#(( but uh I’m finding writing Difficult so. the drafts will sit another day sorry ))

[skzsauce01]

Harmony

Synopsis: Dogged by a shameful past, you try to fit as your new identity in a new dance program at a renowned music conservatory. The school heartthrob and world-class violinist takes interest in you, which would be fine if he wasn’t also your childhood best friend.

Warning: hysterectomy, infertility, panic, mention of murder disclaimer: fertility does NOT determine your worth as a person

Word Count: 10.3k

Pairing: fem!reader x Kim Seungmin

There he is. Of course, there he is. Where else would the handsome prodigal son of the most prominent violinist go if not the best music conservatory in the country? You watch his bleached head of hair make its way across SKZ Conservatory of Music’s courtyard as fans flock him from behind. 

As for you, you sit on a random bench by yourself, waiting to start your first day at the conservatory’s new and nameless dance program as Emily Regan, not Y/N L/N, and most definitely not the gifted Kim Seungmin’s long-lost childhood best friend.

You must have stared at him too long, for he catches you and smirks. Blushing, you quickly clear your throat and head to class. He couldn’t have recognized you, right? No, you definitely look nothing like you did when you were six. If so, then why is he following you? You speed up, and while he makes no attempt to do the same, he surely is still on your tail. You turn the last corner and he does the same. You enter a room and take a seat. He— oh, you have the same class. First year literature. Just your luck. 

He walks by where you are seated and stops. “Hi there. What’s your name?”

You wish the ground would swallow you, but at least he didn’t call you Y/N or something like that.

“R-Regan. Emily Regan,” you mutter.

“Oh, American?”

You nod, still avoiding his eye.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Emily. I’m Kim Seungmin.”

He extends a hand out to shake, and you take it hesitantly. You aren’t sure you are on first name basis yet, but Kim Seungmin does what Kim Seungmin wants, you suppose.

“Hello, Kim.”

He smiles and takes the seat next to you and you wish you could disappear. But you can’t, so you excuse yourself to use the washroom. You thought you could get another spot when you returned, only to find him reserving your spot next to him for you.

The whole class, you do your best to focus on the professor, but he makes it difficult for you. He makes no effort to hide that he’s stealing glances at you, and fear creeps up your spine. What if he connects the dots and realizes you are your father’s daughter? He’d hate you, that’s for sure. After all you’ve done to him, it’s only natural.

You shake your head and he looks at you curiously. No, the one who did all that isn’t you, but Y/N L/N. You’re Emily Regan now. You just have to make sure you keep it that way.

Still, you’re glad to be able to see him again.

You know you should not be doing this, and there is no reason for you to potentially embarrass yourself even more, but you cannot help yourself. His pieces of work are right there, and his door was propped open so that you could see the music inside. So, you let yourself in.

Being the son of a major benefactor of the school, Seungmin has his own studio on campus. Instruments of all sorts line the wall and his Stradivarius violin lays on the table beside the draft of his latest composition. No one will steal it anyway; it’s chipped and insured. 

It does, however, mean that Seungmin probably just stepped out for a bit, so you’ll have to be quick. You look at his piece and hum the notes to yourself.

A small smile forms on your lips as you read the sheet. It’s a duet, and he’s only written the second violin part for now. 

This whole thing feels familiar. Reading music with him, cheek to cheek, is something you did often. In fact, that’s exactly what you were doing that day you got that call to rush home only to find where you once lived was turned into a slaughterhouse. Your fingers curl around your cardigan as you recall that day. It was Albinoni’s Adagio. You shake your head and refocus on the notes before you, humming a little louder to drown out your thoughts. You need to finish before—

“You have perfect pitch.”

—Seungmin returns.

You shoot up straight and turn slowly around. Seungmin leans against the door with his arms crossed.

“You have perfect pitch,” he repeats, walking over to his piano. He takes the sheet and plays it on the keyboard. “You weren’t even a microtone off.”

“I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t—”

He holds up a hand to silence you. “You’re a dance major, right? Do you play anything?”

You shake your head and lie. “Not really.”

“That’s a shame. Well, it’s never too late to start.” He picks up his violin and hands it to you. “Do you want to hear how the piece actually sounds?”

Your eyes widen at the familiar instrument and you visibly flinch backwards to which he raises a brow.

“Emily? Something wrong?”

“No, er, I, uh…” What should you say? “I’m alright. Thank you, and sorry for intruding. I need to use the washroom now.”

“Hold up,” he calls, effectively making you freeze in your step. “You don’t think you can just walk in here and leave unscathed, do you?”

“W-what do you mean?” you laugh nervously.

“You’ve got to pay the admissions fee,” he replies. “If you don’t play the violin, then here.” He hands you his music. “Compose the first violin.”

“What? I don’t even play!”

“You can try, or I can call security. You might even get suspended,” he smirks.

You open and close your mouth soundlessly. If you fail here as Emily Regan the dance major, then what will become of you? You have no choice but to concede and take the paper from his hands.

“Great. It’s only thirty-two bars, so bring it by tomorrow!”

“But I—!”

He takes out his phone and begins dialing the number for security while reading out each digit.

“Fine! I’ll do it!” you relent.

He grins victoriously. “Great!”

You frown at your new project. “But if I may ask, why the first violin? Don’t people usually compose both at once or the melody part first?”

“I like playing second best,” he answers casually.

This you remember from your childhood days, but that was long, long ago, and only because you always wanted to play first. His skills have improved tremendously since then. Anyone who calls Kim Seungmin a second violinist these days would surely be mocked. “Second? But you’re a renowned soloist!”

“I just haven’t found the person I want to follow yet.”

There’s a pain in his voice that makes you bite your own lip. Even if that person is still here, how can he, the prodigal son from the greatest violinist in the nation, stand next to, let alone play with again, the child of a pariah?

“I better get started on this,” you excuse yourself. You can’t bear to see the scars you left on him any longer.

Seungmin finds you the next day with your face on your desk. 

“Rough night?” he chuckles.

You pop your head off the table and swipe your hand over your mouth to rid it of any drool. At this point, you should give up ever looking good in front of the school’s heartthrob. 

“Here,” you cough, sliding over your work. “I’m forgiven with this, right?”

He hums approvingly and pulls up a keyboard on his phone. After playing it once, he shakes his head and pulls out another score and places it in front of you. 

“This won’t do. Try again.”

Your eyes widen. “But—!”

“You didn’t put yourself into this piece did you?”

How can he say that after you spent all night researching and writing drafts, trying to make something that wouldn’t disappoint the great Kim Seungmin? You open your mouth, however, no objection comes out. Something in you knows he’s right.

“Take your time with this next one. Just bring it to my studio when you’re ready, okay?”

You give a small nod and look at the paper on your desk with dread.

“But you did work hard on this,” he continues, “so here. A reward.” He slides a cup of coffee to you.  “Tell me what you like and I’ll get that next time.”

“Thank you, but you don’t have to,” you say, a little surprised by the gesture. “This time or the next.”

“Oh, come on. A little boost is nice after a rough night, isn’t it? How many hours did you even sleep?”

Good question. You’re curious yourself. You went to bed at four and were awakened at seven by your bladder, so one, two, “Three.”

He looks at you weirdly.

“What?” you defend. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.”

“You’re not from America, are you?”

That came out of the left field. “What?”

“Americans count like this.” He raises his index finger then his middle and then his ring, counting a number with each digit. “But you went like this.” He holds up five fingers and progressively puts one down, starting from his thumb.

“I must have gotten used to it here already,” you laugh sheepishly. “Oh look, the professor!”

You feel his stare, but thankfully, he does not say anything else after the instructor greets the class.

The next attempt takes you eight days. You wouldn’t mind a little longer to work out the finer details, but seeing him in class pressures you to just turn it in.

You hold your breath as he scans over your new attempt. Your nervousness does not last long though as he does not even bother playing it and instead drops it right into the bin. He takes out yet another copy and slams it on the table in front of you.

“I really am trying my be—”

“That’s not what I’m looking for,” he cuts sternly. “Remember what I said. I want you in this piece. Not your best— you.”

“I—”

“No. Look here. Look at me. Focus.”

You gulp and do as told. His lips are pursed and his eyes intense.

“What do you feel?” His question sounds more like a statement.

“Happy?” you try.

He scowls.

“Sad?”

“No, you don’t,” he says. “Look at me. What do you feel?”

You rack your head for emotional words. What answer could he possibly be looking for? “Attraction?”

Seungmin breaks his seriousness and laughs loudly. “Attraction?”

“I mean, you have all those fans and the looks, wealth, and talent,” you try to explain, “so I thought you were looking for that.”

He pokes your forehead. “This isn’t about me or what I’m looking for. It hasn’t been since I gave you this piece. Think about it honestly. What does Emily Regan feel?”

Emily Regan? “Frustrated.”

Another shake of his head. “Deeper. Think. What do you feel?”

You bite your lip and flick your eyes to meet his. What do you feel? What do you feel, posing as a dancer here at SKZ Conservatory in front of Kim Seungmin?

“... shame.”

He smiles bittersweetly and hands you a pen. “Write,” he whispers gently.

You stare at the empty bars, pen quivering slightly above the page. Finally, you draw a small oval in a line.

You write and write, humming the notes to yourself and not realizing how time has passed. When you finally finish, the sun has already gone down. You look up and see Seungmin with his elbows resting on the table across from you and his hands clasped, not having moved a centimeter for the past few hours.

When you finally put down the pen, he turns the sheet towards himself. He stares at it for a good ten minutes before standing up with it and pulling out his Stradivarius. From his phone, he first records him playing his own composition and then plays yours over it.

The whole thing could not have been more than five minutes, but to you, it feels like an eternity. 

At last he finishes the piece with an up bow and brings his arm in a circle to his side. He stares at your work for a few more silent moments before saying, “Have you published music before?”

That certainly is not the comment you were expecting. “No?”

“It’s… familiar. I don’t mean the piece, but the style, it’s…”

“Well, do I pass?” you cut in before he can think too much of it.

He sets down his instrument. “It’s a little bland, but I'll take it. Good work, Emily.”

“I’ll be taking my leave then. Goodbye, Kim.”

“Wait—” He calls after you, but you are already out the door.

You speed walk until you are in the safety of a nearby washroom. You rest your back against the stall door and let out a sigh. Does he remember the amateur pieces you made almost two decades ago? Did you accidentally just expose yourself? No, prodigy or not, there is no way he can connect you to Y/N L/N just from thirty-two bars of music. At any rate, it’s best to lay low from him for now, you decide.

Laying low does not really work when you are one of the few members of the conservatory’s budding dance ensemble though. Seungmin is hosting a charity concert and requested dancers for his show. You manage to finish your numbers for the night without complications and are now waiting in the wings for the curtains as Seungmin begins his final piece.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to enjoy his music until something about the tune strikes you. Your eyelids flutter open as a familiar melody fills the auditorium. It’s your piece! Sure, he wrote it into a solo, but the resemblance is unmistakable. 

When he finishes, he bows and makes a speech. Your classmate nudges you to snap you out of your surprise and urges you onstage for the curtain call. The whole time, you stare at Seungmin, unsure of what to make of the situation. 

At the end of his speech, he gestures for the dancers to come forward. He meets your eyes with his usual smirk and grabs your hand for the bow.

When all is done, you want to find an explanation for that last piece, but your bladder demands to be released right at that moment. You’ve been finding yourself needing to go more and more or the area starts to hurt, so you quickly relieve yourself and speed out. To your luck, it seems Seungmin took his time packing up his violin; you see his silhouette just across the field from the performance hall.

“Wait,” you call out, running after him. He doesn’t hear you until you are closer. “Wait!”

Seungmin turns around as you stop in front of him, resting your hands on your knees to catch your breath.

“Emily?”

He takes a look at your state. You’re still in your costume from having rushed out, and your sheer asymmetrical skirt is doing nothing for you against the night wind.

He shakes off his coat and wraps it around you. “Are you here because of that last bit?”

You nod and stare at him, hoping your gaze draws an explanation out of him.

“It’s a good piece. I felt the need to share it.” He fixes the collar around your neck. “I know I should have asked first. I’ll buy you food sometime to make up for it, yeah?”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter that you played it; I just want to know why you did it.”

“I told you already. I like it,” he shrugs.

“You like Paganini. You like Strasate. Anything from them or even something you wrote would have made a better finish. Why this?”

“It’s a charity concert for the needy. Your piece had fitting emotions.”

You narrow your eyes at him. Is there really nothing else?

“Hold on.” He narrows his eyes back at you. “How do you know so much about composers?”

“I— It’s— This is a music conservatory! I’ve just seen their names around in murals and such!”

“Makes sense,” he nods.

“Good. Well then, have a good evening, Kim,” you bid, relieved, and begin to turn around.

“Do you want me to walk you back to the dorm? It’s quite late,” he offers.

You turn around but do not stop walking away. “I still need to change. Thank you though!”

It is only when you’re in the green room do you realize you still have his coat.

“Kim,” you call out, shuffling your feet quickly after him.

A wide grin spreads over his face as he turns around and sees your form. There’s a tuba on his shoulder. “Emily! Looking for me?”

You nod and thrust forward the bag in your hand. “Your coat. I came to return it.”

Seungmin dramatically wraps his hands around the instrument. “Oh no! My hands are full right now! Could you bring it to my studio in fifteen minutes?”

Your grip on the bag tightens in frustration, but he leans towards you, tuba looming overhead, and blinks thrice.

“Please? I’ll make it worth your effort.”

You fumble backwards, flustered, and drop your hand and the bag to your side. “Fine,” you relent. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes,” he promises. As you walk out of the music hall, you hear a tuba playing fanfare.

Fifteen minutes later, you knock at his door which opens before you even finish your first knock. Seungmin greets you and gestures inside where a plate of mochi sits on his table with two cups of tea.

“Care to join me?” he invites.

You again hand him the bag and keep your feet planted where they are. “I think I’ll have to pass, but thank you.”

“Aw, don’t you like sweets?” He reaches for the plate and circles it around your face.

Still, you shake your head. “Again, thank you, but based on the last few times I was in here, I would rather not be.”

“I promise not to make you compose again. Just come in before the tea gets cold!”

“Why do you want me to anyway?”

“Huh?” His eyes widen at the question.

“I mean, other people have perfect pitch, yet you only sit with me to work through a composition. You sit next to me and buy me coffee and now you’re inviting me to tea. Why are you so interested in me?”

He tilts his head to the side. “‘Cause I like you, obviously.”

That sets off your alarms. Quickly, you dart your eyes around, looking to see if any of his fan girls are around to hear that and murder you. You then push him into the room and slam the door behind you.

“Excuse me, what?” you exclaim.

He sits by the food, crossing his legs. “I. Like. You.” he repeats slowly.

“B-b-b-but that’s impossible,” you sputter. “Curious? Maybe. But attracted to? No.”

