slytherin goal posts, down into a near nosedive in the center of the pitch. Parson leans forward, her arm extended out.

“Warrington has sent a bludger at the seekers! Did he intend to knock out his own teammate? And there goes Black, soaring after them both – what on Merlin’s magic does he plan to do?”

Vance kicks at Parson’s broom, sending the girl off course for just a minute before she manages to righten herself back. Behind them both, Cygnus Black is flying at breakneck speeds to catch up to the pair.

Pulling her hands together to her lips, Catherine mutters a silent prayer.

Black slams his foot into Parson’s broom, giving her side a shove as well.

“In a never-before-seen move, Captain Cygnus Black has doubled up with the Slytherin seeker to nab the snitch!”

Beside her, Aesop and the rest of the faculty stand, watching as the Gryffindor team throws the Quaffle to the ground and zooms down in an immediate dive formation after the two players in green.

Vance jerks his broom to the left, before making a near 180° turn. Shouts of anger and determination can be heard from the cheers of the student section as Spinnet throws himself off of his broom and tackles Black in midair. Kogawa’s whistle blows, but no one on the pitch pays any heed to it. Diggory slams his bat into Vance’s broom, just as the rest of the Slytherin team joins the fray.

“Fucking hell,” Sharp swears from beside her and it shocks Catherine so much to hear the potions professor properly cuss that she swivels her head around to stare at the man.

He shakes his head in disbelief as Macnair sends a bludger at Wilkes' head, with the poor girl barely being able to twist her broom out of the way, just for the vicious ball to slam into his own teammate’s right arm. Tabitha Walsh gives a howl of pain as she loses grip on the handle of her broom – falling to the pitch as the madness of the other players plays out over the top of her.

Kogawa charges down to the mess – trying to grab hold of arms to pull the students off one another, but she gets kicked back much to the absolutely outraged look on her face.

And, on the other side of the pitch…

“Vance and Parson are in a sprint to the snitch! Not that the rest of their teams have noticed!”

No, in the chaos of the other players trying to bludgeon one another to death, only Spinnet had managed to look up for a second – before Warrington slammed his fist into the captain’s head – to notice the two seekers.

“Yes, yes!” she cries, watching as the two robes of red and green blur together across the spray of blinding white snow.

But Vance slams into Parson’s side and the girl’s grip on her broom slips and she tumbles off the side, over a hundred feet in the air.

Catherine grips Aesop’s arm, slamming a hand over her mouth.

Laura feebly flings her arm out, kicking her legs as she tries to regain control over the broom, but Vance twists to the side – pressing into her once again, and then the seeker falls.

Matilda lets out a cry and Mirabel gasps as they watch the girl, with one hand still on her broom, fall for several feet.

The stadium grows silent as she careens to the ground just before she manages to righten the handle and twist her body in such a way that she straddles the broom once again.

Followed by many cheers from the Gryffindor stands, Catherine finally feels like she can let out a single breath of relief.

Parson flies down, managing to surpass Vance who is still several feet above her, reaching her hand out just in time to nab something from the air!

“After her almost death plummet, Parson has caught the snitch! Gryffindor wins, 270 points to Slytherin’s 65!”

Matilda immediately grabs her arm, pulling her off of Sharp, as she hugs the younger professor with nothing short of pure happiness.

Across the stadium, cheers of joy ring out. With the announcement, the scuffle on the pitch finally comes to an end with the majority of the players looking far worse than a normal game would cause. Kogawa has both Spinnet and Black by the arms, tugging them down to the ground before unceremoniously dragging them off the pitch with cries of discomfort.

But Catherine can’t stop smiling as Parson does a quick lap around the pitch, holding the snitch up like a trophy. When she comes past the staff’s tower, she does a little bow to the Beasts professor – which Catherine gives right back to her in return.

“So, you’re to thank for their sudden abilities,” Sharp muses in a thin voice as he peers down at her.

“Well, as far as the official rule book goes, there’s currently nothing in place to stop a professor from aiding a team. Didn’t you know?” she gives him a wink before she turns back around to Matilda to give a little squeal of delight.

In the end, Sterling dismally hands the three women forty-seven galleons, each. She finds it a little bit funny that Sharp gives her a bemused smirk as she pockets her winnings, but he says nothing further to her.

