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peaches2217 · 4 months

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Perhaps some 🤒 for Luisley?

🤒 - Needing to be looked after

Overstimulated

~~~

The click of the front door opening, muffled though it was through the walls of his bedroom, brought Luigi out of his self-induced trance. That would be Mario. Back so soon?

When there was no call of “Weegee, sono tornato!”, the dread fluttering within Luigi’s stomach beat its wings even harder, exacerbated by the perpetual overstimulation that buzzed throughout his limbs and core. A silent Mario was rarely a good thing. That usually meant he was angry or deeply saddened or so thoroughly baffled that he had to retreat into his thoughts to make any sense of his own feelings, and given the context under which he had left the house…

What did he say? Was he upset? Those thoughts tumbled through Luigi’s head in a maddening rush, and as terrified as he was of the answer, he needed to know. As unusually light footsteps padded towards his room, he cocooned himself beneath his blankets, as if their soft fabric could cushion the blow of whatever he was about to hear, and steeled himself.

“Ch-che ha detto?” he called out to his brother. “Era… arrabbiato?”

The voice that responded was not Mario’s.

“Ah! There you are!”

Luigi’s blood froze within his veins.

He tossed the blankets aside and sat up just as the door was thrown open, and the sudden slam of wood against wood sent a jolt through his body that made him clap his hands over his ears. The all too familiar figure in the doorway, his bold chartreuse and white and gold standing in stark contrast to the cottage’s cozy interior, jolted as well.

“Commoners’ abodes,” Peasley muttered beneath his breath, eyeing the door with a mix of contempt and bemusement. “Why must your doors be so ludicrously lightweight?”

The disdain in his eyes might normally draw a chuckle from Luigi — he could practically see Peasley storming into the office of Toad Town’s primary contractor and causing a scene, because how dare the great heroes of the Mushroom Kingdom be given a home constructed of anything less than marble and solid gold — but today he flinched away from it.

This wasn’t happening. Surely this wasn’t happening.

Remembering all too suddenly the state that he was in, Luigi dove beneath the covers once more. Maybe he hadn’t been seen. Maybe he could still save face. Maybe the fabric could swallow him whole and put an end to this nightmare before it began. “Wh-what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing?” Peasley repeated, his tone thick with mock-offense. “My love, what wouldn’t I be doing here? Is it not one’s most sacred duty to tend to their loved ones in times of need?”

His voice came nearer as he spoke, and beneath his shroud of cotton and down, Luigi gulped. His pulse throbbed in his ears, his heart threatening to rip through bone and sinew right out of his chest. “Please don’t worry,” he said, though his voice shook far more than he would’ve liked. “I— I’m sorry I couldn’t make it today! It’s just, y’know—”

“‘Shroom fever’, correct?” Peasley drew the question out, his voice calm, but laced with something that sounded like amusement.

He didn’t buy it. Immediately Luigi’s throat tightened, and he inhaled sharply, willing himself not to start tearing up.

He expected his blankets to be pried away any moment now, for Peasley to expose his unkempt, lying face and see him for the great big mess that he truly was. The mattress dipped beside where he was curled into a pathetic heap, and his muscles tensed, preparing for the worst.

But it never came.

“Yes, that’s what the red one told me.” The amusement was still there, but now it sounded softer, more affectionate than accusatory. “I must say, he’s not too terribly convincing a liar. He would have held no qualms in seeing me to your bedside if you were ill, but he couldn’t give me a good answer for why this time was different.”

Luigi winced. He hasn’t considered that.

“You can’t tell him what’s going on,” he’d pleaded to his brother half an hour earlier, arms hugging his chest tightly in a futile attempt to stave off the effects of sensory overload. “Just, like… tell him I’m sick. Tell him I’ve got shroom fever or something!”

Mario, though sympathetic, had been disapproving. “He’s gonna have to know eventually. Come on, you know as well as I do that it won’t change anything.”

“But what if it does? What if he thinks I’m pathetic?”

“Then he never deserved you in the first place,” was Mario’s response.

Of course, that answer brought Luigi very little comfort. He felt bad enough when this happened, when his oddly-wired brain decided for no good reason that all sensory input was suddenly a thousand times more overwhelming than what he was used to, that getting out of bed was just too great a struggle as a result. For it to happen on a day he was supposed to meet up with the love of his life? The thought that he might lose said love for something so pathetic as this? Luigi couldn’t even begin to comprehend the ease with which Mario suggested that might be okay.

Peasley chuckled now, the sound resonating from deep within his chest. “Your fraternal devotion to one another will never cease to amaze me. No matter my insistence, I couldn’t drag an answer from him. He merely said that my right to know was entirely up to you.”

Frustration and gratitude grappled for superiority in Luigi’s mind. Of course Mario would never go spilling Luigi’s business. But he would have allowed it just this once, just to save himself some heartache.

If he was going to lose Peasley’s respect, he would have preferred it to happen from a distance. He didn’t want this front-row seat to his own undoing. The air beneath his flimsy fortress was hot and stale, and he felt sweat beading at his hairline.

“…It’s nothing,” he finally attempted, meekly.

“Hmm. Well, it’s something to you, and thus it’s something to me.” A rustling of fabric, and then the lightest of indents in the mattress next to his head. Peasley’s hand. “Do you mourn, my love? Might this be the anniversary of some tragedy? Or perhaps you’ve lost something dear to you?”

Not yet. Even thinking as much constricted Luigi’s airway once more, so he shook his head in response.

Peasley hummed again. “Might this have to do with your condition, then? Your anxiety, or your… awe-tee-sum, was it called?”

“Autism,” Luigi corrected automatically, and instantly he flinched at his own haste. “It’s… it’s nothing, I promise. It’s dumb.”

“Ah. So that’s a yes.”

Peasley still didn’t move. He sat perfectly still, his hand never once inching closer, an invitation that Luigi was welcome to accept or decline as he saw fit. He wanted nothing more than to reach out into the still air and take that hand, hold onto it with all his might, have some sort of solid proof that he wouldn’t be abandoned in spite of his brain telling him such an outcome was inevitable.