He chuckles. “Why not? I mean, it did start out as curiosity, but the more I poked around, the more intrigued I became. You’re a woman full of mysteries, Emily. I like that.”

You put your hands in front of you and slowly back up. “No, no. No. No. There’s nothing to me at all. We don’t know each other very well. Of course a stranger is going to have a lot of unknowns. Once you get to know me, you’ll find that you’ve wasted your time and energy.” You like your acquaintanceship right now. Even being ignored by him is totally fine, but if he ever finds out who you are, he’ll hate you and spit on the person you’ve tried so hard to become.

“Oh really?” He stands and advances to you, making you shrink. “Then let’s put your theory to the test, shall we?” 

“What do you mean?” you gulp.

“You answer my questions and I’ll see if I still like you then.”

“Q-questions?”

“Yeah. We can go slowly if you’d like. Maybe one a day? How does that sound?” 

When you don’t respond, he begins. “Why do you seem so afraid of touching a violin?”

“I— uh…”

“Why did you lie about your home country? Why did you feel ‘shame’? Why did you sneak into my studio to look at my work yet claim to have no interest in music?”

With every question, he takes one step in your direction, finally backing you up against the wall. 

“And” —he lowers and softens his voice— “how does it feel to kiss you?”

“I’ll— I’ll—” You squirm in your shoes, head down and fists balled. The silence is deafening between your stutters, but he makes no effort to fill it, waiting patiently for your response.  “I’ll answer the last one,” you finally squeak.

“Alright then.”

You hear one of his hands pressing on the wall behind you and feel the other coming up to your jaw. He leans closer and closer and you squeeze your eyes tighter and tighter. You’re shaking so much, you can’t tell if you’re even still standing anymore.

His breath fans your lips as he suddenly chuckles and straightens up. He leaves a quick peck on your forehead and steps back.

“You don’t have to do things you don’t want to, Emily.” He has a soft smile which you stare at with surprise at the turn of events. “Doesn’t mean I’ll stop annoying the daylights out of you though,” he adds cheekily.

He slides the mochi back into the box they came in and hands them to you. “Go back to your dorm. Maybe we’ll continue our interrogation next time. Oh, and there’s a closer toilet if you turn right since you seem to go all the time.”

You stand there, mochi in hand, with your jaw opening and closing without any audible sound. He laughs again and turns you around towards the door.

“Go, before I poke you with my bow.”

Mention of a violin snaps your soul back into your body. “Okay, okay. Goodbye, Kim.”

“Thanks for returning the coat,” he calls after you as you disappear into the washroom on the left.

“Remember to choose a partner for this project. Let me know if you can’t get one by next week,” your literature professor concludes and whisks out the door.

You feel the entire room turn towards your direction no thanks to the one and only Kim Seungmin sitting next to you. He himself turns toward you with a plotting grin.

“Emily.”

You close your eyes and take a deep breath, pain rippling through your belly as you do so. There is no point resisting, and you don’t feel up to it today anyway.

“Are you free tonight? I’ll pick you up after your practice and we can get a head start.”

That night, you already know who has just arrived when the girls come squealing into the locker room. You couldn’t care less though. You try to rub away the pain that’s nagging at your belly and fumble around for some pain killers. You allow yourself five minutes after tossing back the pills, but begrudgingly drag your feet outside so as to not keep Seungmin waiting. 

He greets you with an electrolyte drink which you take and thank him for as discreetly as possible without catching the attention of his fans. He thankfully seems to take the hint and follows you outside, only fully approaching you when the last of the girls retreats back into the changing room.

“Ready for our project?”

“You’re awfully excited for homework,” you comment.

“It’s not just any homework.” He bumps you with his shoulder. At that moment, another wave of pain grips your stomach, causing you to stop in your step and bend over.

“Did I nudge too hard?” he gasps. “I’m sorry!”

You shake your hand. “Just… premenstrual cramps. It’s a little hard to manage these days,” you squeeze out.

He walks you to a nearby bench and kneels in front of you. He opens your drink for you and wipes sweat from your forehead.

“Are you okay? Do you want to go home and rest for today?” he asks worriedly.

“I’ll be fine in a bit; I just need the medicine to kick in. Sorry for delaying us.”

“Don’t worry about that.” He takes your hand and massages the pressure point between your thumb and index finger. “Is there anything you need?”

You assure him that you’re fine and can continue with the scheduled homework session which you know he cut short with one excuse or another. You two do the bare minimum on the assignment before he “realized” he scheduled an appointment to restring his violin. After Seungmin walks you to your dorm, you quickly put on a liner and head to bed.

That night, you learn that a liner was a mistake. You wake up as you often do by a call from the bathroom. Groggily, you swing your legs off your bed and are startled by a loud ‘squish.’ Too distracted by the gnawing in your pelvis, you think nothing of it, until you open your door and the hallway lights pour into your room, illuminating your blood-covered feet. With a gasp, you quickly turn around and see the trail of red behind you. You quickly reach for your heaviest pad only to be gripped with the worst shock of pain you’ve had yet. You fall to your knees then ultimately to the floor.

Waking up on the floor makes you forget where you are, and realizing that you are laying in a pool of blood and urine does not help. It takes a moment for you to recover from the shock the state of your room gave you, but when you do, you decide to get yourself cleaned up first then deal with the room later.

Twenty minutes later, you again face the disaster that is your dorm. Thankfully, you do not have literature today, so no one— and by no one you mean Seungmin— will notice if you take a day off to take care of it.

You begin pulling off your bedsheets to wash when you hear a knock at your door. You panic and look around. It doesn’t take a genius to know your room is in no condition for a guest right now.

“Emily?”

And of course it has to be Kim Seungmin. You freeze in your spot, not knowing what to do.

“Did she leave?” you hear him ask himself. This is good. You hope he leaves.

“I guess so,” he mutters. 

You hear some plastic shuffling outside and then his retreating footsteps. You breathe a sigh of relief which you immediately regret because of the pain that comes with breathing too heavily. Your periods have never hurt this much, you note with worry.

You return to your sheets until your phone vibrates with a notification.

Kim Seungmin- Lit [10:59 AM]: Hope you’re feeling better. I left some soup and food at your door since it seems like you aren’t home.

Kim Seungmin- Lit [10:59 AM]: Call me if you need something. Or if you need a ride to the hospital.

Hospital? You rub your abdomen, wondering if the pain warrants a visit. You take some more painkillers and eat the food before finishing cleaning your room. As you leave the washing machine running downstairs, you sit at your table after another washroom stop for a quick nap. You nestle your head in your arms and close your eyes…

… and open them a few hours later, feeling like you’d rather be dead. You can barely breathe and your room spins around you. You don’t even remember to grab your keys as you stumble out the door. Hospital, hospital. No, the hospital’s too far. The conservatory’s health center will have to suffice for now, and it’s only two buildings away.

You must look really unwell, for as soon as you step into the facility, there are already three staff members rushing to your side. You aren’t sure what happens next. It looks like your arrival caused quite the commotion, but all you can hear is Mozart’s Requiem playing somewhere. The world is closing in on you, and you feel your legs give out.

“Seungminnie…”

You wake up to the humming of machines in a hospital room. You realize they transferred you when you see an old lady sleeping in the bed beside yours.

Thankfully, you feel much better now, though you suspect it has something to do with IV connected to your wrist.

Seeing that you are awake, a nurse comes in to check your vitals.

“Are you feeling alright, Miss Regan?” she asks.

You nod and thank her as she replaces your IV bag.

“The doctor wants to see you in a bit for your consultation, but I need a bit of information from you first. We couldn’t find any family members attached to your name, so you’ll have to fill out some forms for yourself, alright sweetie?”

After making sure you are able to, she hands you a clipboard which you complete steadily until one section. “Emergency contact,” it reads.

Seeing your hesitation, the nurse chimes in. “It can be anyone. A friend, teacher, anyone you can trust just in case, you know?”

You smile politely. "May I leave it blank?"

The nurse looks stunned. "I suppose, but what if something happens?"

"You can call a lawyer."

She looks doubtful but stays quiet save for the few instructions she gives to reach your doctor’s office. As you walk there, you think about what just happened. Emergency contact? You'd just moved here for school. Your mother passed during childbirth, and your father— Emily Regan doesn’t have a father. There's no one you could have put down, you tell yourself. No one. Not even a certain overzealous violinist. 

You knock twice on the door you were told. 

“Miss Emily Regan?” the doctor greets as you walk in.

“Yes, that’s me.”

“Nice to meet you. My name is Doctor Lee. How are you feeling right now?"

"A lot better."

"Glad to hear it. Please take a seat. Tell me, have you experienced frequent urination lately?"

You walk out of the pharmacy with a paper bag in your hands. Your heart drums in your ears but for a completely different reason this time. What will this mean for you? You’ll need to be resting for two months after the procedure, and as a dance major, this means you can’t attend class. Never mind its impact on your school year, what will this mean for your entire life? Your father has already tarnished the name Y/N L/N. You’ve tried so hard and lied so much just to make Emily Regan real. What have you made her into now? Dirty. Fiendish. Despicable. Even if you escaped being the daughter of the most hated artist who shamed his whole nation, you’ll never escape who you really are. And now this? Your hand unconsciously rises to your belly, rubbing it. It’s only further proof of what a defect you are. 

It is around four by the time you arrive back at the dorms. Thankfully, the hospital phoned your resident assistant who has your keys for you. You’re still distracted by your thoughts as you approach the building and nearly miss the man pacing up and down the front door.

Seungmin has his shoulders hunched and hands clasped together as he blows on them to keep warm, his grey cardigan not doing much against the evening chill. 

“Kim?” you call out, not believing your eyes. You are, after all, on a lot of drugs.

He immediately runs towards you when he recognizes you. You stand where you are and wait for him to come, now believe that he truly is here. Was he out here waiting for you? Your hand curls around your belly. He shouldn’t be wasting his efforts like this on someone like you. Never mind the faults of Y/N, even as Emily, you no longer deserve the love of someone like Kim Seungmin. You’d never wish for your childhood best friend to be with someone as flawed as you.

“What are you doing here?” you inquire as he stops in front of you, raising his hands as if wanting to hold you but is afraid you’d break under his touch.

“You didn’t pick up the phone…” he whispers. “You weren’t home and you didn’t pick up the phone…”

“I… had something going on.” You tuck away your prescription in your coat. “What are you doing here?”

“You didn’t—”

“Kim.”

“—the phone—”

“Kim Seungmin!”

His eyes look up to meet yours and you see the daze being snapped out of them.

“Huh?” 

You exhale sharply and repeat. “What are you doing here?”

“Your dorm doesn’t allow guys past twelve,” he replies matter of factly.

Your brows knit together. “You were out here for four hours?” 

He nods. “Where were you? You were sick yesterday, and now you’re off the map until four in the morning.”

You shouldn’t have snapped. You know what he means by his words, but you aren’t exactly having the best day, and Seungmin isn’t supposed to be here. You aren’t who he actually likes. You aren’t the six year old Y/N nor are you an ideal bachelorette. No, you are some imposter and you hate it. You hate it, so you state flatly, “Why does it matter to you where I was? If you’re worried about the literature project, then I’m sorry. I promise to finish it on time, but it was you who ended the homework session early yesterday, and as far as I’m concerned, we don’t have anything scheduled for today. Thank you for the meal earlier, but if stuff like that’s going to make you feel entitled to knowing about my every whereabouts, then please stop doing it.”

“That’s not what I—”

You close your eyes and let your head roll back. “I know. I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, so please just leave me alone for a bit.”

You walk past him, expecting the conversation to be left at that. You hear him hesitating, which you also expect, but you are not ready for the:

“No.” 

Seungmin runs in front of you and spreads his limbs out, blocking your path. “You’re suffering. I don’t know from what, or if it’s even really period cramps, but you are. I’m not letting you do it alone.” He sucks in his cheeks as he tries to find his next words. You half expect him to take you to his studio and sit you down with a drink until you give him at least a hint of what’s happening, but he surprises you with, “I’m not saying you have to share it with me, but you need to have someone.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t,” he objects. “And trust me. I’ve seen a man try and it cost him his life and his daughter.”

The familiar story makes you freeze. Despite yourself, you ask, “Who?”

“My father’s best friend. The late violinist, L/N.” 

“T-the one who turned out to be a murderer?” Why are you saying this? Just leave him and go!

Seungmin approaches you now that you’ve stopped. His presence makes your eyes water. “He only got involved with the wrong people and ruined his name because he tried to deal with the grief of losing his wife on his own. He even hid it from his own best friend, and that’s how everything tumbled out of control.”

“And his daughter?” Stop it! Y/N— no, Emily, stop it!

“No one knows, though she could be dead. My father immediately sent out searches for her, but nothing ever came up.” His voice softens almost to the point of inaudible as he talks about her. “Father hasn’t played a duet since, and neither have I.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you say.

“Don’t be. You didn’t even know about it, so what could you have done?” he laughs dryly. 

The irony makes your toes curl.

“Just don’t make me watch another person go down the same path, okay?” he pleas gently.

Again, you should have done something else. You should just say, “Okay, I’ll reach out if I need it” and leave it at that. Instead, you turn to him and ask, “Can you play me ‘Méditation’?”

You watch his eyes widen at the ‘coincidence’ of your request, especially after that story. 

“‘Méditation?’” he asks.

“Yes. Massenet’s.”

He visibly takes a step back and you know why. After all, you’ve made this exact request a million times whenever you were left to sleepover at your father’s best friend’s house.

You wake up on the couch of his studio. Seungmin lays sprawled out on the floor next to you, violin on his chest and bow dangling from his thumb. You use the blanket he put over you to lift the ten million dollar instrument onto a table before he can roll over and crush it. You cradle the Strad, lifting it over its owner to the table on the other side.

“You know who composed ‘Méditation’ but you can’t touch a violin?”

The voice startles you, and you jerk backwards, stumbling back onto the couch. Once you’ve regained your balance, you glare at the man who’s still laying on the ground, moving only his eyes to look at you.

You sigh and pull the blanket over your head. “Don’t pry my secrets or I’ll have to keep avoiding you,” you warn.

“Oh!” he hums.

You pull the blanket back down and see him sitting up now with an arm propped on his knee. “What?”

“You finally admitted to hiding things,” he tells you.

“Everyone hides things.”

“But not everyone sucks at denying it.”

“Hey!”

He points at your jacket. “Your pill bottles are literally rattling with every move you make, Miss I’m-totally-fine.”

You wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. “They’re— they’re—”

“Pill bottles,” he insists. He folds his hands on the couch and rests his head on them. “Your inept lying is adorable.”

You groan and toss the blanket over his head. He tries to pull it off, but you clamp your hand over his to stop him.