Together, Catherine and Matilda walk arm-in-arm back to the castle, following the roaring cheers from the crowd of Gryffindor students who swarm the victorious and bloody team.

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#aesop sharp x oc #aesop sharp x mc #professor sharp x oc #professor sharp x mc #aesop sharp fanfic #professor sharp fanfic #hphl fanfic #series: bitter water #my fic

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hiramaris · 16 hours

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Odd One

5000 BC

Summary: People used to say eleven is better than ten or was it two is better than one? Regardless, in the sea of tens and even, there is only one eleven. It doesn't matter, you've always loved to be the odd one anyway.

Pairing: Thena x reader (female implied)

Warnings: Violence, attempt humor?

Disclaimer: I do not own Eternals or any of the related characters. Eternals is owned by Marvel Studios. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Eternal story belong to Marvel Studios.

A/n: this series has been in my drafts for years. This is more like a self-insert reader movie version of The Eternals. As you may have noticed, I loved doing self-insert fics so if you're not fond of this kind of writing, you can just scroll ahead, but if you are, then enjoy, my loves. Who knows, I may suddenly find the inspiration to continue this.

Gif by visualosities

In the beginning...

...before the six Singularities and the dawn of creation, came the Celestials. Arishem, the Prime Celestial, created the first sun and brought light into the universe. Life began and thrived. All was in balance.

Until an unnatural species of predator emerged from deep space to feed on intelligent life— they were known as Deviants. The universe was plunged into chaos.

To restore the natural order, Arishem sent Eternals— immortal heroes from the planet Olympia, to eliminate the Deviants.

Eternals had unyielding faith in Arishem until one mission, led by the Prime Eternal, Ajak, changed everything...

*****

You weren't expecting much about this terrestrial planet you were sent to for a mission.

Earth.

From where you stand from space, this Earth appears to be a white-swirled blue marble, but you can still see a bit of white, yellow, green, and brown components.

You assume that water makes up the blue area as it is pretty much an essential requirement for a planet to be habitable, and judging from what you see, Earth is mostly covered in water. Meanwhile, the swirls of white you could see are probably clouds. The brown, yellow, and green portions visible from here are supposedly the land.

You also note that the north and south hemisphere of this planet has more white areas instead of the usual land color.

They must be filled with ice and snow, assuming from their location, that they must not have gotten enough direct sunlight.

You could practically feel your fingertips and palms tingling at the prospect of having all your elements available on this planet. With that fact, it will be easier for you to manipulate it against your opponents.

'I won't fail you, Arishem.' You thought, determined to finish your mission with utmost excellence.

"Your thoughts are loud."

You were startled at the new voice that joined you.

You tried to compose yourself before mentally reprimanding yourself for failing to notice a new presence in the room before turning to her.

It was the platinum blonde eternal from across the room earlier. You managed to catch the name of the others after that mission briefing, however, you never got the chance to know her name.

The only person you knew is Sersi. She's your sister after all. She's the epitome of kindness, you're not entirely sure but she has this aura around her that seemed to welcome everyone. She has always been kind and sweet that's why it was no surprise she was able to rub that attitude on you. It's just contagious that way.

You and she almost have similar powers, being siblings and all. Her powers are all about matter transmutation. She has the ability to reconfigure and change the chemical and physical makeup of any non-sentient being. While yours is more on element manipulation. It's already pretty much self-explanatory. You can control and create all available elements on a cosmic level with your mind. Though it's not only limited to fire, water, air, and earth. You also had control over its sub-elements.

If you can control and create fire, you can also manipulate a volcano. The same goes for air, having the ability to manipulate it means you can also change the weather or even take the oxygen someone is breathing; manipulating water also means that, by extension, you can control any bodies of water; whether it be their flow, pressure, phases or even buoyancy.

It's pretty much versatile, potent, and destructive.

No wonder Sersi was excited to gush with you about how both of you can help the people on Earth to advance faster than any other civilization.

Not long after, Makkari decided to join the conversation. You learned that she has superhuman speed and that is not only limited to moving, but she can also think, perceive and read just as fast. Due to her powers, she's unable to hear but she was still able to communicate with you via sign language. This is because the ability to hear would hinder the use of her super-speed, she had explained.