“…What else did Mario say?” he ventured instead, because Peasley had never been the sort to keep his hands to himself, and he had a sneaking suspicion his elder twin had something to do with that, too.

“He said I would do well to speak quietly and refrain from touching you without your permission,” Peasley confessed, “lest I would have scooped you into my arms the moment I heard your voice.” Another chuckle, and this time Luigi almost had the heart to join in. “I confess, I still don’t quite understand. But I would like to help. Will you acquaint me with your struggles, my dear?”

Acquaint me with your struggles. Now this was the phrase that bounced about Luigi’s skull, because it made no sense whatsoever. They were supposed to be on a date together. They were supposed to be out and about, enjoying food and nature and being a normal couple (as normal a couple as a human nobody and a Beanish prince could be, anyway). But instead Luigi was cooped up at home, too overstimulated to function like a regular personal, and Peasley had every right to be upset with him for balking on their plans and being a waste of oxygen and organic matter.

And for some reason only the Star Spirits could attest to, he wasn’t. Literal royalty sat at Luigi’s side, addressing him with fondness and requesting understanding of his inadequacies.

That was reason enough for Luigi to untangle himself from his blankets and pull them down, just enough to peek up and ensure the creature beside him was, in fact, not some fantastical fabrication from deep within his own fantasies.

“There you are.” Deep brown eyes beamed at him, revered him as a god among men, and for a moment Luigi felt that maybe he really was. “I feared I might not get to see that beautiful visage at all today.”

A swirl of conflicting emotions bubbled up within Luigi: confusion, joy, sadness, shame, filling every crevice of his body and compelling him to act. Hesitantly, he pulled the covers all the way down; the shedding of those protective layers made the buzzing in his limbs intensify, and the fresh air sent a chill through him, but breathing it in felt refreshing, even renewing. He filled his lungs, reached out, and accepted Peasley’s invitation at last.

The prince’s hand was pleasantly cool to the touch, and just as he had hoped, its stable presence calmed his racing heart. He tightened his grasp and tugged in order to pull himself up and scoot into an upright position. His head spun and his mouth was dry, but Peasley was here, and he would at least hear him out, and the loving gaze he fixed Luigi with gave him the courage to explain.

“Sometimes,” he began, “I… I mean, half the time, n-nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine, but for some reason the world is too loud and too bright a-and everything… hurts. It’s all just…” He balled his free hand into a fist and clenched as tightly as he could, and that at least lessened the buzz in the corresponding arm. “...too much.”

“Is that so?” Peasley said. There was genuine curiosity in his tone, sympathy in his eyes. “And today is such a day?”

Luigi nodded. “And I-I promise I tried fighting past it today. I didn’t wanna let you down, but…”

“Let me down? Luigi, I would never ask you to exceed your limitations for my sake.”

“But my limitations are—” He swallowed as well as he could, given his tongue felt woolen in his mouth. “Don’t you think it’s… don’t you think I’m kinda… kinda pathetic?”

The question gave Peasley pause, and where Luigi half-expected a denial, he was given only silence. But this silence wasn’t tense or uncertain; Peasley touched his index finger to his chin and cast his eyes aside, lips puckering and brows furrowing, the charmingly goofy expression of a Bean deep in thought.

He was… he was actually giving it serious consideration. And somehow that made his answer mean so much more than an immediate reassurance would have.

“…Not particularly, no,” he ultimately decided. “There are days where even I, skillful as I am, don’t feel quite up to par, and oftentimes there’s no good reason for it. Would you think less of me for such a thing?”

“Wha—? O-of course not!”

“And I think no less of you in turn.” Drawing Luigi’s hand to his lips, he pressed a tender kiss to his knuckles, his well-moisturized lips soft against the tight and dry skin. “Thank you for teaching me more about yourself, Greenie. I loathe to see you struggle, but I’m grateful that you would share those struggles with me.”

Once more Luigi’s heart raced, but no longer with fearful anxiety. Was this really possible? He was so certain he’d ruined Peasley’s day, so certain the repercussions would haunt him for years to come, and yet here he was, showering him with love and accepting him at one of his lower lows.

This wasn’t happening. Surely it wasn’t happening.

But it was, and the relief and gratitude and affection that flowed through his perpetually overstimulated body made Luigi want to slump forward, fall into Peasley’s arms, wait out the unpleasantness in the safety of his embrace.

At the same time, the thought of so much physical contact… he shuddered and relaxed his balled fist. Maybe holding hands was as much as he could manage today. But suddenly the thought of being alone again terrified him. “Will— will you stay? I-I don’t know where Mario’s at but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind—”

The smile Peasley flashed was both pleased and knowing. “Oh, rest assured, he’s not too far. He said he’d remain in the living room while we spoke.” Leaning in, he added beneath his breath: “Though I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been listening in all this time. You know you have an excellent brother, do you not?”

At that, Luigi laughed, a mousey but authentic laugh. “You have an excellent brother” was Peasley Code for “Your brother has implicitly made threats against me that could have him declared a war criminal in the Beanbean Kingdom because he cares far more for your well being than his own.” Mario trusted Peasley and the two were good friends, sure, but he could get… rather intense when it came to his beloved little brother’s heart.

“Sorry about him,” Luigi whispered back.

“Rest assured, I’m happy for it! The more people looking after you, the better.” Peasley leaned back once more and stood, but he didn’t let go of Luigi’s hand. “Would you like some water?” he asked at his original volume. “And perhaps some lip balm? You’ve been licking and smacking your lips this entire time, you know.”

Luigi’s tongue darted between his lips automatically at that statement, and he realized Peasley was correct; not only were his throat and mouth still dry, but his lips were cracked. A bad habit of his, admittedly, and one he was never conscious of until someone else pointed it out. “Please. But—” He paused then, because making requests of a prince still didn’t feel quite right.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to make the request. Peasley gave his hand one more tight squeeze before dropping it and answering the silent question aloud.

“I’ll be only a moment,” he promised as he backed out of the room. “Nothing in all the world could convince me to leave your side, my love. You have my word.”