“I don’t want to tell you this, but you did house me for a night, so you deserve to know at least this much, I guess.” Your serious tone stops his resistance attempts. “I’m scheduled for surgery in a little over a week. I’ll be in a hotel for two weeks after the procedure with a nurse since I don’t have someone to care for me during the bed rest period. It’s a relatively safe procedure, so don’t worry.”

Seungmin flips your hand over and grabs it. The blanket slips off his head and you are left looking at his glassy eyes.

“I…” He takes a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. “I won’t ask you where you’re staying if you don’t want to tell. Just promise you’ll text after the surgery. Let me know that you’re still alive at least.”

You nod. “You’ll see me working on our Powerpoint for the project at least.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he tells you.

“I won’t be able to dance for a month and a half after this. My general education classes are all I’m going to be doing,” you assure him.

“If it gets too hard—”

“I know. Thank you, Kim.” 

You roll your suitcase off the bus. You aren’t sure if it is extra windy today or if it’s just your nerves, but you shiver as you stare at the hospital before you. You take a deep breath and take a step forward only to find your feet glued to the sidewalk. 

Just then, you hear a ping through your earphones. You pull out your phone and see a message.

Kim Seungmin- Lit [7:41 AM]: [get_well_soon.mp3]

You click into it and a piano and violin playing a familiar intermezzo fills your ears. You then look down at your feet and successfully lift one up and place it in front of the other until you are in front of the reception.

“Hello. I have an appointment under Emily Regan, and I'd also like to update my emergency contact information.”

After two weeks, you’re at last pushing open the door to your own dorm room.

You aren’t sure if it’s the morphine or the darkness of the room, but stepping inside after two weeks and seeing your curtains sway lightly in the evening air makes you feel emptier than you’ve ever felt before. Suddenly, your emotions overwhelm you all at once and you succumb to the floor. Your throat tightens and you wrap your arms around your abdomen, tucking your knees to your chest. You think you are crying, but you can’t be sure. The walls are closing in. You feel yourself being shackled by chains and no matter how hard you scream, no one hears you. Your voice bounces in your head like a ricocheting bullet and water is seeping in from somewhere, filling your nose and mouth, depriving you of air. All the while, your heartbeat echoes in your head.

Ba dum.

Ba dum.

Ba 

… dum.

With a strangled gasp, you manage to break one hand free for a split moment, and you immediately look for the remote that has called a nurse for the past two weeks. Of course, you are no longer at the hospital, so the only thing you grab is your phone.

“Seungminnie… Seungminnie, Seungminnie.”

You fumble with the device, but the chains are tightening around you again. Fog clouds in and you can’t see your phone anymore. You don’t even hear it hit the floor as it slips from your hand.

Ba dum. Ba dum. Ba dum.

Suddenly, you’re six again. Before you is the empty hallway of Violinist Kim’s mansion. Your plastic princess heels thunder with every step as you run down the hall.

Ba dum. “Seungminie?”

There’s no one there. Every turn you make just leads to another empty hall. The ground begins to morph, twisting and turning under your tiny feet. 

Ba dum. Ba dum.

The giant bow on your dress unravels and cinches around your ankle, and you trip and scrape your chin.

“Seungmin!”

“Emily!”

The ribbons shrivel. The chains clatter to the ground. The water drains. You gasp haggredly for air as your hands fly up to his shoulders for support. Beside you, your phone sits on the floor, his name illuminating from the screen.

“Emily, what’s wrong?” he asks, lowering his own device from his ear.

Your hands climb up to his face, cupping it. Your eyes are still glazed over. Blood drips from your lips from having been gnawed on too much.

“You’re… you’re not Seungmin.” You put your hands all over his face, feeling its features. “Or are you? No…”

“Emily—”

“Who’s Emily? You’re not Seungmin.”

“Stop biting yourself.”

“Seungmin’s not blond. Seungmin’s not—”

“Emily!”

“WHO’S EMILY?”

He freezes and looks at you. You’re drooped over at this point, defeated and tired. He then puts one hand behind you and pulls you into his arms.

“I am Seungmin,” he says gently. The vibration of his chest as he speaks lulls you. “I am Seungmin,” he repeats. “I’m right here. You’ve found me. I’m right here.”

Shakily, one of your hands reaches up and grabs his shirt while the other circles around to your lower belly.

“... Seungminnie…”

You’re in the furthest corner of the bed, staring at him. He’s just standing there, staring at you, juice in one hand and your keys in the other.

“So,” he begins. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” you answer truthfully. Your eyes shift to your desk where some medicine including a bottle of Kadian and a pack of birth control sit carelessly. “But I don’t suppose I had to say much for you to figure things out.” He’s going to leave you all alone now. Why is he even still here? He should realize how unsuitable you are for someone like him. There’s undeniable evidence in front of him now.

He clutches at his chest and scrunches up his face as a glaze passes over his eyes. He takes a moment before taking out one of the pills. He hands it to you with the juice, obviously having read the administration instructions.

“Yeah,” he confirms. “That and the frequent urinations. How much did they take out?”

You look away and your hand subconsciously reaches down. So he is still holding onto hope for some miracle. That’s why he hasn’t left yet. “Enough.” Now go, Seungmin.

He sits beside you, fiddling with the blankets between his fingers.

You break the silence first. “Don’t feel inclined to stay.”

“Huh?” he questions, looking up.

“I’m” —you motion downstairs— “you know. You’re here because you like me, right? Well, I can’t exactly produce an ideal family anymore. You should probably look for someone who can help you continue your and your father’s legacy.”

He looks more confused than you’ve ever seen him. “What?”

“I’m saying you should walk away now. I won’t hold it against you, so you don’t have to live with any guilt. I never considered our relationship possible anyway.”

Confusion shifts to anger. “You— You think I— I—” He struggles with his words after having been presented a scenario he’s never even considered. He exhales long and hard. “No. Just” —he grabs at an imaginary stress ball— “no. I’m not leaving, and you can’t make me. I don’t like you just because of your fertility. How could you think that? I don’t want a child. I want you. Do you understand? You! I couldn’t even sleep or drink for the past two weeks you were hospitalized, and the only time I could eat was whenever you sent a text or when I saw your little cursor on the Powerpoint. You think a surgery like that can weigh out whatever I felt that drove me to do this?”

“Still, I’m—” 

“Worthy, beautiful, and loveable,” he insists.

Those words are foreign to you. They’ve been long before you went to the hospital. How can he believe such things about you? Would he say the same things about Y/N? 

Seungmin sighs when you don’t respond and drags you closer. You don’t resist which he takes as a good sign. “So you don’t have to hide things from me anymore, okay? I’ll be here for you.”

You try to bite your lip only to find ointment there, so you play with a loose thread on your blanket instead.

“I… I’m already hiding a lot of things from you that I’m afraid to confess,” you admit. “Will that still be okay?”

You feel him nod. “Take your time. I’ll wait until you’re comfortable.”

You close your eyes and bask in his warmth. Will he really be okay if he knew he has in his arms the daughter of a drug addict murderer? Will he really be okay knowing you’re his “best friend” who left him without a trace for all these years?

You hope so. 

You want to believe so.

“It’s out! It’s out! It’s out!” you exclaim. 

“It’s just one grade. Relax,” Seungmin chuckles. Still, he stops playing the piano and swings his legs over to look at your phone.

“Not all of us have an established violin career to fall back on,” you remind him while logging into your account. You cover your eyes and hold the phone away from you as the page loads. “I can’t look.”

Seungmin takes the device. “I think you should.”

“Why? Is it good or bad?”

“We got a hundred.”

“We did?” You uncover your eyes. “We did! We did!” 

In your excitement, you give him a quick hug. He puts your phone on the table and drags you onto the piano bench. “You’re not doing anything right now, right?” He puts a simple piece in front of you. “Try this.”

“Kim, I don’t play.”

“It’s simple. Look.” He squeezes in behind you and puts your hand on the keyboard. “That’s middle C.”

He presses on the key and you scoff. You lift your left hand up as well and humor him. You’re definitely a bit choppy, but you make your way through the piece slowly and surely. Seungmin wraps his arms around your belly and rests his head on your shoulder with his eyes closed, swaying slightly to the music. When you get to the end, you lift up your hands and rest them on your lap.

“You’re just cuddling, aren’t you?”

He opens his eyes and looks at you. “Are you uncomfortable?”

Your eyes shift to the music. “No, I like it.”

You feel his heartbeat accelerating at your words. “So uh, you’ve played piano before, haven’t you?”

“Uhm. I played a few different things.”

“Violin?”

“That was my focus.”

He’s not surprised. “Were you good?”

“I was better than you,” you tease.

“Oh, really?” He jumps up and puts his violin under his chin in a challenging stance. 

You put your hands defensively out with a laugh. “That was like years ago!”

He wiggles his eyebrow and starts performing up-bow ricochet and left hand pizzicato.

You roll your eyes humorously. “We get it, Mr. World-class-musician.”

He laughs too and sits back down beside you. “Speaking of which, I’m playing with the JYP Philharmonic next weekend. You’ll come, right?”

You nod. “If I can manage to walk there.”

“I need to get there early, but I’ll have my driver take you.” He smiles widely. “You have to come, you have to. I have someone I want you to meet.”

“Who?”

He holds a finger to his lip cheekily. “Now it’s my turn to have a little secret.”

You fix the ribbon around your neck and smooth out your skirt as your driver comes around to open your door. You thank him and make your way into the building where Seungmin asked you to meet him. You hear him before you see him.

“Oh, she’s wonderful. She really is.”

There’s another lower voice that mumbles a reply you can’t make out. 

“Kim?” you call, approaching his waiting room.

Seungmin’s grin widens as he turns around and sees you. You, on the other hand, drop the chocolate and banana you brought for him when you see the other man in the room.

Seungmin gestures to you and looks at his companion. “Dad, this is Emily Regan, the girl I’ve been talking to you about. Emily, my father.”

Violinist Kim looks as shocked as you. “Emily… Regan?” His eyes narrow.

Seungmin furrows his brows. “What’s wrong, Dad?”

He doesn’t say anything and extends a hand out to you. “Nice to meet you, Emily Regan.”

You shake his hand uncertainly, unable to look at his unblinking eyes.

“Emily? Dad?” Seungmin looks between the two of you.

The older gentleman turns to his son. “See me for a moment.”

After Seungmin sits you on a couch, the two step out into the garden as per his request. You watch as Violinist Kim says something that makes Seungmin run a hand through his hair then stab them into his pockets as he slouches backwards. He replies with something that his father quickly rebuttals. What can they possibly be discussing? It’s clear Violinist Kim does not approve of you. Does he realize who you are? Or is Emily Regan the one he disapproves of? As a parent, it’s not uncommon to want grandchildren after all.

Suddenly, someone else bursts into the room. “Mr. Kim Seungmin, the conductor is looking for you!”

The stage worker is surprised to see only you in the room, and you inform him where the performers are. He thanks you and lets himself outside to deliver the message.

You stand as Seungmin and his father walk back in. Your friend pauses in his steps to talk to you.

“I’m sorry about that,” he apologizes. “This isn’t how I thought my dad would react to this. I’ll talk to you after.” He then spots your hand which has again found its way to your abdomen and frowns. “I swear that’s not something we talked about nor is it even something worth getting upset over, okay?”

You give him an assuring smile. “Break a leg.”

You watch as he hurries to catch up to the stage worker who is giving a briefing as they walk. You don’t bother to ask what is wrong. You can already tell from the cold eyes of Violinist Kim what is wrong. All you can do is wonder how much he told his son.

The concert goes well. You can tell that whatever happened with his father took a toll on Seungmin’s mentality, but his concerto was still dynamic and captivating. A few rows in front of you,  you spot Violinist Kim still nodding along to the music and supporting his son. 

After forty minutes, the house lights come back on and it is time for intermission. Seungmin is done with his concerto, so you go back backstage to see if you can catch him. You don’t have to go that far though. On your way, you hear a tree go, “Psst, Emily!”

You look and see him waving you over. He’s still calling you Emily, so that’s good, you note.

“Why are we out here?” you inquire.

He takes you a little further into the woods until he finds a boulder for you to sit on. He hoists you up so you’re comfortable.

“I thought I should clear things up before my dad talks to you,” he explains. “I’ve seen enough K-dramas to know what kind of headache misunderstandings cause.”

You nod, prompting him to go on. He does.

“You remember when I told you about Violinist L/N?” 

This sends your heart racing. Has he found out?  

“Well his daughter used to be my best friend. The thing is, my dad thinks you look a lot like her, and he thinks I’m only with you because of it.” 

Oh, it’s just that. Thank goodness. 

He grabs your hands, his eyes serious. “I just want you to know that no matter what he tells you, that’s not it. I like you for you, Emily, and nothing more and nothing less.”

You’re still convincing yourself that he isn’t aware of your past identity, and you must be making a face that he registers as doubt for he slides a hand up to your cheek, forcing you to meet his eyes. “Please believe me.”

You snap out of it. Of course you believe him, and it wouldn’t change much if he were in love with Y/N L/N anyway. However, you don’t miss the opportunity to ask, “What would you do if she is not dead? What would you do if she came back?”

“I’d celebrate her return. I’d grab lunch with her and introduce the two of you, but that’ll be the extent of it.”

“What if she’s been doing well all these years, and you were the only one left hurting and alone, wondering where she is? Could you forgive her? Could you accept someone like that, not to mention a child of a murderer, with open arms?”

Seungmin retreats his hand and frowns at you. “Why are you saying things like that? She’s my best friend!”

You grab his hand before it can go far. This time it’s your turn to stare him in the eye. “I’m not accusing her. I’m just asking if you, Kim Seungmin, would be able to forgive her in this scenario, and I’m not going to say that you’re right or wrong if you do or don’t either.”

“Then why do you ask?” His frown shifts to a perplexed one.

You let your hand drop to your side. “I… I’m in a similar situation. I don’t know if my friend will accept me if I try to reconnect.”

“Do it.” He has on a smirk now as he walks closer. “If it’s you, I’m sure she’d love to reconnect.”

You pout at his unsatisfactory response. “You’re just biased.”

Your pursed lips only makes him stare at them. “I sure am,” he mumbles. 

He again brings his hand up to your neck, index finger resting behind your ears. You can’t tell if he’s avoiding your question or just distracted, but who cares? You’re distracted now too. The woods are setting the perfect mood, and the orchestra is playing something romantic inside. Your eyelids begin to close. He looks at you one more time, his own eyes drooping.

“Is this okay…” he whispers raspily. “... Emily?”

Your eyes fly open and you shove him away a little harder than you intended to. This isn’t you. The person he wants to kiss isn’t you, and you can’t steal that away from him, even if you desperately want it yourself. You can’t have this. You can’t have him. It isn’t yours and it isn’t right.

He falls down and looks up at you, bewildered.

“I’m— I’m sorry!” you blammer. “I, uh, I have to go.”

You jump off the boulder and walk faster than you know you should post-op.