You had also met Sprite who's currently being teased by Kingo and Gilgamesh.

Sprite has this child-like appearance, which closely resembles a teenage girl yet you know better that she's probably the same age as you guys. She has this sarcasm in her that seemed to match Kingo's energy. He's funny and charismatic and loves to tease Sprite relentlessly along with Gilgamesh, who, despite his big physique, is actually seemed soft and kind. He was the one who approached everyone to introduce himself.

Nice guy.

The two Eternals only stopped the teasing when Arishem suddenly appeared behind them, and the whole room suddenly transformed into a vast space. Gil and Kingo went pale for a moment before Sprite stopped the illusion as she started laughing hysterically.

You got to be honest, you were about to pee yourself as well. You have never personally met Arishem, and the only thing you knew about him is based on what Ajak tells you. She's the only one who can talk to him. Not to mention there is a towering statue of Arishem the Judge standing stoically at the center of the chamber where all the Eternals communicate with Arishem and the Celestials.

Well, it was mostly Ajak who was doing all the talking, and she's repeating Arishem's words towards you all. It's mostly about your possible centuries-long mission on Earth.

What Sprite had shown you all is a big, and by big, you meant a huge version of Arishem. His size is so enormous that the sun looks like a pinball compared to him.

If that's what he actually looks like then you have more reason to fear him.

Ajak approached you all to reprimand Gil and Kingo for teasing Sprite, and Sprite for using Arishem in her illusions.

You fought back an amused grin as the three bowed their head down like a child being scolded by their mother. This is not all that far from the truth, Ajak's like the mother of the group which makes sense since she's the prime eternal.

You had also talked to Ikaris, and he seemed a bit robotic, perhaps distracted or something. He only told you a quick "it's a pleasure to fight alongside you" and all that. After that, he left the room.

Meanwhile, Phastos is sitting in his original place, tinkering with some tech hovering over his palms. He's friendly, but a bit neurotic.

You mentally noted that you shouldn't startle him in the middle of work.

After that, you found another fellow eternal munching an apple on the side of the room. Druig seemed aloof at first but it looks like it's actually a part of his personality. You and he talked a bit, and you're surprised about how many similarities you both have. You also noticed he's been eyeing Makkari from across the room but never made any motion to approach her.

After a while, you had excused yourself as you're determined to know all your fellow Eternals. Besides, you'll be working with each other for a long period of time. It would not be so bad to be acquainted with one another, right?

That's what you kept saying to yourself, and not because your eyes kept straying towards a particular eternal ever since you woke up inside the Domo.

Your eyes began to search for her around the room as she's the only one who hasn't been able to introduce herself yet but she was out of sight, and so are Ikaris and Sersi. You could have sworn Sersi followed Ikaris earlier when he left while you assumed that the blonde eternal has left the room as well not long ago.

You are protective of your sister, and being the good sibling that you are, it didn't take long for you to notice that Ikaris took an interest in Sersi. You don't trust that guy just yet, so you left the room and decided to seek her around the Domo. That's what you kept telling yourself, that you're searching for your sister and not a certain blonde eternal. You had come to a stop when you came across another huge, domed room, it was surrounded by a panoramic view of outer space.

From here, you can see Earth just below you. It's quite hard to not be drawn toward its beauty.

And now here you are in front of her. And it seemed like she was the one who found you, not the other way around.

"You can read minds?" You asked tentatively, turning your attention back to the view before you, and away from her scrutinizing gaze.

It's one thing you noticed immediately about her. She either has this blank look like she's reminiscing something from the past or she's like examining you with her eyes.

And it's not that easy to look away from it, for it was the color of new spring growth, brilliant and delicate at the same time. There were sparkles of vigor, some kind of green that only appears as summer approaches.

You caught yourself from treading this line of thought as you remembered she may have been able to read minds, and your cheeks burned slightly from the thought she might have read this as well.

You hoped the change of colors of your cheeks would not be that noticeable. However, the way her lips slowly curled upwards into a small smirk tells she might have noticed it or she might have read your mind already.

And you're not sure which one is worse.

"I was just kidding. I cannot read minds," she says in the closest tone of joking she could muster, though her face says otherwise.