And though he still trembled in discomfort as his boyfriend took his leave, Luigi relaxed against the headboard, closing his eyes and sighing softly, because he knew it was the truth. Come hell or high water, full-functioning days or overload days, he knew now more certainly than ever that Peasley had no intention of abandoning him.

And he had to admit, that was a nice feeling.

#phew! this got long #I've got a note on my phone with short blurbs detailing the planned plots for upcoming wips #this one's blurb was literally just 'autistic burnout bitches'#I saw this prompt and knew IMMEDIATELY where I wanted to go with it so thank you so much for this #super mario bros #smb #luigi #prince peasley #mario & luigi superstar saga #m&l rpgs #luisley #luigi x peasley #peaches' fancy fics

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marzipanandminutiae · 1 year

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The Other Nightgown Set, or, The Most Underappreciated Crimson Peak Costume

okay, CPeak fans. when I say Edith's nightgown, what do you picture?

this, right?

RIP to the gorgeous silk dressing-gown we never see after this scene. but I digress.

and yes, that is the more iconic one. but you're forgetting my own dearest-beloved, my #cozygoals, my unsung hero of Victwardian gothic loungewear...The Buffalo Robe/Nightgown Set

finding photos of this is ridiculously difficult, and that strikes me as a travesty. but it's a robe of a goldy-chartreuse silk-velvet, with what appears to be a salmon lining (silk again, I'm guessing), floral appliques, and a black sash. She appears to be wearing a lacy cotton nightgown underneath, although a rather short one- only to mid-calf. Interesting.

because Netflix cannot be screenshotted, I took photos with my phone of some details- pardon the quality, glare, etc.

The collar has piping of the lining fabric. This is done by wrapping a thin cord in the material you want to pipe with, and then stitching that whole affair between two pieces being seamed together. It's a pain in the ass to execute, IMO, but such a nice detail.

Our heroine is furnished with POCKETS! you can see lace on either side of the robe "skirt," either decorative pocket flaps or outlining the openings for normal, flap-less pockets. I can't quite tell which.

A slightly better view of said pockets as Edith regards the door that Eleanor (her mother) just opened using Ghost PowersTM.

I didn't screenshot this specifically, but her sash is a black ribbon- of course -with gold edges.

The Buffalo Robe interests me because it seems much more practical than what she wears at Allerdale. Sure, it's goth-tinged and lovely, but it also looks...cozy. It's not all the way up her neck, it's not silk brocade- it's soft velvet, and with pockets to boot. It's something the audience could see themselves throwing on over their own nightwear to lounge around the house. Plus, those pockets bespeak a need to carry things and do Activities- not just wander around crumbling manors with a candelabra looking appropriately ingenuecore. It kind of plays into an interpretive theory I have about Edith falling into the "world" of the Gothic when she goes to Allerdale- she's no longer in reality, sort of, so she gets this over-the-top fantastical nightgown as her primary outfit.

It also bears, I think, more resemblance to actual dressing-gowns and wrappers of the period than her Allerdale nightwear set:

(Dressing gown, 1880s. Fashion Museum, Bath, England. Earlier than Edith's vague 1895-7 aesthetic, but still similar.)

(Deaccessioned from the Rochester Historical Museum, New York, USA. This is described in the listing as an "1880s day dress" and the bodice does have a hidden button closure, but. Come on. The visual similarities are insane. I'm not convinced that Kate Hawley didn't see this dress somehow. Also earlier; also pretty close regardless.)

Makes you wonder if Lucille's got a more practical option stashed away somewhere, too...

#crimson peak #long post #movie costumes #dress history #edith cushing

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justrandompolls · 12 days

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jomiddlemarch · 4 months

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Declare the past, diagnose the present, foretell the future

Taking in-house on-call at St. Mungo’s on Imbolc wasn’t the absolute worst, as far as Hermione was concerned. It wasn’t a major holiday and the Scottish weather, an unfathomably vile mix of sleet and snow accompanied by icy gales that defied any warming charm, lent itself to staying in. As her social life was not exactly riotous post-break-up with Ron, however amicably resigned and rueful they’d both been about it, staying in at St. Mungo’s, with its endless supply of ginger biscuits and at least one interesting patient per ward, was tolerable. Acceptable.

It could have been, anyway.

“You like being on-call, Granger?”

That was Draco Malfoy, her fellow senior registrar, academic rival, and star of far too many risqué dreams she continued to blame on eating cheese late at night. He’d grown significantly after the final battle, which she refused to capitalize when she thought of it, just as she refused to refer to Voldemort as anything other than Tom Riddle. Draco, no longer beholden to a genocidal sorcerer who had far too close a relationship with his voracious familiar and thus no longer suffering from an untreated ulcer along as well as the fear of watching his mother being tortured in her own sitting room, had put on a good 2-plus stone of muscle along with several more inches and somehow managed to make the lime-green robes St. Mungo’s insisted on look like something that would get an approving nod during Fashion Week in Milan. It should be a fourth Unforgivable that someone so silvery blond didn’t look anemic, bilious, or curdled in the next hue over from chartreuse. He looked edible.

Delicious.

Hermione looked like a generous dollop of the Seafoam Salad her American Cousin Luella brought to every summer tea-party Hermione’s mother had ever thrown, despite being told she was such a dear but she needn’t. Hermione tried to take comfort in the many extendable pockets she’d been able to spell into her robe’s inner lining, but nothing could fully offset the color.

At the moment, Draco had opened his robes and put his feet up on the coffee-table in the staff break-room, his collar unbuttoned, his tie loosened. He’d stopped using whatever charm or enchanted pomade he’d relied on when they were at Hogwarts and his hair looked silky, a lock threatening to fall across his forehead. If they were called to an emergency, he’d probably cast a wandless Reparo vestis and immediately look the part of a Pureblood senior registrar, but in the meantime, he was…louche. Unconscionably, unbearably erotic.

Hermione thought back to the tea she’d hurried through before heading to Dangerous Dai at a brisk clip. She’d had nary a bite of Brie. Or Cheddar.