“Emily.” You hear his feet crunching leaves right behind you. “Emily. Stop. Emily. Emily. Emily.”

Why does he keep saying that name? 

You don’t turn back and you don’t slow down.

You hear him curse and speed up, which scares you, but before you can react, he sweeps you off of your feet and carries you in his arms.

“What are you doing?”

“Something you won’t on your own,” he replies vaguely. He storms to his green room and kicks the door open. He sets you down in the middle of it and pulls out his violin. “Play,” he commands you.

You shrink back at the sight of the instrument. It’s a glorious instrument carved from a choice tree and shaped over a careful flame by masterful hands, capable of drawing out the soul of its player. You know touching it will draw out what you’ve been working so hard on suppressing. You aren’t Y/N, daughter of Violinist L/N. You have no business with a violin. “I can’t. You know this, Kim.”

“You can’t play or you can’t admit the truth? Play, Emily.”

Wait, what?

He holds the Stradivarius in front of you. His tone is firm and his eyes are fierce, but he doesn’t hold the violin any closer than thirty centimeters away. He needs you to make this last leap.

“What do you know?” you demand.

“Play.”

“Tell me, what did your father really tell you?” you screech.

“Play.”

You begin shaking. The f holes are taunting you. You hear the screams of your father’s victims. You hear the TV reporters all cursing his name. They’re all inside there. They’re all inside, waiting for you to release them with your playing and eat you alive. “Kim, please.”

“Play.”

“No, I— I—”

“Play.”

He already knows. You’re sure he already knows, yet somehow, this still feels like a chasm far too wide for you to cross. Can you accept this violin? Can your past? Y/N is the child of a drug-addicted murderer. She’s a six year old whose own father bathed her in blood and blacklisted her existence. Can you accept Y/N L/N?

You look up at the deep brown eyes before you. You know he can.

“Seungmin…” you choke.

He lowers his voice and softens his gaze. “Play,” he tells you.

And so you do. You timorously reach for the instrument and perform Albinoni’s Adagio, the very last piece he’s heard you play. 

Tears roll down your face as your fingers fly across the board like you’ve played the piece all your life. You’re scared, you’re scared, you’re so, so scared. You didn’t even realize how hard you’ve been working to repress this part of you, and now that you’re facing it head-on, you don’t know what to make of it, but for once, it’s okay. Even if you fall. Even if you break apart, you finally have someone who will pick up the pieces. 

You play, and play, and play until you don’t know what to play any more, yet still you played. You don’t know how long it’s been, but you play until you can no longer lift up the scroll. You let the violin slip to your side and the bow clatter to the ground. A pair of arms wrap around you to stop you from collapsing. You close your eyes as one final tear makes its way down your face.

Seungmin presses your head into his shoulder. “I forgive you, Y/N, because I love you.”

<four years later>

You look onto the expecting crowd. Your heart’s beating quickly and the violin in your hands feels heavier than usual. Seungmin steps up next to you with his instrument. He adjusts your white skirt, his new golden band glistening under the lights as he does so.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

You smile at the familiar question. “Ready,” you reply.

He smiles back and lifts his Stradivarius under his chin. You do the same and he begins to play three one-eighth C’s followed half one. You feel his music envelop you. You close your eyes, place the tip of your bow on your E-string and let “Wedding March” flow from your soul.

A sense of peace overcomes you. After learning about your father, starting your life over, and losing your fertility, peace seems almost foreign to you, yet you’ve done it. Amidst all the chaos, you’ve finally found your harmony. 

~ ad.gold

Read it from Seungmin’s perspective here.

[meat--grindr]

another trans man fixated on Martin here!! 💕

could i request some NSFW of an ftm S/O teasing Martin while hes on the phone trying to do another interview as The Count? not a lot of talking from the S/O while hes on the phone, mostly physical stuff & feeling him up thru his clothes. the rest is up to you >:)))

(def going to use as a drawing prompt im just so so embarrassed to request off anon 😔😔😔)

Alright, so, this prompt has been living in my head rent-free ever since I first read it and I am so freaking excited to finally get to it. I’m sorry it took so long. I will admit this was a bit of a challenge for me because I am notoriously bad at writing dialogue. But I feel like it was good practice. Sorry if it sounds a little stilted in spots, I’m still learning.

Please, please, please link me to that art if you ever get around to it! You knocked it out of the park with this prompt and I’d love to give the art some love if you’re comfortable with sharing!

The Count Didn’t Count on This – Martin Mathias (Trans-Masculine Reader) – NSFW.

·       It’s late, and for once, you’re exactly where you feel you should be at this late hour—not sprawled across a chair reading, or gazing out of the window, watching the cars pass and counting the neighbours’ lights as they flick on and off in lieu of stargazing. And for the first time in at least a week, you’re not trapped at your desk, frantically typing the final draft of a paper, hindered by the slow keys of a typewriter that does not care a whit about the deadline steadily hurtling toward you. No, thankfully, this night has brought with it far more comfortable circumstances—you find yourself in bed, tired bones sinking into the plush mattress, consciousness caught in the bleary space between sleep and not.

·       Even better, you aren’t alone.

·       Tonight, your bed is warmed by another body, long and thin, curled tightly against your own, as though it were some sort of crime to leave even an inch of space between you. A bony hip digs into your thigh and you’re sure the press of your head and shoulder against his chest must make breathing difficult for him. But he’s made no attempt to shrug you off or shift your weight to a more comfortable spot, so you likewise let it be. In all honesty, you’re simply too comfortable to bother and you feel it’s safe to assume the same is true for Martin too.

·       The slow, even beat of his heart pulses against your cheek, and his long fingers stroke absently over your bare shoulder. The rough texture of burgeoning callouses catches against your skin—the sensation, though not wholly unpleasant, makes you shudder. Sometimes, you forget Martin works with his hands. When you hold them, they seem so delicate—his long fingers better suited to playing the piano than tightening screws or hammering nails. But he’s good at repairs and more importantly, he seems to find enjoyment the work. It certainly keeps him busy enough on the few afternoons that Cuda isn’t running him ragged in the shop, much to your personal dismay. But his nights—the nights like this—belong to you and you alone.

·       Your eyelids flutter closed, and for the first time in what feels like weeks, maybe even longer, you feel like you can rest. Really rest. Dimly, you find yourself wondering if it had more to do with finished papers and diminished responsibilities, or the reintroduction of the physical intimacy you’ve been missing so dearly. Though you can’t say for certain, you have a sneaking suspicion it’s the latter.

·       The longer you know Martin, the more you’re convinced that there is a preternatural bubble of calm that hangs around him. You can feel it in the way even the grouchiest old women in the store seem to soften toward him—hiding small smiles behind their sleeves, sometimes even calling him ‘dear,’ or in the way Cuda’s volatile temper deflates when his cruel words slide off Martin’s back as though he’s heard it all before from people who frightened him far greater. You’ve seen it at work on the feral cats that roam the neighbourhood—while they hiss and swipe at the children who chase them through the dusty streets, they sit willingly at Martin’s feet, rubbing against his legs with a familiarity that borders on friendly. And it’s in the way he looks at you—looks into you with those dark eyes that seem far too old for that handsome, youthful face—intense and all-seeing, but never judgemental. He is a point of unflappable calm in a world which never seems to slow for even a second. That calm has settled into you now, seeping into your bones as you lay there, listening to his heart thumping in the darkness.

·       The low crackle of the radio hovers at the edge of your hearing, a burst of static cutting through the droning voices. You’d stopped listening properly ages ago—the third time the DJ had made an attempt to dismiss his latest caller. It was an old man who was seven shades of pissed about the ‘teen-age hooligans’ who were ‘tipping over his bins every night and eating his trash.’ Of course, everyone with half a brain, including the host himself, knows it’s an animal—probably a raccoon, or a family of raccoons, but this old geezer has somehow convinced himself it’s a gaggle of ‘Satan-worshipping teenagers who have been brainwashed by heavy metal music and Pepsi Cola.’

·       Okay. Sure.

·       It’s utterly ridiculous, and just the sort of thing you’ve come to expect from the people who live in Braddock. Or the ones who call in to a show like this anyhow.

·       In a way, you feel bad for the poor DJ. Sure, he welcomes strange callers of all kinds, from alien abductees and bigfoot hunters to bereaved parents who teenagers are ‘just growing up too fast,’ or ‘a little too interested in the works of William Shakespeare.’ He even encourages them at times, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, and in your mind, this, funny as it may be, is probably it. You’re sure whatever the station is paying the guy, it isn’t enough to suffer through being called a ‘brainless sack of human garbage’ by a crazy old man.

·       “And that’s about all the time we have,” Despite his cheery tone, the poor guy sounds exhausted. “Thank you for calling!”

·       Another burst of static drowns out the old man’s reply, but you’re sure that whatever he’d said, it was not ‘radio-friendly.’

·       “…our next caller. You are on the air, Sir!”

·       “Yeah, uh…hi, Barry.” The man sounds young—probably not much older than yourself—and very nervous. He must be a first-time caller. As he and the DJ share opening pleasantries—what’s your name, how old are you, where are you calling in from tonight, is that a cat I hear in the background? —your attention begins to drift again. You teeter for a moment on the edge of sleep, the clean scent of your linen sheets and Martin’s shampoo filling your nose.

·       “I was just wondering if you’ve heard from the Count again since last time?”

·       And just like that, you’re awake again, attention fully focused on your radio and the funny little show that whispers through it.

·       The caller is asking about Martin. A cold shiver rumbles through your body. People ask about Martin on the show all the time—of course, they don’t know that’s who they’re asking about, but you do. It’s so strange, to hear a stranger talk about someone you know so well—even worse when they speak about him like they know him too. Sometimes, they make you laugh with their outlandish theories, but sometimes they make you sick—sick with worry: when he’s threatened with violence or exposure, sick with fear: when they make guesses that hit a little too close to home, and sick with jealousy: when they claim to have had an ‘encounter’ with him, or worse, try to set one up on air.

·       You know about Martin, of course—that he is a vampire, or at least he thinks he’s a vampire. Whether or not you believe him is another question entirely. He certainly does not abide by the ‘vampire rules’ as you know them from stories and television—he doesn’t sleep in a coffin, filled with dirt from his homeland or otherwise, rather he sleeps in a bed (curled up beside you more often than not these days). He cuts a handsome figure in mirrors and the photographs that you have pinned up above your desk. He walks about in the sun most days without complaint despite his pale complexion, and though he may not be a sleek. Predatory creature that oozes confidence, grace, and sex appeal, he’s no slouch either—lithe and handsome in a boyish sort of way, all knees, elbows, and wide dark eyes.

·       In fact, the only requirement he seems to meet on the proverbial ‘vampire checklist’ is his fixation with blood—and the need to consume it. Maybe that means something, maybe it doesn’t. You’ve come to the conclusion that what you think really doesn’t matter in the end—your opinion isn’t going to sway him on the subject one way or another. This is a truth about himself he believes perhaps more deeply than anything else. Who were you to try and change that?

·       So, you do your best to take everything in stride, and when you can’t, you humour him. Still, every once in a while, something will trip you up—you still can’t quite decide if he’s joking about being over eighty years old or not. But you do your best. You had even let him feed on you once. Though only once. In the end, it was Martin who had decided the experience was not one he would like to repeat.

·       He had laid you out on your bed, “I don’t want you to get hurt if you faint.” Though you’d told him nearly a hundred times that you’d be just fine, that you’d had blood taken before at the hospital, he had insisted.

·       You had expected things to be different. For a start, you had expected him to climb into your lap, to press his lips against your neck, seeking your pulse the way it’s done in the movies. Instead, he’d taken out a little white kit from his bag. He had unzipped it and laid it out on the bed, revealing a little bottle of clear liquid, a row of sterile, hypodermic needles, and a pack of fresh razor blades.

·       His long fingers fell upon the needles, caressing them lovingly one by one. Much to your relief, he did not pick one up. As if he could sense your apprehension, he’d said, “Don’t worry, I won’t need these.” He’d glanced up at you, measuring your reaction, “I won’t need them because you’re not going to fight me. Are you?” It wasn’t really a question. You shook your head, and the corners of his lips quirked up into a smile, “Good. It’s so much easier when they don’t fight me.” Those words had made you shudder. He really had done this before, then. Part of you hadn’t believed him—he seemed so…harmless

·       He’d picked out a single blade from the package, meticulously removing the white paper wrapping, taking extra care not to tear it, or let the blade cut into it. When he was through, he folded the paper into a neat square and dropped it onto the comforter. He lay the blade flat on his palm for you to see. “I don’t have pointy teeth, you see.” He took your hand, opening his mouth and guiding your fingers along the edges of his flat, dull teeth. “They aren’t sharp, so they don’t cut deep enough. You understand?” You’d nodded and he had kissed your fingertips gently, one by one.

·       “I’ll be careful, I promise,” He’d said, “I’ll only take a little. Just enough to take the edge off.” Despite the hungry glint in his eyes, you’d known he was telling the truth. He didn’t need to reassure you of that. You trusted him. Besides, you had asked for this. At least, he’d stopped asking if he still had your permission every five minutes. Of course he did.

·       And yet. Your heartbeat had kicked up, jittering like a frightened bird when you’d seen the needles and the razor. It was as though actually seeing them had made the whole situation feel more real. There was no denying you were afraid, but you didn’t tell him to stop—you didn’t want to. You had made up your mind. You wanted this; wanted to help.

·       He’d held your hand in his own like it was a thing made of glass. His fingers gripped the razor with a practiced grace as he held it just above your palm. Watching him, you were struck for the second time by just how rehearsed this seemed. How many times had he done this, with or without permission?

·       “Take a deep breath for me, okay? There’s a good boy.” Did he talk to the others too? Even the ones who fought back? You could picture him, chattering softly against the skin of some poor soul, sprawled limp across the floor.

·       Limp or lifeless?

·       The thought unsettled you, but you did as you were told, filling your lungs nearly to capacity as the sharp edge of the blade bit into the meat of your palm just below your thumb. As promised, he had been quick, pressing only as hard as was necessary. Even so, the sting of it made your flinch, your hand jumping in his own. His fingers tensed around yours, the tightness of his grip reflected in the grimace that flashed across his face as he bent his head to seal his lips around the wound.

·       You had expected to feel him pulling the blood from you, but he simply let it flow into his mouth, the coppery taste heavy on his tongue. He exhaled through his nose, long and low—a pleased sound. Something about that set you more at ease. He hadn’t recoiled or wrinkled his nose at the taste of your blood. You hadn’t even realized you were worried about how you tasted until that moment.

·       You had started to feel dizzy beneath him—dizzy not from a loss of blood, but the wet heat of his mouth against your skin. Your heart had stuttered in your chest as his tongue probed gently around the edges of the wound, soothing your sparking nerves, even as the blood continued to drip down his throat.