You find yourself grinning slightly as well, "Now, that would have been embarrassing for me if it were." You bowed slightly, a form of greeting you had picked up from previous civilizations. "I'm Y/n."

"Thena." You love the way her eyes smiled as well at the gesture. She held out her hand and you took it as soon as she lend it. It was soft, delicate but firm.

Just like her.

5000 BC

MESOPOTAMIA

As the Domo began slowing down to land on Earth, all of you didn't hesitate to get offboard as you heard the screams of help from the civilization below you.

You had no time to admire the ocean as you expect, not when these monsters are staining it with their ugly jaws, and saliva.

"It is time."

The moment that word left Ajak's mouth, you all knew what must be done.

Ikaris, the ever impatient one, flew high and shot cosmic beams from his eyes, just in time to save a kid from being devoured by one.

However, it looks like these deviants are much stronger and more durable than you thought. And not to mention there's a greater number of them here than you guys.

But you weren't deterred, not when the elements of the Earth are on your side.

Ikaris flew in pursuit of the deviant he shot. It looks like it can fly as well.

Another bunch of deviants came swarming from the waters and almost attacked the kid again. Good thing Makkari was faster. From your place, she immediately sped past through and grabbed the kid away from harm. She does the same to the others being attacked.

Seeing that the others are doing their part already, you decided it's time to shine as well.

Feeling yourself being engulfed by fire, you propel yourself like a rocket towards your prey. You sure as hell don't have flying abilities like Ikaris does but this is the closest thing to flying you can do.

You collided with a deviant that almost tackled Makarri as she's too focused on saving the people. You stomped your foot towards the ground, creating a massive barrier made of rocks and soil, making their attention towards you and away from the people.

There are at least three deviants as huge as what Ikaris is currently fighting eyeing you like a dinner served on a silver platter.

Great.

The others are too occupied to help you, so it looks like you're on your own then, not that it's a problem.

One deviant decided to attack you, and you were able to circumvent its assault just in time. You used its own momentum and manipulated the air around you to fling him towards the other Deviant. That bought you some time at the very least.

The standing one is preparing to strike you now but you didn't offer it the satisfaction to do so as you stomped your feet again towards the ground, ice immediately disperses around you and formed enormous spikes at the last minute, impaling its body at numerous places.

Its high-pitched sound alerted not only the other Deviants but your fellow Eternals as well.

"Man, cool it down there!" You heard Gilgamesh laughing from afar before punching the deviant right on its face, giving Thena the chance to lacerate its limbs.

"Give me some enemies, Y/n!" Kingo calls, charging his powers before firing at one of the deviants you were facing.

You only chuckled at their antics. "I suggest getting out of the water though."

Right on time, using Makkari's sonic boom and Kingo's finger guns, two deviants were hurled towards the water; right where you wanted them to be.

Your fingers twitched ever so lightly as specs of electricity came out of your fingertips. Your hands barely even touched the water and yet the electricity came crawling over the waves and onto the two deviants. They tried to wriggle free and fly away, but before they could, you already froze the water from where they are.

Ice isn't exactly the best conductor of electricity, but due to the immense power you released, it cracked the ice you created and immediately traveled to their flesh, leaving them no choice but to wither in pain until they die.

"Good job, guys!" You signed towards Kingo and Makkari.

"Yeah," Kingo raised a thumbs up. "Great fighting."

Makkari smiled, clearly impressed before signing, "you two as well."

The two then decided to evacuate the civilians while you scanned the sea for any more predators lurking. But it seemed that's the last of them aside from the deviants Ikaris is fighting which seemed to be the pack leader, and the other one Thena and Gilgamesh are facing.

It looks like they can manage, so you decided to watch their fight from afar.

Gilgamesh is a mighty powerhouse. His raw strength alone can send a deviant flying away from him. Meanwhile, Thena is a graceful fighter.

And you wonder how can she release multiple attacks when she's changing every weapon she wields every second, making it difficult for the deviant to avoid her assaults.

You watched as Gil deals a powerful blow, making it stagger back. Thena came from behind it and began to slice its limbs. The deviant stumbled down a bit from lack of support from its legs. She didn't let it recover from that as she lacerated its face with numerous attacks.