She had no plausible deniability.

Still, he was helping a bit with the judgy curl to his lips and that gleam in his grey eyes which was somewhere between curious and condescending. She’d lean into the condescending part.

“I don’t mind it. It’s part of the work, being a Healer. If you have a true vocation, you don’t resent being on-call,” she said.

She sounded like an impossible prig even to herself but needs must.

“Bollocks,” he retorted, but not meanly. “Don’t you miss your cat?”

“Crookshanks is part-Kneazle,” she said.

“Fine, your part-Kneazle,” Draco said. “Wouldn’t you rather be home with him, doing whatever it is you do away from here?”

“Are you fishing for details or trying to mock me? You’ll have to decide,” Hermione said.

“I’m trying to say it’s just the two of us here, you don’t have to pretend you love being stuck at St. Mungo’s overnight,” Draco said.

It occurred to Hermione that if she suffered a cardiac event in the next three seconds, Draco would be the one to resuscitate her and that no one ever looked their best post-resuscitation, even when magic was the primary intervention. Vanity, that’s what would keep her from having a heart attack.

Just the two of us.

For Sweet Circe’s fucking sweet sake.

Draco gave her a searching look because the pause had lengthened notably. Anyone else would have said something like Earth to Hermione, except they’d have to be Muggleborn to say that, because Wizards still didn’t grasp that Muggles had been to the Moon and sent rovers to Mars. They didn’t grasp a dog had been sent into space.

“It’s all right. I don’t actually mind it all that much myself, if I’m being honest. And before you feel compelled to point it out, yes, I am Slytherin but I am capable of candor, especially when it suits my needs,” he said.

“It suits you to be honest with me?” she said.

“We’re a team, aren’t we?” he said and she nodded before she could stop herself and ask what exactly he meant, she’d happily taken four feet of parchment on the topic. “Lying, keeping things from each other, it won’t help us. I know you don’t trust me—”

“I—” she interrupted, breaking off when she realized she wasn’t sure she wanted to say she did trust him or that she wanted to, very badly.

“I know we agreed to a fresh slate when we started training here and I also know if was too much to ask of you,” he said.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“Yes, I was under duress. Yes, I was seventeen. Yes, we’re all allowed to make mistakes. But I still have a brand on my arm from a group that wanted you dead and defiled and the best I did on your behalf was to pretend I didn’t know you for a few minutes,” he said.

“What else could you have done?” Hermione said, shrugging.

“I could have risked my life. I could have died,” he said. “Potter did, when he saved me from Fiendfyre—”

“I’m not nearly as nice as Harry,” Hermione said.

Draco laughed, rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“You’re a better person than I am and you don’t have to argue with me about it. Some things are simply true. I’d like you to trust me, that’s what I’m saying, albeit terribly clumsily,” he replied.

“Albeit?” she repeated. Using humor to deflect was a time-honored tradition and she didn’t know what to do with her sizable attraction when it was suddenly not only about his broad shoulders and narrow hips, the feline grace of his gait, the North Sea of his eyes and his impossibly deft hands (Nimue help her, Draco’s hands…) but also his mind, his insight. She’d known he was clever, her equal in most fields, slightly ahead of her in Charms (though behind in Arithmancy) but she hadn’t appreciated how thoughtful he was or had become. How he could be gentle.

“I use overly formal language when I feel out of my depth,” he said. Admitted.

“You were totally at ease then, when Crispin Fillament was hemorrhaging? All I heard was good old Anglo-Saxon obscenities from you while you were trying to shove the blood back into his aorta,” Hermione said, grinning.

“That bugger. He wasn’t helping at all, and I don’t mean his choice to sing operettas,” Draco said. “It was like his blood didn’t even want back in. It felt oddly sentient—”

“Operetta can be polarizing,” Hermione said. They were having an absolutely insane conversation, Thickey Ward caliber, and she was more relaxed than she’d ever been around him while also being turned on. Draco’s expression shifted from entertained to speculative. Assessing. She resisted the impulse to touch her hair or fiddle with the collar of her robes, glad she’d kept her shoes on, regretting her laundry day choice of striped tights.

“We’ve worked together for nearly seven years and you still don’t trust me,” he said.

“I don’t suspect you of, well, anything in particular,” she replied. It seemed a weak response, even to her. It might not even be fair, but she couldn’t necessarily feel her way into being fair to him. Even if there were times when she wanted to.

“I know. It’s good of you,” he said. “It just, it’s not enough.”

“It’s not enough? You dare to demand I—”

“I’m not demanding anything, Hermione,” he interrupted. “I don’t expect more. I don’t deserve more. I only want more.”

“You want more,” she repeated. She sounded somewhere between incredulous and stupid. As he’d spent a significant amount of his youth the Crabbe and Goyle, the stupidity shouldn’t bother him as it did her.

“I believe Weasley liked to refer to me as a greedy git. I don’t pretend to have entirely outgrown that,” he said.

“That was because you hogged the pudding,” Hermione said.

“Well, I’ve outgrown that. Though I do still like sweet things,” he said. He tilted his head to one side and should have resembled an owl but of course, he didn’t. If anything, he looked like a fallen angel, though he probably wouldn’t have recognized Lucifer if she’d mentioned the name. The Bible was given short-shrift in the Muggle culture studies required at St. Mungo’s where they ran more to Pasteur, Salk and gene-sequencing. “If I want more, I must give more.”

“Is this some sort of rudimentary physics equation?” Hermione said. “You do know Newton covered this area already.”

“I mean, if I want you to trust me, I need to give you more reason. I need to share more, so you feel I’ve earned it. That it’s, I’m worth it,” he said, nodding as he spoke. Hermione felt herself flush and wanted to argue but she couldn’t think of anything compelling to refute his assertion.

“Shall I tell you why I became a Healer?” Draco said.