·       When at last, he pulled away, his face was flushed, and his breath came hard; his chest heaving as though he’d just run a great distance. Immediately, his hand shot to his front pocket, fingers searching for the roll of gauze bandages he’s swiped from Cuda’s first-aid kit.

·       He’d wrapped the clean white fabric around your hand with such care it made your heart ache almost as much as the wound itself. When he was finished, he’d flipped your hand over and pressed a gentle kiss against your knuckles. Then, he spoke. His voice was small, barely more than a ragged whisper, “Thank you.”

·       “Was that…was it okay?” Your skin felt feverish, as though the heat of his mouth had seeped into your flesh and was burning you from the inside out. And the dizzy feeling had only grown worse, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut for a long moment.

·       Martin was still struggling to get his breathing under control, “Yes. I-It was good…better than good, actually. But…”

·       “But?” Had you done something wrong? Had you tasted bad after all? You cracked open one eye, then the other. The spinning had mostly subsided, but you still felt unsteady. “What can I do better next time?”

·       He’d gone stiff all over then, and his reply had come sudden and sharp, “No!” He cringed, the force behind his words clearly surprising himself as well. When he spoke again, his voice was softer, “No ‘next time.’ I…I can’t stand hurting you like that. I won’t do it again.”

·       You’d gazed up at him, blinking in confusion for a second. Then you realized what he’d meant—you had flinched when he’d cut you. Oh.

·       You reached up, cupping his cheek, “Oh, Martin. You didn’t hurt me. Not really.” It wasn’t strictly true—it had hurt a little, but you had been prepared for it to. You brushed a stray droplet of blood from the corner of his mouth with a careful swipe of your thumb.

·       “Yes, I did. I saw it.” You had tried to protest further, but he’d cut you off, much to your surprise. Martin almost never talked back like this, though perhaps you’d simply never given him a reason before. “I saw you flinch. I won’t put you through this again.”

·       And he hadn’t. Though you’d brought the idea up more than once, he had dismissed it each time with the same stubborn shake of his head. If Martin was anything, he was true to his word.

·       “…and it’s been such a long time since we heard from the guy.”

·       The DJ hums in agreement, “It has indeed, my friend. Maybe we’ll hear from him later tonight. If you’re out there listening, Count, don’t be a stranger! Give us a call,” He begins rattling off the stations toll-free number. “We’re all dying to hear from you again!”

·       You feel Martin stiffen up against you. You knew about the interviews he had done; you’d even heard one of them, back when Martin was little more to you than a silent, sullen face behind the counter at Cuda’s shop. And even when he’d started talking to you, he sounded different over the radio—his voice was deeper, and he sounded so confidant, so sure of himself when he talked about his ‘sickness.’ He almost never sounded like that in day-to-day life. You weren’t embarrassed to admit you found it attractive.

·       Martin on the other hand, was mortified to know you had heard him. He had known that people were listened to him, obviously, but they were supposed to be strangers. You actually knew him, and he’d talked about sex. Of course, reminding him you’d done a lot more in your time together than simply listen to him talk about sex did little to lessen his horror.

·       Of course, you also knew he’d been doing fewer and fewer interviews now that he had you to talk to and share his life with. But on occasion, when the pleading from the DJ gets too desperate, or he was simply that bored, Martin could be coaxed back onto the other end of the phoneline once again.

·       You glance up at him, but in the darkness, his expression is unreadable, eyes cast down toward the end of the bed, long lashes throwing feathered shadows across his pale cheeks. From the very beginning, he’s been hard to read. As you’ve come to know him better, you’ve needed to get comfortable with the idea of asking when you want to know something you could easily intuit if speaking to anyone else. He’s very good at hiding his thoughts and feelings behind a neutral expression and placid silence, but he would tell you almost anything if you asked him directly; so long as he had the words to explain it to you.

·       Do you want to make a call, Martin?”

·       For a long moment, he’s silent, turning the idea over in his mind a few times. You had never actually been with him when he’d done an interview in the past. He’d usually wait until you were three days deep in an assignment with no quick end in sight, or out of town with family. Maybe he would be too embarrassed to do it with you here or maybe he’s just not in the mood tonight. But, after a minute, he tilts his head down toward you and says, “Why not?”

·       The radio crackles out a jaunty tune—a commercial for some small business or another. “I’ll call in a few minutes. He doesn’t seem busy tonight.” Martin sits up, bracing his back against the headboard of your bed, and dislodging you from your perch. You grumble a little, irritated by the loss of your comfy spot, but you crawl into his lap anyway.

·       You press soft kisses into his skin, beginning at his hairline, and trailing down over his forehead, the bridge of his nose, his cheeks—the right then the left—the very tip of his nose, and finally his lips. He smiles against your mouth, leaning into the kiss with his whole body.

·       When you pull away only a moment later, you can practically hear the pouty turn of his mouth. He whines softly, but you pay him no mind, trailing kisses down his chin. “Are you nervous, Martin?” The question comes out muffled by the soft curve of his jaw.

·       “Not really, no…” He trails off, eyes cast to the ceiling, “I like the attention, I s’pose.”

·       You pull back to look at him, barely stifling a snort of amusement, “Don’t I give you enough?”

·       His eyes slide from the ceiling, falling upon you dark and wide. For a moment, you think he’s taken you seriously, but the pouty turn of his mouth breaks into a blinding grin, “You give me lots, sure, but I’m a creature of the night, remember? We always want more.”

·       The two of you sit there for a moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, the silence stretching on into the night. Then, you collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. Martin buries his head into the crook of your neck, shaking with quiet laughter. Sure, when he’d said wasn’t untrue, but when he put it like that, it was hard not to laugh.

·       “Welcome back, everybody. It’s almost the top of the hour at 01:57! I’m your host Barry…”

·       You hadn’t even heard the ads end! Martin scrambles for the chunky landline phone that rests on the beside table, nimble fingers punching in the numbers at speed. Though his calls had become less and less frequent, he evidently kept the number somewhere in his memory.

·       Martin’s voice is hushed as he speaks to whoever manned the phones down at the radio station, muttering something about ‘the Count.’ As he speaks, he winds the coiled phone cord around a delicate finger. It’s a simple, distracted habit of Martin’s but it makes your heart flutter whenever you catch him doing it.

·       You stretch your arm as far as you can, reaching for the radio, unwilling to give up your perch in Martin’s lap for even a second. Your fingertips brush the cool metal—once, twice—then you manage to curl your fingers around it. Pulling it into your lap you turn the volume down low so only you can hear it.

·       “I’m just getting word that we have a special guest on the line,” the DJ sounds positively elated, “Folks, it looks like the Count is back in town. Hello, Count! Where have ya’ been?”

·       Martin hesitates for a moment, his jaw working as he searches for the words, “Around.”

·       There is a definite lag between the words in his mouth, and those same words coming through the radio. The dissonance confounds your ears and makes your head ache in a dizzy sort of way, but you want to hear both halves of this conversation, not just Martin’s.

·       “So, what trouble have you been getting into since we last spoke, Count? Murdered any pretty ladies recently?”

·       There’s a smile in Martin’s voice, “Not ladies, no.”

·       “Oh really? Any men then?”

Martin glances down at you, though he makes a non-committal noise. The DJ takes a breath, as though he’s going to say something, but Martin cuts him off, “I wouldn’t call what I do murder, anyhow.”

·       “No? But you still need to drink blood, right?”

·       “Oh, yes.”

·       “How have you been getting your food, then? Don’t vampires uh…kill with every strike?”

·       Martin laughs, a soft, breathy sound that sends a shudder through you. “I’ve been managing.” His tone is damn near conversational. You gaze down at him, marvelling at how easy this seems to be for him. The Martin you’ve come to know and love rarely (if ever) speaks to strangers, and when he has no other choice, he’s never this talkative. It’s strange, but by no means an unwelcome change. You nuzzle against him, letting his voice thrum through your skull as it vibrates around in his chest.

·       “Enough talk of blood and guts, Count. What about your other problems, huh? Tell me, are the streets of Braddock safe at last from the real terror stalking them? Have you…” He pauses conspiratorially, “Found yourself a girl yet?”

·       Those words drive an icy spike of hurt deep into your guts. No, he had not found himself a girl. Martin must have felt your jaw clenching, as his free hand begins to card through your hair—soothing and soft.

·       “I’ve found…someone.” The implications of that word settles you almost as much as his touch. ‘Someone.’ Not a woman, but someone of significance, nonetheless. He bends down to press a quick kiss into the crown of your head. “Someone special.”

·       The DJ gasps, sounding scandalized. “Someone special! Well, I never. Good for you, Count.” You can’t say you’re a fan of the man’s tone—pleasant enough, but with a sharp edge that borders on condescending. But there’s little you can do but grit your teeth and bear it. “How long until you suck this one dry and move on?”

·       Wow. Fuck this guy. On some level, you’d known he was an asshole—sure you felt bad for him when people were rude, but he could dish it out just as well as he could take it. Every once in a while, he’d push a caller too hard or make a snide comment the conversation could have done without. You didn’t like hearing it when strangers were involved, and now that you were the subject of such a comment, you like it even less. He makes it sound like you’re some random conquest, or worse, little more than a meal to Martin. How wrong he was.

·       Suck this one dry and move on? Fat chance, Buddy. Though, his wording did give you an idea…maybe you could make this night just a little more interesting for the both of you.

You sit back, uncurling your legs and dropping your knees to either side of Martin’s hips, straddling his lap properly. Settling your weight back into his lap, you pull a face, pointing to the radio in your lap and mouthing, ‘What a jaggoff!’

·       Martin’s lips press into a thin line as he tries to stifle his laughter. He nods sympathetically but doesn’t say anything about it to the DJ. He’s slow to anger, preferring to divert the conversation rather than cause a scene. You can’t help but admire him for that. You lean forward, stamping a kiss against his collarbone.

·       “I…uh…try not to eat the things I love.”

·       “Ooooh, so it’s love, huh?”

·       You roll your eyes at the DJ, though you can’t deny hearing Martin say he loves you sends a little thrill through you—it was the same thrill you’d felt the first time he had said it to you, and the same thrill you hoped to feel for years to come. You trail little, open-mouthed kisses up the column of Martin’s throat, your mouth feverishly warm against his skin. A shudder jolts through him like an electric shock as your teeth scape across his Adam’s apple. You grin against his flesh, sliding up to nip along the underside of his jaw. There is a sensitive spot at the very corner that you love to exploit, and now seems like the perfect opportunity to do so.

·       Your teeth graze over the spot and his body jitters beneath you. His voice catches in his throat, though if the DJ notices, he doesn’t comment. You nip gently at the spot, reddening the pale skin as you worry it with your teeth. You long to suck a bruise there—the purple-blue hue would doubtless look stunning against the pallor of his skin, but you knew Cuda would have a conniption if he saw it, and you didn’t want to put Martin through that again. Not after last time. The pair of you had agreed that perhaps in future, it would be better if any hickeys you left remained under your clothes.

·       Pressing one final kiss against that spot, you pull back to look at him. You can tell he’s getting flustered—there’s a flush beginning to creep up his neck from beneath the collar of his t-shirt, deep pink and blotchy. You know, given time, it will reach his cheeks, the colour blooming high on his cheekbones. When you get him worked up enough, you could make Martin blush to the very tips of his ears. It was adorable.

·       Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt as you drag your nails down his chest. His teeth catch his lower lip. You can almost hear the whine trapped behind those pearly teeth.

·       “Why don’t you tell us a little about this special someone, Count?”

·       Martin hesitates, “I don’t know about that.”

·       “Nonsense! You can tell your good ol’ pal Barry. Who am I gonna tell?”

·       Martin isn’t that stupid. He knows Barry doesn’t need to tell anyone anything—he’s live on air, he’d be telling them himself. His eyes flick down to yours, searching for something, be it permission or resistance. He pulls the phone away from his ear, resting it against his shoulder as he waits for you to make up your mind. You know he’d hang up in an instant if you asked him to—he’d likely do you one better and never call in again if the DJ was just going to ask questions about you all night long. But you trusted Martin not to give too much information away—he’d managed to stay hidden all this time, after all.

·       You nodded at him, smiling and thumbing gently over a nipple. Though your touch is light, and the sensation is dampened by the fabric of his shirt, Martin makes a sound as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He shifts beneath you, tucking the phone underneath his chin as he moves.

·       You grip the striped fabric of his shirt, working it in your hands. You lift it a little, fingers slipping just beneath it to splay against the flat plane of his stomach. His skin is warm and soft beneath your hands. You look down at him, arching a brow and asking for permission with only your eyes.

·       “Fine.” He says, and though the word is an answer for the DJ’s pleading, he’s talking to you, looking directly into your eyes—granting the permission you were so hoping for.

·       “Great! So, how long have you been together?”

·       You fall into him, hands pushing the soft cotton of his shirt up over his chest. Your lips are on his skin in a matter of seconds, trailing kisses across every inch of exposed skin—stomach, ribs, hips, and everything in between.

·       “It’s been ahh—” His words are cut short by a tight little moan as you bite down hard just below his left nipple. However, he manages a solid recovery as your tongue laves over the spot soothing the sting, playing the whole thing off as though he had needed time to stop and think about it, “—bout a year, maybe a little longer.”

·       Clever boy.

·       You drag your tongue a little higher, flicking over the sensitive skin of his nipple. He arches into your touch, hips canting up against yours, threatening to buck you from your perch. He tilts his head, trapping the phone between his cheek and his shoulder, reaching for you with both hands.

·       He takes your cheeks into his hands, pulling your head away from his chest. You grin up at him, taking in his expression—his pupils blown so wide with want they swallow all but the slimmest ring of brown iris, his lips parted and shining in the semi-darkness, flushed to the tips of his ears.

·       You surge up to kiss him, remembering only at the last moment, he needs to keep his mouth free to carry on the conversation. With a huff, you divert your course, and fix your lips back against the skin of Martin’s neck.

·       He swallows hard as you press your lips back against his pulse, pushing his hips back up into yours. You can’t keep the grin form your face as you feel him pressing up against you—the outline in his pants far more noticeable now.

·       His hands tremble slightly as they search for yours, dragging them down to the front of his jeans. You grin widens as you press down. Even through the thick denim, you can feel his cock throb under your palm. Someone’s excited.

·       You look down at him and he turns his head away, flushing a shade darker. He was so easy to wind up like this, it was almost unbelievable. A few kisses here, and gentle touch there, and he was a blushing, whining mess spread out on your sheets for you to enjoy however your pleased. You had chalked the over-sensitivity up to a lack of experience, and had expected it to fade after a few months, but it hadn’t. He was just that reactive, not that you were complaining.

·       With deft fingers, you pop the button of his jeans, quietly dragging the zipper down. He lifts his hips, wriggling helpfully as you drag his pants and underwear down over his thighs.