The monster wasn't deterred by that attack. Thena decided to transform her daggers into longer swords. As the deviant tries to bite her head off, she fought back with a series of slashes on her own. In split seconds, she changed her weapons into a spear and shield. She didn't let the deviant back away as she uses the spear to stab it in its neck.

Gilgamesh then uses that opportunity to charge another punch, making the monster back away. Using that momentum, Thena propelled herself on the top head of the Deviant.

Using her spear again, she delivers the final blow by stabbing the spear onto its head.

You can only stare in awe as she executed a complete aerial cartwheel to get away from its head, and landed on the ground with a grace of a landing bird.

Now, it's only Ikaris and the pack leader left.

You debated if you'll fly there yourself or not. You knew he'll be pissed if you steal his spotlight. You are tempted to do so but as you looked up, looks like Ikaris is already delivering the final touches.

One powerful punch from him plummeted the deviant towards the water, or rather the ice you had created earlier that somehow made its way halfway in the middle of the sea.

You didn't flinch as the deviant landed on the ice with a sickening crack until it completely submerges into the water.

As it was a pretty large deviant, imagine a surge of harsh waves coming onto you, ready to swallow you.

You are particularly fond of the ocean, you really are. But you don't find it thrilling to be wet right now. And so, with a flick of your wrist, you divert the waves to the other side of the sea.

"Really, Ikaris?" You said, irritated.

You can see Ikaris smirking as he landed next to you. He almost slipped from the ice if he was not able to grab your shoulder in time. "I thought you loved the sea."

You only rolled your eyes at him. You regretted mentioning you were excited to see the waters of Earth. Plus, your initial thought about him being robotic? Scratch that. The guy is a complete competitive idiot.

You smirked, remembering what he whispered to you before you descended from the Domo. He wanted to bet who would be able to kill deviants more, you or him.

"I am afraid I was able to kill three deviants while you're struggling with one, my friend." Your lips curled up into a teasing smile.

He was about to retort when the Domo came materializing out of thin air. It was descending just above the shore. Without a word, Ikaris flew the both of you towards the shore to meet the others.

You met Thena's eyes when you settled down. You give her a small smile before turning your attention to the other five Eternals descending from the Domo.

If she returned the same, you never know. But you could feel someone's eyes on you for the rest of the day.

As expected, these people became hostile to your presence. When the eleven of you tried to approach them, they had raised their weapons, if you call a pair of brittle spears made of wood a weapon.

Druig, the actual mind reader and mind controller steps forward. His eyes shone, and the eyes of the people followed suit. A sign he already has control. They began to lower and drop their weapons.

Druig released them from the spell, and you can see the confusion drawn on these people.

Ajak approached Ikaris, and only then you notice he has a contusion on his left shoulder. Using her powers, Ajak was able to heal his wound within seconds.

After that, Ajak gave you all a look. She didn't have to say it but you know it's somewhere along the line of 'great work, everyone.' She stepped forward, and you all decided to follow suit. This must be where you need to introduce yourselves to these people.

The kid from earlier also stood forward, which is probably because his mother urged him. You can see he's skeptical but is willing to know who are these people who save them.

Ajak gave Sersi a nod, and she must have understood it, whatever Ajak wanted to say.

With cautious steps, Sersi walked toward the kid, but not before grabbing what you assumed was a knife made from flint. As she laid out her hand towards the kid, the flint knife suddenly turns into a much more durable blue and gold one, which you assumed was made from high carbon steel.

Reluctantly, but surely, the kid took the knife from her hands.

And you commend Sersi for doing this. As it's much, much better than just saying 'we're the Eternals and we are here to protect you from the deviants.'

As you stare at the horizon, you saw how exceptionally beautiful this world is. You're not sure if the other planets you had been to before could ever rival Earth.

Its beauty is exquisite. And you began to wonder if there's such thing that could ever rival such perfection.

As your eyes began to wander back to a pair of green orbs, for a moment you thought that maybe there is no such thing that could ever rival Earth's perfection but you're sure someone definitely can.

And you are graced with the ability to see that certain someone just right in front of you.

#eternals #the eternals #thena x reader #eternals thena #thena #ikaris #kingo #sersi #sprite #gilgamesh #ajak #druig #makkari #phastos #thena x you #eternals fanfiction

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