“If you like,” Hermione replied diffidently, as if she hadn’t wondered nearly every time she saw him and had frankly obsessed over it for the first six months of their training. Obsessed as in Ginny staged an intervention with Padma and Susan and Gabrielle on the Floo, with Luna playing mother over the teapot joining in the chorus that maybe Hermione needed to let it go or go ahead and jump Draco’s bones. She had been so far gone Luna Lovegood had told her she needed to get some perspective (which she suggested would be helped along with a tincture of canawaddle blossom and raging iron jaguar tears. Hermione had just taken the full glass of Shiraz Padma offered and nodded.)

“Because of my parents,” he said. It had been his idea to discuss his reasons but he seemed uncertain how he’d explain or uneasy about her response.

“It was their idea?” Hermione hazarded a guess. It wasn’t a good guess and she’d be shocked if she were right but it was within the realm of possibility in a world where there were both cellphones and wands threaded with a phoenix’s fiery tail-feather.

“Fuck no,” he said, almost choking on a laugh. A bitter one.

“It might’ve been,” she retorted.

“Only you would believe that possible and before you get horribly offended and flounce off, I mean only you could believe them capable of such humanity. That they would care about other people, that they would care that I did something worthwhile with my time,” he said. He made a calming gesture with his hand, the one he wore a signet ring on. It wasn’t the Malfoy signet though. “You also forget they are the most terrible snobs and think any kind of work is beneath a Malfoy or the bloody scion of the Most Noble House of Black. My mother thinks I’m overly sentimental and my father thinks the whole thing is crass and degrading.”

“I don’t flounce,” Hermione said because what he’d said was a lot to unpack and she couldn’t risk him thinking flouncing was within her repertoire.

“I stand corrected,” he said.

“Why did you become a Healer? How were your parents involved?” she asked.

“They ruined so many lives. My father, I’ve never asked, I’ve never wanted to know, but I think he’s a murderer and my mother went along with it all. Whatever she told herself about how she had to put me first, it was all an excuse,” he said, holding her gaze the whole time. “Other families left Britain. Other families refused to take a side. Millie’s parents sent her younger brothers to Ilvermorny. Zabini’s mother cast some spell on Blaise that kept Voldemort from touching him, something Darker than Dark, she called in favors all over Europe and West Africa. My parents ruined my life. This is the best way I could think of to make something of it all.”

“That’s, I don’t even know what to say, Draco,” Hermione replied.

“You don’t have to have something to say. It’s just how it is,” he said.

“Is it enough? Atonement?” Hermione asked.

“Mostly. And I like the craft. Snape played favorites and he gave me extra lessons, tradework secrets. The man was frankly a bloody genius. Sectumsempra was his juvenilia. I’m good at Potions and I was taught by one of the best Potions Masters in the past three hundred years,” Draco said.

“It’s nice to hear you admit it,” Hermione said.

“The special treatment or Snape’s brilliance?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, making Draco smile.

“I wished I could have saved him,” Draco said. “Though I don’t know what surviving would have meant for him. He was broken.”

“He wanted us to let him go. After he gave Harry the memory, he didn’t want to have to live anymore. I tried to stay. Harry and Ron didn’t see his eyes, but he looked at me and I knew it,” Hermione said.

“He doesn’t haunt me. In case you’re wondering,” Draco said. “His portrait often has a choice remark for me, but that’s all.”

“I became a Healer because of my parents too,” Hermione said.

“Yeah?”

“When it was getting close, that last year, you know, none of the adults made any plans to keep my parents safe. They told me not to worry mostly. All Dumbledore cared about was Harry and the Elder wand. Tonks, she was your cousin, she was the only one who said I should look out for my own people,” Hermione said. Tonks’s hair had been a rich chestnut streaked with white when she’d said it, her eyes the glittering green Hermione had always wished to see in the mirror, and she hadn’t minced words. She’d been as serious as Hermione had ever seen her, serious as death, and then it wasn’t spoken of again. Hermione had hoped there would be a time to tell Tonks, to thank her. “I Obliviated my parents and relocated them to Australia, I gave them new identities. I erased myself from their minds. Entirely.”

“What?” To his credit, Draco looked 90% stunned and 10% impressed. Harry had looked 100% horrified and Ron had physically recoiled when she told them.

“I did some research, figured out how to Obliviate them in the way that would keep them safest,” she said. “Voldemort wasn’t going to care about two random Muggles named Wilkins in bloody Melbourne. Other than you, your father and Snape, none of the Death-eaters were smart enough to figure it out and it turned out Snape was a double-agent, so my odds were even better than I’d counted on.”

“That’s advanced charmwork,” Draco said. “That kind of Obliviation.”

“I had to use Arithmancy too. And runes,” Hermione said. “It had to work. I couldn’t ruin their lives. I couldn’t be the reason they were killed.”

“It worked,” he said. “You saved them.”

“Yes. But it was harder to reverse than I’d hoped,” she said. She said hoped but she meant thought, planned, expected. She’d been wrong. “And when they remembered, they remembered I never asked their permission.”

“You didn’t?”

“They’d never have agreed. I cast the spell behind their backs. An assassination, my mother called it,” she said. She hadn’t told them about being tortured; they couldn’t understand Cruciatus the way anyone magical would and she didn’t want them to ask why she hadn’t confided more in them. Didn’t want them to feel guilty or worse, to accuse her of trying to make them feel guilty to justify her actions.

“You saved their lives,” Draco repeated.

“That’s what I tell myself,” she replied.

“Do you plan to specialize in memory curses? Because of your parents?” he asked.

“No. It’s not that. I became a Healer because they can understand it. They are dentists, Muggle Healer for teeth, and I was able to preserve all of that when I Obliviated them. They would have said, once, I should take up whatever career I felt called to, but they value healing. It’s something we can talk about. Without much…rancor. They see what we do as another science, this training similar enough, the way the American medical system is similar to the British one,” she said.

“Do you even want to be a Healer?” Draco said.

“It’s fine. Maybe I would have ended up here anyway. You have to master a lot of different magical disciplines and there’s some research to be done. There’s always other people around and you can get a decent cuppa in the canteen,” she said, shrugging. “The robes don’t suit me, but that’s a small price to pay.”

“You wanted something else though,” he said. “You don’t have to lie to me. I won’t try to convince you to leave St. Mungo’s.”