·       His cock bobs free, flushed and leaking already. You ghost the pads of your fingers over the soft skin of his shaft, and he shudders, his whole body tensing. His knuckles are white where he grips the phone, and his jaw is tight with the struggle of keeping quiet.

·       You wrap your hand around him, stroking gently from base to tip. His back arches off from the headboard, and he falls forward, burying his head in the crook of your neck. The phone receiver bumps against your collarbone, hard and hollow. The plastic is pleasantly cool against your feverish skin.

·       “Is it different being with a…uh…forgive the expression, normal person?”

·       “They’re a…” His laugh is breathy, almost a moan as he glances down at you, “a real handful.”

·       You barely stifle a laugh. You glare down at him in mock disapproval, and he sticks his tongue out at you. Cheeky little bastard. Though the colour still sits high on his cheeks, and his breathing comes through parted lips in short puffs, he seems to have adjusted well to your pace.

·       “Nothing you can’t handle though, I’m sure. Do they know about your…condition, shall we say?”

·       “They are aware, yes.”

·       The DJ laughs, “And how did that go? Can’t be an easy thing to hear—that your boyfriend might vamp out and eat you whole!”

·       Martin sighs, “I already told you, I don’t eat people…” His voice is much steadier now, even as your fingers brush along the sensitive spots on the underside of his cock. That means its time to switch things up. You can’t have him getting too comfortable. Where would the fun be in that? You tighten your grip—something that usually makes Martin thrash against the sheets and sob into your pillows—and begin to swipe your thumb gently over the tip of his cock with every upward stroke. He almost drops the phone as he yanks it away from his mouth. He covers the receiver with a shaking hand just in time, as a soft whine slips through his teeth, “Oh, fuck…”

·       You press a finger up against your lips, reminding him to be quiet. He presses up into your fist, his hips stuttering as your thumb traces a lazy circle around his head. His free hand flutters nervously about his mouth, as he tries desperately to keep quiet. His breath comes sharp and quick though his nose as he struggles to keep control. You shift your weight, pinning his hips back down with your thighs, and though he tries to buck back up against you, you hold him firmly in place. He whines high in his throat, shooting a pleading look up at you, but you just shake your head and point at the phone, ‘Keep going.’

·       Slowly, Martin brings the receiver back up to his ear. His tongue flickers out over his lips and he lets out a shaky breath, “S-Sorry, I didn’t catch that?”

·       “I said, ‘let’s circle back to what you said before,’ about not eating what you love. Why not? If you don’t need to kill to feed, why not feed on this special someone? Surely if they love you back, they’d be willing.”

·       You slow your hand, wanting to give Martin a fighting chance at answering. You were momentarily intrigued by the DJ’s line of questioning. You knew why Martin didn’t want to feed on you, but you were curious as to what sort of excuse he would give.

·       “W-Well…it’s come up mo-ore than once but…” Martin goes silent as you squeeze down on him, his posture going rigid, his head thrown back against the headboard.

·       The DJ lets the silence hang for a moment, but when Martin doesn’t finish his thought, he cuts in, “But…? You still there, Count?”

·       You let up, and Martin takes a big gulp of air, as though he had only just remembered he needed to breathe. “Y-Yeah, I’m here. It’s…it’s complicated.”

·       “Oh yeah? How?”

·       “Well, it’s not about whether they’ll let me or not…” He takes a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he steadies himself. When he speaks again, his voice is low, barely more than a whisper, “It’s that I want more.”

·       He tries in vain to buck up into your fist, his hips rolling in shallow, abortive little thrusts. His teeth are sunk into his lower lip, his eyes boring deep into your own.

·       ‘I want more.’ Those words were meant for you.

·       You blink down at him, momentarily dumb founded. Then a grin spreads across your face, sharp and hungry. If he wants more, you’ll give it to him—you’d give it to him until he was begging you to stop.

·       Sliding down his body, you know this is risky. Martin has never been good at keeping quiet, especially not when you’ve got your mouth on him. But the idea is simply too enticing to pass up on. When were you ever going to get the change to suck his cock live on air again? Besides, this might be good practice for him in the art of keeping his voice down—not that you didn’t love to hear him, it just might be nice to keep your…activities a secret from the whole neighbourhood for once.

·       You wriggle down onto your stomach, bringing your face level with Martin’s cock. Settling yourself into a comfortable position between his knees, you bend your head, pressing a gentle kiss against the tip of his cock.

·       He makes an involuntary choking sound in the back of his throat. You look up at him, resting your chin on the tops of his thighs. You want to give him the time he needs to make up his mind. If he tells you ‘no,’ or pushes you away, you’d gladly go back to stroking his cock and kissing his neck. You would get just as much pleasure from the shivers and whimpers you could wring out of him that way.

·       But he doesn’t tell you no, rather he pushes his hips up against you, pressing the tip hard against your lips. You flick your tongue out, ghosting for only a moment over his sensitive flesh, but it’s enough to make his eyes roll back, his long lashes fluttering against his cheeks. You do it again, and his mouth falls open. Though no sound escapes the look on his face is just as glorious.

·       This is going to be fun.

·       You crane your neck, opening your mouth and gently taking the head inside.  Martin’s free hand shoots to his mouth, and he bites down hard on the meat of his palm to stop himself from sobbing out loud. You press your tongue flat against him, dragging it slowly against his hot flesh. He thrashes beneath you, jostling the phone against his cheek.

·       Carefully, you sink further down on him, taking him in inch by inch. He lets out a long sigh around a mouthful of palm.

·       “What was that, Count?”

·       “Oohh…nothing,” Martin grinds out, “Just…closing a window.”

·       The lie was flimsy, but the DJ, despite his skeptical tone, didn’t seem interested in pressed him on it further, “…Right…so how is your control around this person, huh? Do you ever get the urge to just go to town on them?”

·       Martin’s laugh comes out as a low purr, and he bucks into your mouth once, “Mmm, sometimes.” Ever so slowly, as you’ve sunk down onto his cock, he’s been curling in on himself. His head now rests atop your own, and you can feel the heat of his cheek radiating against your scalp. If that heat is anything to go by, he must be positively scarlet.

·       “And what does that entail for you exactly?”

·       With a little jolt, his cock brushes up against the back of your throat. You swallow down a little choking noise, breathing steadily through your nose in an attempt to calm your gag reflex.

·       The warmth of Martin’s cheeks is suddenly gone as he straightens up again. His head hits the headboard with a thump. “I-I just wanna…” He swallows thickly, his breath coming hard, “Push into…p-push my teeth into their throat and just,” He bucks up into your throat, either unable, or simply unwilling to stay still any longer, “just take what I want.”

·       “Their…blood?”

·       You swallow around Martin and his back arches so far he practically lifts off the bed “Yes! Yes, everything they have to give!”

·       “Right…for a moment there it sounded a bit more, uh, sexually motivated than that.”

·       Again, your throat contracts around him, and a hiss of air escapes through his teeth, “No difference really…”

·       The DJ is silent for a moment, “Now that’s an interesting tidbit about you, Count. I’m sure all the ladies out there would love to hear more about that.”

·       Marin fucks up into your throat again with a soft groan, “I’m…I’m sure they would but,” His breath is coming harder now, “unfortunately, I’m taken.”

·       The DJ laughs, “Hear that, Count? That’s the sound of hundreds of hearts all over Braddock breaking. Sorry, folks but it looks like you’re out of luck.”

·       Oh. He’s taken alright. You can just imagine the anguished looks on their faces when you learn he gets taken almost every other night by another man.

·       Though you’d love to keep him in this position, you’re struck by the sudden, possessive urge to have him on his back. You tap his thigh thrice in quick succession and Martin withdraws almost immediately. He’s always so respectful of your wishes, even if he whines a little when his cock slips from the wet heat of your mouth. The sudden chill of the air on his wet cock sends a shiver through him.

·       You scoot back, grabbing Martin by the calves, and pulling him down into a more horizontal position. He fumbles with the phone, as it slips from his grasp, landing on the bed near his shoulder.

·       “What’s going on, Count?”

·       “S-Sorry, I just…I just dropped the phone is all. I’m…I’m feeling awful shaky these days.”

·       “Oh, yeah? How long has it been?”

·       Martin’s tone is distracted, “Ages.” He is far more focused on you, his dark eyes trained on yours as you loom over him.

·       The DJ asks another question, but you’re not listening as you slip Martin’s slick cock into your mouth, wasting no time in taking him back into your throat where he belongs.

·       Though you can’t make out his words so well over the rushing in your ears, Martin’s voice sounds strained, slightly higher than usual. He’s fighting the pleasure hard.

·       His free hand fists itself in your hair, pushing you down tighter against his cock. You swallow hard, trying desperately not to gag as he rolls is hips into your mouth. He’s come such a long way since the first time you asked him to fuck your mouth. He’d been so nervous that you did most of the work, bobbing your head faster and faster until he’d spilled deep into your mouth. He had apologized for almost an hour after, thinking the rasp in your voice was all his fault. Now? He’s practically asphyxiating you, and you hadn’t needed to say a word.

·       Martin is shaking—his thighs tremble on either side of your head, and the phone in his hands nearly slips from his grasp again with the force of the tremors passing through him.

·       You hollow your cheeks and he’s forced to cover the receiver again as a series of whimpers tear free from his lips. You press your tongue flat against the underside of his cock, and he sobs, his hips canting up off the bed.

·       “I-I’m close,” His frantic whisper comes tight through his teeth, an edge bordering on panic creeping into his voice. You grip his thigh and redouble your efforts, gaining a high whine in return.

·       “Hey, Count? Count there’s a lot of interference on your end…I can’t really hear you. I think this is where this conversation has to end, but call back another night, huh?” Martin doesn’t even respond, he simply slams the receiver back into the cradle, ending the call.

·       Almost as soon as the call has disconnected, he’s a whimpering mess. “Oh, fuck! Your mouth…I-I can’t! Is it okay? Is it okay if I…?”

·       He can’t bring himself to say it, but you know what he means and hum a soft affirmation around his cock. He cries out as the sound vibrates around his over-sensitive flesh.

·       With a whimper, he fucks up into your mouth, once, twice, then he shudders, his whole body going rigid as he cums. His knees clamp around your ears, squeezing your head as he shakes with the pleasure. His fingers pull at your hair, any tighter and you’re sure he’ll pull some out. But you press on, hollowing your cheeks, letting him ride the high for as long as he can.

·       The sound he makes as you swallow around him is nothing short of wrecked. His fingers claw the sheets as though he’s trying to drag himself away from you, from your mouth, but his body remains locked in place beneath you.

·       His cock twitches against your tongue as you slowly pull back, the wet drag of your tongue digging raw little whimpers from his throat, and a shudder passed through him when you pull of and his cock is again exposed to the chilly air of the room. His hips press forward, seeking the tight heat of your throat again. It would seem almost desperate if the motion wasn’t so sluggish, almost sleepy.  

·       He reaches for you then in the dark. His hands, hot and sweaty from exertion and gripping both the phone and the sheets for so long, grasp either side of your face as he pulls you up for a kiss.

·       The salty taste of his cum still coats your tongue, but he doesn’t seem to care as he presses his lips against yours with a desperation you rarely see in him.

·       Pulling back, you whisper against his lips, “Was that enough attention?”

·       He smiles, “For me? Yes.” He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “But now it’s your turn.”

[eloarei]

Hiatus’d WIPs:  “Touch” (bnha)

I recently had a conversation with a friend/reader about how many unfinished fics I have lying around, and it made me decide to finally make a post for each one; under the assumption that I never write any of them again, I can at least link these posts at the end of the AO3 WIPs for people who are curious how the rest of the story goes.  So here we have:  WIP and notes for Dekumight fic series “Touch” (including unfinished next chapter) My thoughts: This was really one of my favorites for a while. There was something really fun about writing the sort of non-verbal communication they had going on, and the deep love and also awkwardness. However, the actual story of the fic doesn’t differ much from the canon plot, which makes it a little less interesting to write, and also difficult to pick up, because frankly I don’t remember shit anymore about canon.  Under the cut: (8,300 words total) 3,000 words of what would be the next chapter (ending about halfway through), then a rough draft of the second half of the chapter. After that, there’s a super-rough draft/ outline of the next several chapters, followed by a bunch of notes from when I was initially planning.  NOTE: Tumblr completely destroyed all formatting, so this should be full of italics, which implies thinking, but instead you’ll just have to puzzle it out.  Similarly, my notes have a bunch of bolding and some strikethrough, which probably doesn’t work either. Sorry. 

Takes place directly after “Retouch” (chapter 2) : 

Chapter 3 

It was just a few minutes later that Toshinori was hit with a spike of pleasure that he really shouldn't have been surprised by. He was finishing up some paperwork for UA though and wouldn't be getting ready for bed for a while, so instead of following through with the echo of Izuku's intense sensation, he just took a deep calming breath and willed himself to leave it alone. However, he did take a moment to send Izuku a well-timed text saying simply, | Sleep tight |. He still wasn't sure if the boy was aware of what he was doing to him, but he figured he'd just tip him off a little bit instead of asking outright. Not yet.

Izuku responded with a cute, embarrassed | ^^; you too |, and Toshinori laughed. So he hadn't expected to be called out on it, huh? Well, they could talk about it later; maybe over the weekend, if Suzuki's papers didn't scare him off. (And even then they'd probably still want to talk about at least a few things. Even if Izuku suddenly wanted nothing to do with him, even if they never saw each other again (a chilling thought), they'd still be affecting each other like this for the rest of their lives. It warranted at least a short conversation.)

Most likely, though... Most likely it would be a long conversation they'd be having, if Toshinori's impression of Inko was anything to go by. If it were just him and Izuku, who knew if they'd ever do much serious talking. It was far too tempting to just sit side by side with their hands tangled together and feel. So, it was probably good that Izuku's mother had such a strong hand in the situation-- and it was definitely good for both of them that she was such a reasonable woman. He knew she would probably bring up all the right topics (the things he still hadn't really researched; Suzuki wasn't going to be pleased with his ignorance), and ask all the right questions, and be super tactful about the whole thing, so he didn't fret about it, focusing instead on just getting through the week.

Easier said than done, he'd have told you, if you asked him at any point during those next few days, but eventually it was done, and he was standing outside the Midoriyas' apartment door with a briefcase in one hand and the other poised to knock. But before he could make a sound, the door opened, and Izuku was standing there, looking up at him with the brightest eyes.

“Hi,” he said, the simple word both enthusiastic and shy. His smile was impossibly wide, sending his freckles up into his eyes. “I, um, I could tell you were there,” he answered, before Toshinori could even ask how he'd known to open the door. Without further ado, Izuku reached out and took his hand, leading him into the apartment. They both breathed deep, relieved sighs as soon as they touched. Three days had just been too much.

Inside, Inko was doing dishes. “Oh, Toshinori, hi,” she said, looking over her shoulder. “I'll be done here in just a minute. Izuku said you have some papers for us to look at?”