“There’s a course on ancient magics in Alexandria. And the Wizarding Library there, they do archival work and Anatomia liborum,” she said. “I read about it when I was researching the Horcruxes. It sounded intriguing.”

“What else?” he prompted.

“In Japan, at Mahoutokoro, there a witch studying arithmancy and algorithm engineering. That’s a Muggle science, it has to do with computers and programming, which you probably have no idea about, but it’s cutting edge work,” Hermione said.

“Instead you’re here,” he said.

“It’s not so bad,” Hermione said. It was easy to say, because she’d said it to herself about a thousand times. “I’m learning a lot and it’s important, to be able to heal people, and sometimes what’s wrong with them seems impossible, but in an absurdly funny way. My parents like it, when I tell them about work, even if I have to tone it down so they believe me.”

“Doesn’t seem like enough. Not for you,” he said.

“You’re here,” she replied, before she thought better of it.

For a moment, Draco was so still she wondered if she’d cast a wandless Petrificus totalis without consciously registering it.

“It’s not what you think,” she said.

“What do I think, Hermione?” he asked. He didn’t sound sly or arch, not remotely mocking, though he could have and she wouldn’t have been able to blame him. He sounded serious, as if she was the final arbiter of his fate, the Chief Witch of the Wizengamot pronouncing his sentence.

“It wasn’t a grand declaration,” she said.

“I didn’t think ‘you’re here’ was a grand declaration,” he replied. He’d relaxed a bit. Bully for him. Hermione felt like she might spontaneously combust, which coupled with the lime-green robes, was certain to be unattractive.

“You’re clever and well-read and you don’t cave when I argue with you but you don’t try to squash me either,” she said. “You think of things quite differently than I do, but in a good way. You’re my peer, intellectually.”

“I’m your peer, intellectually. That’s what you meant,” he said.

“You spent your formative years with Crabbe and Goyle. It’s not nothing,” she retorted.

“I played chess with Blaise Zabini for seven years. Theo Nott taught me Sanskrit and Pazu Veda in his spare time,” he replied. It felt like an obscure jab at Harry and Ron, neither of whom would claim to be excellent student, but who each had their strengths. They were, perhaps, not ones that lent themselves to spirited discussions, especially since Hermione had an admittedly limited grasp of chess and no real motivation to learn it. She wouldn’t risk the conversation devolving into a cranky argument, relitigating their school-days.

“Theo Nott was fluent in Pazu Veda?”

“They don’t teach necromancy at Hogwarts, so I can’t vouch for his fluency, but he could read it and translate,” Draco said. He crossed his legs at the ankle, a gesture of pure insouciance. His grey eyes studied her and she lifted her chin. “You’re stalling.”

“I’m not,” she said. For possibly the first time she could remember, she wished to be paged to the receiving area to attend to a disgustingly feculent and smoking heap of Wizard burping up turds, suffering from an unknown but obviously not life-threatening curse or potion.

“If you don’t want to talk about it anymore, we won’t. I wanted you to trust me and that won’t happen if you feel like I’m grilling you or prying. I’ll try to keep doing whatever it is that makes me being here make St. Mungo’s worth it to you,” he said.

He was a Slytherin but he’d spoken as directly as an Gryffindor, as thoughtfully as any Ravenclaw, as kindly as any Hufflepuff.

“I like you,” she said.

She was not going to mention lust, her own for his face, his shoulders and his hands, the nape of his neck, the line of his thigh when he crouched down to talk to some patient on the Thickey Ward who thought they were a mole. His lips when he smiled. His eyes when he had a new idea that she was going to hate at first. She was courageous, not foolhardy.

“I like you too. Very much,” he said. “Exceedingly. I don’t want you to worry, having said it first, that your feelings are unrequited. They are very, very requited. Maximally requited.”

“I only said I like you,” she replied.

“I know. You don’t make grand declarations. I do. When they are called for,” he said.

“And it’s called for now?”

“We’ve worked together for seven years. We’ve known each other since we were eleven. You just admitted you like me. I’m not risking waiting another decade for you to understand how I feel about you,” he said. “Wizards have long lives but I’d hate to have this conversation with a white beard down to my navel.”

“You will never have a white beard down to your navel. You’d never do something so cliché,” Hermione said.

“You’re probably right. But I still prefer telling you tonight,” he said. “It means that when I ask you if you’d like a cup of tea and a biscuit in the canteen, you’ll know I don’t just mean a cup of tea and a biscuit.”

“But we’d still have those, right?” Hermione said. “Because I skipped lunch today.”

“I will buy you every biscuit in the canteen,” he said. “And breakfast tomorrow morning. Somewhere where you can get a decent omelet.”

“So, someplace Muggle,” Hermione said.

“Most assuredly so. At least until we both have a weekend off,” he said.

“Then what?”

“Then I take you to Paris.”

Five hexes, three Dark-adjacent curses, nine (nine!) misbrewed Potions causing inflammation, exudation, and one case of rapid-fire recitation in Norn, an unlicensed researcher’s run-in with a surly matagot, and a family suffering from mazy measles, meant that no biscuits, chocolate, ginger or lemon, were consumed and the tea in the canteen’s urn remained untasted by either of them.

They did, however, make quick work of a passable cheese omelet at a very nice café once they’d given sign-out to the day’s team.

And Draco Side-alonged her home, giving her a kiss on the cheek at the door.

Hermione kissed him back. Not on the cheek.

She wasn’t about to wait for Paris for a French kiss, not when they had so little say over the on-call schedule.

Not when he looked at her with those sleepy grey eyes.

Not when he murmured her name against her lips.

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azurebolt-fr · 4 months

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i plan on incorporating duoluna into rhodochrosos but i have a temptation to regene her because... well.

look at her. she's way too complex with her current genes. i do like riopa and paradise but flaunt is filling me with dread if i ever choose to draw her. so please help me decide from these options...

torn between those 3 because they seem way more simple and also they're treasure genes. she's chartreuse/teal/ice btw . Why did I say Sky.

#flight rising #fr #rambolts

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kejfjirke · 6 months

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PHIGHTING PHIGHTER IDEA (please rate)

Chartreuse based of the Chartreuse Periastron Gamma gear (: (I probably suck at balancing so I will only give HP and innate shield) HP – 50 Shield – 250 Passive – Over-equipped When granted shield while at max shield, the extra shield is instead converted into over shield on top of current shield at the cost of having reduced movement speed and having the grounded status effect until the user no longer has over shield. Primary – Slash Swing your sword. (wow) Secondary – Rephlecting Block Use your shield to block incoming attacks negating the damage and granting a part of the negated damage as shield. Also reflects projectiles or ranged attacks. Slows the user for a few seconds when the block doesn’t get hit by anything. Q Ability – Gamma Ray Sends a fast projectile that damages and knock enemies away towards where you’re aiming. If it hits an ally grants them over shield instead. If the ability hits anyone (both allies and enemies) grants over shield to the user. E Ability – Dephlecting Dash Has 3 charges. The user dashes forward knocking enemies and projectiles away from them. Gain a charge upon a successful block. While dashing the user gains the amored status effect. Phinisher – Dephlect Barrier Summons a shield around where the ability was used that grants over shield to allies inside, deflects attacks and knocks enemies away from it, dealing a bit of damage to them. Slowly shrinks until it disappears. Additional info: Chartreuse’s shield has the lower-case gamma symbol on it (γ) is green like da gear is a knight (or a dame)

#phighting #phighting!#phighting roblox #roblox phighting #phighting oc #roblox #(:

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enteringdullsville · 8 months

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The Green Drewman, Chloe

Statistics

Aesthetic: Brainy

Age: 19 (Season One)

Alignment: Enactor

Badge: Power Symbol

Color Type: Green

Debut: The Violet Act

Effects: Ray Gun (Chloe just shoots the opponent with a laser); Re-Coil (Chloe zaps the opponent with her own electrokinesis); Gear Meddle (Chloe uses the wide variety of gadgets in her pack); Go Hammer Time (Chloe smashes the opponent with a mechanized mallet)

Family Members: Wilson Spearmin (Adoptive Father); OTTO (Invention)

Rank: A (Primary Character)

Standout Features: Bob cut, thick eyebrows, LED glasses, square pupils, striped turtleneck.

Character Bases

The Loud House’s Lisa Loud inspired her outfit and some of her body language, but I don’t have that kind of space.

Development

Chloe, named Penny at first and then “Jade” throughout RS, was initially a more straightforward “only sane woman” character without her…impulses. Initially a dull celadon, then chartreuse, since I hadn’t planned ahead for other color characters.

Her usual electronic pupils debuted in RS’ second season, at the time simple rectangular pixels. Her hair grew out a bit, too.

The tail end of Season Two gave Chloe freckles she kept for the rest of the old continuity. The reboot did away with them, along with returning some of her sanity.

Be Inventive

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scryingworkshop · 1 year

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#nocturne #male #dragon #bar #chartreuse primary #edged #flint secondary #basic tertiary #leaf tertiary #fire #goat eyes

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fantastic-fr-scries · 11 months

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Aether Female

Brown / Chartreuse / Crocodile , Tide / Flair / Points

Nature Unusual

#flight rising #flight rising dragon #flight rising scry #scrying workshop #fr scries #fr aether #flight rising aether #tide primary #flair secondary #points tertiary #nature unusual #brown chartreuse crocodile

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saltminerising · 1 year

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Real worst color is radioactive. It's unworkable. Want to take a stab at it? Okay! But let's make it realistic and take away the easy routes shall we? Has to be xyz, radioactive primary. You're not allowed to use white, black, grey, red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple or pink or any colors in those ranges except for flaxen, chartreuse, eggplant, avocado, cantaloupe, vermillion and brick. No stained or soap or underbelly or glimmer or runes or crackle or gem genes at all. Good luck.

#copypasta

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msb-lair · 2 months

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Dragon: Plushie - Tundra XXY Female

(Underbelly scroll applied on 2024-04-04) (Vial of Button Sight applied on 2024-04-04)

Purchased For: 75,000 treasure Hatched On: 2024-03-29 ID: 93962646

Parentage: Pluto/Astro Flight: Wind

Primary: Cerulean Stitched Secondary: Cerulean Patchwork Tertiary: Phthalo Koi Underbelly Eyes: Button

Comments: Purchased to use my button eyes vial on. May eventually permababy her, but for now she's going to be one half of a breeding pair.

Apparel:

Blue Umbrella

Chartreuse Wooly Tail

Jolly Mushroom Collar

Peppy Mushroom Frill and Basket

Merry Mushroom Capelet and Overalls

Familiar: Scorpio

Progeny Testing:

[Test] Stuffie

Broods:

Paired with Stuffie on 2024-04-13, 2 eggs [Clutch]

#Plushie Dragon #Dragon Queen #Dragon Record #Tundra Female #Tundra Breed #Blue Pool #XXY #Cerulean #Stitched #Stitched Cerulean #Patchwork #Patchwork Cerulean #Phthalo #Underbelly #Underbelly Phthalo #Wind Flight #Button #Scorpio

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projectproductions · 29 days

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[Undertale Yellow; Chartreuse]

Undertale Yellow; Chartreuse is an Alternate Universe of Undertale Yellow (2023) which is a fan-game of Undertale (2015). The basic idea behind it is a typical role-swap Alternate Universe, except instead with the idea of “How could these pre-existing characters end up in different positions later in life compared to their original starting point?”.

I suppose the general inspiration for this comes from the idea of Underswap or Storyshift, Undertale Alternate Universes which switch different characters into different roles, combined with the sequel/continuation setting of Horrortale, an Undertale Alternate Universe set after an Undertale Neutral Ending. The name Undertale Yellow; Chartreuse, shortened to be UTY;C, was chosen to both follow the naming conventions of other Undertale Yellow Alternate Universes (being different shades of yellow) and because “chartreuse” is famously known for being a name which does not feel like it matches its colour, something fitting for a role-shift AU.