“At my manager's insistence,” he explained. Guided by Izuku, he took a seat next to him at the kitchen table, their hands still joined, and set the briefcase up where his other hand could find what he needed. He pulled the stack of papers out and set them in the middle of the table.

“How's your week been?” Izuku asked quietly, as they waited for Inko to join them.

“It's been fine,” Toshinori answered, though the emotion rolling around in his chest said 'I missed you', and he was fairly sure Izuku could feel it.

The boy squeezed his hand at the feeling and replied, “Me too,” in response to the unspoken sentiment.

Drying her hands off on a dishtowel, Inko sat down across from them and gave the pair of them an appraising (but ultimately approving) look, before she slid the stack of papers over to her. “What have we got here?” she asked, apparently rhetorically, as she didn't wait for Toshinori to attempt to explain. She read through each page carefully and then passed it over to Izuku, who seemed mildly surprised but also read each one before sliding it over to Toshinori. (He skimmed them again for familiarity's sake, but he'd already read through them in detail with Suzuki a day or two before.)

Other than a 'hmm' here and there, Inko didn't make any comments until they were through the entire stack, which took about an hour. (Although she did stop to tell Toshinori to make himself at home, when she realized he might be thirsty or something.) It was a very quiet hour, and it would have been unnerving for Toshinori if he hadn't still had Izuku latched onto him, feeding him wisps of emotion as he read.

Once they'd gone through the whole stack, Inko started over from the beginning, and began to point out little details here and there and ask questions.

“I think most of it is reasonable enough,” she said. “We're not entitled to any of your income or royalties; that's fine. And we can't talk to the media about you. I'm alright with that. Izuku?”

Izuku nodded. “That's okay. I wasn't going to.”

“But this part here--” She pointed at it. “--says we're not allowed to tell anyone about the situation at all unless we have express written permission. That seems sort of... broad.”

Toshinori looked at the passage that Inko had indicated. “Uh, right. I told Suzuki I didn't think it was necessary, but he claims it's a safety precaution.”

“For you,” Inko said, and she did sound accusatory, but not overly much. “What happens if we break the contract? Suing us won't get you very much.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Toshinori tried to say, but Inko continued on.

“What if we need to tell someone and you're not around to give us permission? Like, Izuku's doctors? It just seems unreasonable. Dangerous, even. I get that you want to protect your status, but--”

Toshinori could feel Izuku begin to speak before he could hear the sound. “It's fine, mom,” he said. “It's not just for him. It's to protect us too. Remember that story a couple years ago? There was that lady who was kidnapped by villains because they thought they could use her to get to her husband?”

Inko pursed her lips, a slightly sour face. She clearly remembered the story, and how the woman had been tortured just to hurt her husband. Toshinori remembered it too; it had made him sick. It would have made anyone sick, especially anyone who was close to their soulmate.

“That's probably what Mr. Suzuki was thinking of,” Izuku added softly, and Toshinori could tell that he didn't quite believe in Suzuki's altruism (hard for him to, when he could feel Toshinori's own skepticism about the man), but that he did still believe the reasoning was fair.

A bit subdued, Inko nodded. “Well of course we won't go around telling everyone. I... just think it's a little silly to have to get it in writing like this.”

“You're right,” Toshinori said, shaking his head. “Leave that one, then. I'll get Suzuki to take it out.”

It went like that for another hour or so, Inko pointing out things she wasn't sure about and Toshinori mostly telling her to just cross them out, because honestly, Suzuki was going to be pissed, but who cared? There was no one in the world who mattered more right now than Izuku, and that necessarily made his mother pretty important too. Toshinori would do whatever it took to make them comfortable, and his manager could just deal with it.

By the time they were done, they'd tossed out about half of the papers and scratched through parts of most of the rest of them, and were left with a reasonable list of promises that read roughly like this:

The Midoriyas could not talk to the media about All Might, and they couldn't knowingly do anything that would jeopardize his career, and Izuku couldn't act in any way that would hinder All Might's ability to do his job as a hero. That was pretty much it, though the basic meaning was hidden in so many superfluous details that it had their heads spinning.

As for Toshinori, he would not infringe upon the Midoriyas' anonymity, or use his status to coerce or extort them in any way, and he would be responsible for any financial issues that resulted from their connection (including, but not limited to, doctor's bills and lawyer's fees).

Honestly though, they all knew that these were pretty moot points. If Izuku or his family broke any of these rules, there was really nothing that All Might's lawyers could do about it. And if All Might failed to uphold his end of the bargain, the Midoriyas could take him to court for it, but it would be inviting far more trouble than it was worth.

More than anything, though, they trusted each other enough for this whole paper-signing situation to be mostly just laughable. Getting the papers to Suzuki was not a high priority (well, he might have thought so, but he was a failure of a manager if he actually expected such a quick turnaround, after all these years), so Toshinori didn’t hurry off, instead offering to take the two out for lunch. “Oh, thank you, Toshinori,” Inko said sweetly, “but I’ve got some work to finish up. Why don’t you two go out and take advantage of the nice day?” At his elbow, Toshinori could feel Izuku’s slight surprise echoing against his own. Although Inko had only been supportive so far, they still couldn’t help expecting that she was going to try to keep them apart-- though maybe they were just projecting their reasonable fears about society onto the only other person who knew just yet. But whether or not she might be more strict about them seeing each other in the future, she seemed fine with it just now, and they were grateful. “Thanks,” Izuku told her with a sunny grin, while Toshinori nodded in agreement. “Want us to bring you anything?” Inko shook her head. “Just be back before it’s late! And stay safe!” They promised they’d be careful (in every possible way), and left the apartment together, walking close by but with their hands in their respective pockets-- the safest place for them, when they would have wandered if left to their own devices, gravitated naturally toward each other and the fulfilling feeling they provided. “So what did you think of the papers?” Toshinori asked, a relevant icebreaker to start conversation once they were on their way. “I hope they didn’t seem too strict.” Izuku grinned, and drifted close enough to bump their arms together. “They seemed fine,” he said, apparently unbothered by them. “Honestly, I’d sign whatever I had to. It’s already crazy that I even got to meet you. So, whatever I have to do now… I’ll do it.” That smile was an absolute slice of sunshine, and if Toshinori wasn’t warm just by their proximity, it would have done the job. 

They wandered for some time, down towards the city center where they might find something for lunch (maybe something other than ramen, so they could expand the list of foods they knew they both liked), chatting a little. The topics were never anything consequential; Toshinori thought Izuku was still a little nervous around him and wasn’t sure what to say. He understood the feeling, even without a physical link, rather feeling that way himself. But Izuku also had the natural anxiousness of the young and quirkless (he remembered feeling that way), so Toshinori tried to guide the conversation in comfortable directions. Heroes were always a safe topic, and one with no end of iterations. They’d walked a few casual miles, keeping their attention slightly on their surroundings in case a good restaurant caught their eye, and were in the middle of discussing Kamui Woods when something else caught their attention. In the distance a block or so, there was a crowd gathered, their exclamations and worried murmurs rising to a concerning pitch just as an explosion shook the area. Many of the citizens shrieked and ran for cover, but plenty of them were still huddled around in a nervous fashion, like people observing either a train wreck or a predator from which prey could have no hope of escaping. Toshinori became aware of Izuku latching on to his arm more than he strictly felt it, the young man’s concern bleeding over into him and mixing with his own. He could feel Izuku’s natural empathy coming strong through the connection, something he’d only glimpsed the times before. There was something happening nearby, something that frightened and worried everyone; should he help? What could he even do? Should he stay out of the way? After all, they’d only just found each other, and to lose Toshinori now would be devastating; to be found out might be even worse! Izuku would hate himself if he ruined All Might’s career by causing a scandal, but he couldn’t just sit back if someone was in danger and, ahh, if only he had powers, if only he could do more than cling and be a burden to his soulmate and-- Oh, Toshinori thought. These were not his fears; they were Izuku’s. It was Izuku’s desire to help whoever might be in trouble, his desire and his desire and that was right, he wanted to help too. Of course he did. He was a hero, wasn’t he? There was only so worried he could be for his own safety and his reputation and Izuku shouldn’t worry either because it would be okay and I am here and it was amazing-- he really was the right one for him. The perfect soulmate, and maybe something more, but that was something he could think of later. The screams were louder now, and the worried murmurs too, and as an explosion shook the windows of a building half a block down they agreed they couldn’t turn away, not when there was a chance they could do something, anything. Even if there was no power left, it was still his duty, and he didn’t have to do this but yes he did. “You’re at your limit?” Izuku asked, glancing up at him through his fluffy bangs, concern bleeding out of him through more than just their physical connection. It couldn’t have been much more than a guess, but from his expression Toshinori could see that Izuku somehow knew it, like an intuition. 

He nodded. “Essentially,” he replied. He wasn’t sure how to explain it in detail, but hoped a more nuanced understanding of it would flow through their bond. “I always have a reserve amount, but it’s… not much.” Izuku seemed to get it. “Maybe we can just… go see, if there’s something we can do.” That seemed fair; that seemed like the least they could do. Maybe there was something, some way to help. Inspired by each other, they jogged over to the scene and the crowd surrounding whatever trainwreck was keeping their attention so strongly. Toshinori froze down to his veins when they saw what was the cause of the commotion. It was a mutant; the same mutant he was sure he’d captured just the other day. Yes, he’d been distracted by Izuku’s presence, but he distinctly remembered turning the water bottle full of sludge over to the police before absconding with his new soulmate up to the rooftop. Izuku’s arm brushed Toshinori’s as he stepped closer in a subconscious bid at safety. How had the mutant escaped? Was it perhaps a different man after all? A twin, or someone with the same quirk? Had Izuku done something wrong? Distracted All Might from his task and caused the villain to escape? Was it the police’s fault? He glanced down at Izuku, who glanced up at him, and Toshinori shook his head. It’s not your fault, he said wordlessly, or Don’t worry about all that. And Izuku nodded, back on track after a momentary lapse of focus. How and why the mutant was here was of little concern. They both turned back to the scene at hand. “Okay, stand back and I’ll try to handle this,” Toshinori said, looking down at Izuku in a way he hoped was reassuring, and knowing anyway that he didn’t have to; Izuku could feel his determination, and every little ounce of worry that things might not go as planned. It was a nuance that Toshinori had learned to deal with in his life, and it was something Izuku was going to have to deal with as well. (Though given the boy’s penchant for overthinking, perhaps it wouldn’t be that much of a trial after all.) “Do you have enough energy?” Izuku asked nervously, obviously not wanting… well, all the things that could go wrong if Toshinori ran out at the wrong time. Toshinori laughed in soft self-depreciation. “Probably not,” he admitted. “But I’ll do what I can. That’s what it means to be a hero, right?” With Izuku’s arm still brushing his, he could feel the boy’s admiration, and it doubled in him and gave rise to a heroic rush he didn’t think he’d felt for years. Still, he waited for the right moment. That was another thing about being a hero; you couldn’t rush in blindly (not with his level of experience, anyway). He watched as the mutant swung his head around, like a cornered animal watching viciously for its enemies, and he could just about guess when it was going to let its guard down. Almost… he thought, his muscles tensing in anticipation. But just as he was about to spring forward, he felt a twinge of panic from Izuku’s side of the connection. It was a spike of recognition. Kacchan! 

The roughest of drafts: 

Izuku freaks out and runs to try to rescue him and they're all surprised when he actually manages to do some slight damage to the mutant; it's not enough to defeat him, but enough to stun him into dropping Bakugo, at which point Toshi transforms and rushes to finish him off. Tl;dr, turns out that a very tiny amount of Toshi’s power has become available to Izuku. (Make some note of the pain aspect, Toshi feeling Izuku’s pain from using OfA.) 

Afterward, when Toshi is talking to reporters (and Izuku has managed to avoid at least a little of the reprimanding from canon, due to appearing to have some power) Izuku can feel the discomfort, Toshi’s power draining. Perhaps he plays the fan, comes to shake his hand as thanks for saving him and they're both a little surprised that it eases the discomfort, seems to give Toshi back a little strength. Izuku had just done it as an instinct, but in light of what had just happened with the power sharing, they're both very curious how this whole soulmate thing is going to work. 

Toshi excuses himself from the crowd before too long and goes to find Izuku. He finds him being confronted by Bakugo, who knows that something is strange but doesn't know what (and is upset like in canon about Izuku trying to help him). Toshi tries to stay out of sight until Bakugo runs off, feeling that Izuku is confident enough in his ability to handle this. When they rejoin, Izuku explains who Bakugo is. 

“[But enough about that.] Are you okay?” 

They join hands. Toshi can feel that Izuku is fine but still he says, “It's you I'm concerned about. Do you know what you did back there?”

“That was your quirk,” he said, and Toshi nodded.

“Some of it, at least. Is your arm okay?” 

Izuku stretched his arm out, wiggling his fingers. “It aches a little, but I'm okay. I'm just… I've never done anything like that before. It felt… kind of amazing.” 

Toshi could tell that it was a little more than an ache, but that Izuku wasn't lying. It really wasn't hurting him much, and he was really feeling exhilarated. He remembered feeling like that when he first took the quirk himself. 

Izuku’s side of the connection was curious and Toshi realized he could feel him thinking about his past. He debated with himself for a minute. Was this the right time to tell Izuku about his past? He would have to tell him some time, and there was no reason to wait. “I felt the same way the first time I used it,” he said. “When my mentor gave it to me. I was about your age.” 

The feeling of surprise that Izuku emanated was not as much of a shock as he expected, more of a warm melting feeling, a soft realization. “You were ...quirkless? Someone gave you your quirk? But how?” 

Toshi tells the story as they head back to the apartment, but they take a detour to sit somewhere and finish talking. (Way before this, Izuku texts his mom to tell her what happened and that they're fine and they'll be home in a while.) It's gotten dark by the time Toshi has finished telling of Nana and AfO and needing to pass OfA on, and they're sitting on a bench in a corner of a park or something. 

“It was just an idea before,” Toshi says, “but now I'm pretty sure it's the right one. Would you be willing to take it? One for All?” 

The surprise this time really is a shock, and it nearly knocks the breath out of him. “...Really?” 

“You can tell I'm serious,” Toshi says with a smirk, and then he nods. “Yes. Really. It's the only thing that makes sense.” 

He thinks of the reasons: he needs to pass it on, and Izuku wants a quirk, needs one to get into UA. And he's defenseless without one, a real danger with them together now. And he's already shown that he can handle it, at least a little. 

“Should I think about it?” Izuku asks, looking unsure. He's probably thinking about all the things they talked about with his mother earlier, trying to be careful. But Toshi can tell he really wants it, and that's enough for him. 

“If you want,” he says. “Take your time.” He knows that Izuku will say yes. (He's less sure if Inko will agree, but he knows that between the two of them, they can convince her.) 