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The Primary Role Shifts:

Kanako -> Protagonist

Clover -> Martyr

Ceroba -> Ruin’s Lurker

Axis -> Royal Guard

Dalv -> Town Leader

Martlet -> Steamwork’s Security

Starlo -> Grieving Parent

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Elaborations:

Kanako - Kanako had lived all her life in the Ruins with little contact with other Monsters outside Ceroba. She always had a curiosity about the larger underground, but was discouraged from it. She snooped around her mother’s belongings one day and found some old tapes (Chujin style). The tapes depicted a young Human being hidden in the Underground by some unfamiliar Monsters (Starlo, Martlet, and Dalv). Vaguely knowing about the need for Human souls to break the barrier, she set out on her own to find and capture this hiding Human to become a hero for Monsters. She’s assisted by her secret best friend, Flowey.

Clover - Clover fell into the underground much earlier than in canon, falling into the Dark Ruins without Toriel or Flowey knowing. Instead of letting Clover advance on their own, Dalv decided to go with Clover to Snowdin to protect them. Dalv and Clover met Martlet and Chujin (prior to the events depicted in the Zenith Martlet flashback). Chujin is apprehensive about Clover but Dalv and Clover befriend them both. Chujin led them to the Dunes. Clover and Starlo meet and immediately grow attached to each other, forming a strong father-child relationship. Eventually, due to everyone growing complacent on keeping Clover hidden, Clover and Chujin end up getting caught by a Royal Guardsmen in Waterfall, an area both Clover and Chujin are unfamiliar in. Chujin defended Clover in vain, they both died in the ensuing fight. Clover ends up haunting Kanako in a similar manner to Chara does to Frisk, helping her along her journey.

Ceroba - Ceroba is married to Chujin, but both elected to not have children until Monsterkind’s future was more secure and hopeful. She met Dalv and Clover through Chujin after they arrived at the Dunes. She became friends with Dalv and acted as an aunt to Clover. Loving to help take care of Clover, Ceroba and Chujin decided to have a baby of their own. However, distraught by Chujin’s and Clover’s simultaneous deaths and remembering Dalv telling her about his time in the Ruins, Ceroba fled to the Ruins with her baby, Kanako. She elected to raise Kanako away from the larger Underground, not wanting Kanako to be raised in a place which would condone the murder of a caring Monster and an innocent child. Ceroba is lonely and still deep within her grief, but focuses all her attention on raising Kanako and keeping Monsters out of the Dark Ruins.

Axis - Chujin, having fewer stressors and responsibilities since he was childless, had the time and energy to fine tune the invention of Axis. That led to fewer faults in his programming when presented to Asgore and the Axis Project being green-lit. Axis was constructed and placed in Snowdin to be trialled due to the lack of official Royal Guardsmen being in the Snowdin area. Chujin had control over Axis, but rarely used these controls due to an appreciation for Axis’s developed individuality. Martlet and Axis became close because of their similar relationship with Chujin. Initially he tried to capture Clover on sight, but Martlet convinced him to hold off. He became friendly with Clover as they visited Axis in Snowdin. Axis was deeply saddened by Chujin’s and Clover’s deaths, losing all of his closest relationships shortly after when Martlet moved to the Steamworks for work. He knows about Ceroba’s location in the Dark Ruins but purposefully misdirects people from her location to honour his creator. Axis runs autonomously in Snowdin as an asset of the Royal Guard, although none of them know how to operate him.

Dalv - Dalv was attacked by the Blue Soul Human when he was alone in the Snowdin forest, leading him to run off to the Dark Ruins in fear. He was given Coffee Beans by the Honeydew Resort residents when they heard about the attack, leading him to learn how to grow Coffee Beans. He eventually left the Dark Ruins with Clover and moved to the Dunes. He grew close to Starlo and his family as Clover did, bonding over an appreciation of farming. He was heartbroken by Chujin’s and Clover’s deaths as well as Ceroba’s and Starlo’s grief. Refusing to fall back onto his isolationist habits Clover helped him out of, Dalv took over Starlo’s role as leader of the Wild East to give him time to grieve. However the longer he takes on this role the worn down he becomes from his new found duties, but the Feisty Four help him out. Dalv does have a hunch on where Ceroba is, but he has no spare time or energy to pursue his suspicions. As a result of his leadership the Wild East has gained a Western Gothic aesthetic.

Martlet - Martlet never ended up joining the Royal Guard due to meeting Clover earlier on. She instead hopped between the Dunes and Snowdin while doing odd jobs for money in between, such as helping Axis with puzzle maintenance or Starlo in constructing his new house. As a result, she decided to become an independent contractor. After Chujin’s and Clover’s deaths she elects to remain in Snowdin to find company in Axis. She eventually gets hired by Asgore to rework the abandoned Steamworks into more living space for Monsters. Asgore wanting as few people to know about the old Steamworks as possible resulted in Martlet becoming exclusively responsible for the project. Eventually she had to move to live in the Steamworks just to make any significant progress on the project. The project was named the “Steamworks Reconstruction, Repurposing, and Reassimilation Initiative” or “S3RI”.

Starlo - Starlo was closer to Ceroba than he was to Chujin naturally, but ultimately was amicable with him and could get along with him reasonably well despite differing personalities. However, after meeting Clover through Chujin, the two became much closer. Starlo immediately became close to Clover when he met him and their friendship soon turned into a father-child relationship. He made a new house, with help from Martlet and Chujin, a little outside of Starlo’s Family's Farm and the Wild East so he and Clover could live together. He was greatly devastated after finding out Chujin’s and Clover’s deaths, the feeling being compounded by Ceroba’s disappearance shortly after. Now he only ever leaves the withering away house for the barest necessities. He has a hard time being around Western paraphernalia, the exception being Clover’s Hat and Gun which he keeps on him constantly. His relationship with the Feisty Four is estranged but they're still friendly with each other when they do see each other. Starlo is extremely lonely without Clover and Ceroba, by far the closest people in his life, and finds little direction in his life without them.

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