He can feel Izuku trembling, and it's with excitement he thinks. “Thank you,” Izuku says, almost breathlessly, and he leans forward and kisses Toshi, softly and quickly, and then looks him in the eyes for a short moment, twists his body in his direction more and leans in for another kiss. This one is a little deeper, lingering, not obscene but less than entirely chaste and Toshi can feel so so much through it, especially as he allows himself to kiss back. They don't take it far; Toshi can feel that Izuku knows there are boundaries, though Toshi is nervous about himself, unsure if he would be able to keep himself from crossing them, to stop when it was time. He's a bit anxious, but he's glad Izuku is reasonable, and he's excited and he's happy and they're melting into each other even though they've stopped kissing and it is finally Izuku who speaks up to interrupt them getting stuck in their twofold thoughts. 

“I should get home. I have to tell my mom about all this. Am I… Can I tell her? About OfA?” 

Toshi nods. “It's a big part of all of this. I guess she should know. And that'll give you a chance to talk it over with her. Decide if you want it.” 

‘I do want it,’ he could tell Izuku was thinking, although maybe not in so many words. Izuku was trying to be patient and make smart decisions. He was doing his best to be worthy of being Toshi’s soulmate, and Toshi was overcome with affection for him. He hugged him close, and even more than the kissing, that was the most they'd ever felt, the most contact they'd ever made. It was less electric than kissing, but like an overblown, overexposed photo. They stayed there like that for a little while before they silently agreed to get up and go back. 

The end of chapter 3, more or less. 

Chapter four. 

Izuku took a week to act like he was thinking about it, but in truth he'd decided almost immediately, and convinced his mom that it was a good idea (or that she should let him do it at least) on that first night, after Toshi had walked him home and said goodbye. 

“Izuku! I saw on the news about that mutant attack! You're really alright? And Toshinori, and Katsuki?” 

“We're fine mom! Toshinori saved us. But…” A pause. “With dad, have you ever… accidentally used his quirk before?” 

She raised an eyebrow at him, looking a little worried. “I can feel when he's using it, but i've never breathed fire myself.” 

Yeah, it wasn't anything he'd ever heard of before. Maybe it was because most people's quirks weren't that strong. Maybe it was because he was quirkless. Maybe… well there were a lot of reasons it could be. It didn't matter that much why; it had happened, and they'd both felt it. 

“I used it. All Might’s power.  Just a little bit of it.”

“Are you okay?” 

He said he was fine, he thought, but Inko was skeptical. She remembered some times when he was younger, when he thought an injury was less serious than it was. She convinced him to go to the doctor tomorrow and he agreed, dismissively as he was so invested in telling her about Toshinori’s offer. She's a bit nervous about the idea but it doesn't take long for her to give in. 

At the doctor's tomorrow (maybe only mentioned, not a scene) it turns out that Izuku did in fact fracture a bone in his arm. (Is a cast needed for that? Probably not.) 

Later that afternoon, Toshinori texted him and asked if he was okay; his arm felt a little off. Izuku responds casually that it was just a fracture and he's fine, and Toshi fusses over him a little, apologizes for putting him in that situation. Izuku really is not bothered by it. Toshi doesn't ask if Izuku has decided and Izuku wonders if he's changed his mind. A week later, he says that he's decided to take OfA, if he's still offering it, and Toshi says that he'd be happy to give it to him, if he's really sure. But! There's no way Izuku is going to be able to handle it in his current state. They begin to train (though not until Izuku’s fracture heals). In the meantime, Izuku continues school, and Toshi continues work, and they see each roughly every weekend. Sometimes they'll meet out for lunch or sometimes Inko invites Toshi over for dinner. 

(Cover some catch up. Mention Suzuki being annoyed about the edits to the paperwork etc)

It's a few weeks before they start to train, but of course it's much less covert than in canon. Inko knows exactly where they're going; Toshi has discussed it with them over dinners and such. He doesn't tell them that his plan is for Izuku to clean up the trash on the beach until they get there though. 

The next several months are a more efficient training than canon. After Toshi is pretty sure Izuku has grown strong enough, they try the power-share again, and Izuku is able to start using the very tiny percentage of OfA, sometimes. It works if he's recently been in physical contact with Toshi, and fades after a minute or two. It's not enough to do anything very heroic, but it is a significant boost to Izuku’s natural strength, allowing him to move items several times his normal weight limit. 

(They also find that Izuku can actually use a version of OfA that is more than twice as powerful as his tiny version, only if Toshi is currently in contact with him. However, Izuku hurt himself the first time they did that, so they avoid it until much later.) 

They still don't have a perfect grasp on Izuku’s ability to handle it by the time they transfer it to him, but it's better than canon, and they do it earlier so he has more chance to practice. He has at least some ability to use it at half-power before the entrance exam (chapter 5). The only reason he hurts himself so badly there is because he freaked out and wasn't careful. 

Training is pretty fun for them. It's more like play than in canon, with Izuku showing off, carrying Toshi around, silly stuff like that. He's moderately less concerned about being a hero, mostly because Toshi is so constantly encouraging so he doesn't worry about it. And he knows that even if he doesn't make it somehow, he's still got Toshi and nothing can take that away. 

Aside from training, they still spend a good amount of time together. Events and holidays and such. Izuku meets Suzuki. Toshi invites Izuku (and probably Inko) to his place once or twice, though they still spend most of their time out or at the Midoriyas’ apartment. Inko politely requests that they not stay at Toshi’s place. (She isn't /too concerned, but she just wants them to know that she has some kind of expectations about how they'll handle their relationship. She half expects Izuku to go behind her back in some of those regards.) 

Izuku has his 15th birthday not long after they start training (might have to look this one up) or thereabouts. He has mixed emotions about this, and about inviting Toshi to his ‘party’ (probably just a fancy-ish dinner with his mother (maybe dad too?) Since he doesn't have any friends). He wants Toshi there, of course, but he's somewhat embarrassed about still being only 15, and doesn't want to draw attention to it. On the other hand, he's also excited to be getting older, closer and closer to the age that it would be appropriate for he and Toshi to act however they liked. (This birthday scene goes in early middle of chapter.) 

More holidays: Christmas, new years, Valentine's day. Maybe just slight mentions of those. 

Chapter ends when Toshi wishes Izuku luck at the entrance exam. He kisses him and Izuku is a little shocked because Toshi is rarely if ever the one to initiate that sort of thing. He heads to the exam, excited and confident. 

Chapter 5. 

Toshi heads to UA (potentially along with Izuku), and goes to watch the exam with his fellow teachers. He's met them several times and they know about his injury and resting form, but only Nedzu knows that Izuku is his soul mate. Most of the others are familiar enough with him to know that he doesn't have one, and many assume that he's one of the few who will never have one. 

When the exam starts though, they might be able to tell that he is on edge, excited but nervous. However, they are all focused as well. It's not until Izuku smashes the robot (and everyone is shocked) and Toshi reacts to the pain that they notice the connection between them. He's not incapacitated (like Izuku is) but he is distressed and in pain and having to deal with the commotion from the other teachers. (Choose one teacher to perhaps help him out.) 

As soon as he's able, he goes to Izuku. (At some point he calls Inko to let her know what's happened, and she's worried and upset and he has to talk her down until she realizes that he's upset too.) In the infirmary, Izuku is knocked out, which Toshi already knew, could tell because the pain subsided very quickly. Chiyo looks up when he comes in, obviously connecting the dots. 

“He made quite a mess of himself,” she tells him, pulling up a chair next to Izuku’s bed for him. She tells him the details of what Izuku broke.  “But he'll recover.” 

“Thank you,” Toshi says, reaching out to carefully run his hands over Izuku’s arm, laying his hand on the side of his face, thinking about if this was a good idea, etc. 

Eventually, Izuku wakes up and they talk. A few people might come by in the meantime. Izuku is eventually clear to go home. Toshi takes him. Izuku asks if he passed, knowing that Toshi was there, and all Toshi can say is that he thought he did a good job, but he doesn't know for sure. (He later finds out that Izuku scored quite well, but refrains from telling him, letting Izuku get the letter from the school.) 

He gets a phone call from Izuku after the letters have gone out, and he can feel a sense of excitement even before he picks up. Izuku is crying on the other end. “Why didn't you tell me I made it?!” But he is obviously extremely happy.

Out on patrol or something, Toshi can't stop grinning for the rest of the day. When someone asks him, he just says that he's excited for new opportunities. 

Chapter 6

Izuku and Toshi both begin at UA. Izuku has already made friends with a few people from the exam, and of course he knows Bakugo. Bakugo is extra suspicious of him, confused about how he's got a quirk suddenly, and knowing that he's been acting strange the whole past year. He might even suspect that they're both related to izuku’s soul mate, considering the timing. 

School is, of course, plenty for them to focus on, but izuku and Toshi are still very focused on each other as well. Toshi treats izuku much the same as in canon, inviting him for lunch and etc, “playing favorites”. But since the other teachers know they're soulmates (at least, some do?) they don't criticize him quite as much for it. 

Toshi and izuku continue to progress in their relationship, lightly, balancing their personal and professional relationships. They act very casual around each other and have to be careful not to be too casual in front of the class. 

Izuku makes friends, which is sort of new for him. He loves them and wants to be open with them about his situation, but he can't. He's thought about telling, but he knows he can't break the rules they set. It's harder when perhaps the rumor (true rumor? What do you call that?) goes around about how he was affected by the soul link pain when he was little. He can easily tell his friends that it's not bad anymore, but it's hard having to pretend he doesn't know who it is. (Also may have to decide about sub-pairings? Otherwise it will be very hard for any of the other students to talk about their experiences. If they had mates in the class (like most ships) they would likely find out very quickly.) 

Most people won't immediately assume it's All Might, even if they spend a lot of time together. 

Key point: they hone their energy sharing, as Toshi becomes a bit exhausted some days. Simply being in contact for a while (lunch or something) acts as a recharge for him. When the other staff figure this out, they're much more accepting of izuku hanging out in the staff lounge. 

(Need to rewatch to see what the first few weeks are like.) 

Maybe include some scenes with Inko.

Chapter 7

This is the USJ incident. Toshi gets caught up in work and is late to help at USJ, but less late than in canon because he feels/hears Izuku crying out for him. Don't have to describe most of the USJ events because it's from Toshi POV, but have to decide when he gets there and if it all goes more smoothly. 

The way that Toshi and izuku act towards each other (calling by their first names, extreme familiarity and working together) is what starts to tip off some of the students, though it's not relevant at the time. 

The encounter is a little easier this time, with the power-share (this is probably the first time they try it out seriously) and the desperation to save each other (and the others) echoing between them. 

Any character who takes notice of their bond and quirk in canon is likely to notice the soul link instead. 

After the incident, emotions are running high. This was the first time they were honestly scared of losing each other. They want to hold each other for a very long time. Perhaps they are seen by some of the students (who maybe chalk it up to generic relief over the situation, but would definitely file it away for later). Later, they still don't want to let each other go, and perhaps spend their first night together (not necessarily sexual or anything), Inko having not allowed them to do so before. 

Emotional wrap-up; they're scared but calmed by each other's presence. They know they can handle the future together. 

END? (of this particular story, probably)  Brainstorming, notes, and ideas for further fics in the series 

And the notes below:  (my shorthand for the characters is IM = Izuku Midoriya, AM= All Might, IMmom = Inko (not shorthand in that case I know lol, I think I didn’t want people reading over my shoulder)) >>>"Touch" sequel

A lot of people actually expressed an interest in this, so let me jot down my ideas-- as well as their ideas. 

AM and IM have met, and now keep in touch. How has this changed their lives? Well now whenever they feel a strange pain, they'll call or text each other to make sure they're okay. They're both aware of what their relationship would be, if IM was older, and so is his mom, and so is pretty much everyone else that knows. In fact, most people assume that they're 'together' anyway, and it causes some tension. They try to keep it mostly under wraps, but it's nearly impossible. IM's friends and classmates are sure to notice, and AM's manager thinks maybe they should just come out with it. For their part, IM and AM just want to enjoy each others' presence and keep their moral concerns personal. IM is of course more brave (between the two of them), while AM knows he's 'supposed' to refrain. In public, they're both very good about it. 

Some time in the future, after they've really adjusted to each other, and the drama (at least from their friends and family) has died down, they take to being heroes together, as they at some point realize how much more receptive they are when they're together/touching. 

Questions! : 

--Does IM still get OfA? (I'm leaning towards yes? Most of the rest of the story wouldn’t make sense if he didn’t.) 

--How do friends/family react? Some people are jealous? BK particularly? IMmom is as supportive as possible, but she still worries for IM. As time goes on, if IM get OfA, she worries for AM too. (What about AM's cop friend?? I dunno, haven't thought about him much.) 

--How do media/people react? Manager wants to tell, because he knows people will find out and it's better to come out with it before they do. But AMIM want to stay private. Perhaps at the tournament, it is no longer possible to avoid media attention. Someone notices AM's discomfort when IM fights TS, notices IM look to the stands for AM before doing something reckless. When they find out, it's all anyone wants to talk about. AM's thin form becomes very useful for avoiding the media. 

--Perhaps around then, IM is kidnapped to be used against AM? 

--When things are calm, AMIM often text each other just to talk-- sometimes in the night. "I miss you" IM texts. "Is that what you were thinking of?" AM asks, aware that IM is awake and wound up, and winding him up too. This is before they've really worked out how things are supposed to go between them. IM is bold; AM is holding himself back.

-- IM goes to UA, begins to use quirk. -- AMIM work harder at managing IM’s abilities than in canon, because its effects are more obvious on them. -- AM starts at UA as a teacher; AMIM have to hide their link. IM has not told anyone. AM had to tell the staff. -- When the villains attack, AM gets there sooner, as he’s tipped off by their link. Things happen about the same. -- (Should I bother to include that part if nothing is significantly different? Leaning towards no. Maybe just touch on it.) -- At the tournament, that’s when people take notice of AMIM’s link. (IM’s friends have already begun to notice.) -- After that, it’s all anybody wants to talk about. AMIM are in the spotlight, though UA tries to protect them. -- The media begins to gossip about them, some piecing the puzzle together about their quirks. Some guess that IM is AM’s son (and has inherited his quirk). (It’s not unheard of for family to be platonic soulmates.) -- Manager makes them come out with an official statement finally, despite their reluctance. -- IM receives many invitations to intern with heroes. For safety’s sake, they turn them all down, except Torino. -- IM goes to train with Torino, covertly, while AM stays behind to deal with the PR mess. -- Things happen about as usual. Maybe only touch on this part as well? Not super relevant to the AU. -- IM thinks about AM during the fight with HK, and AM wants to get to him, knowing something is wrong, but knows he won’t make it in time. (Remember, “Touch” was 3rd person limited-omniscient. POV can be from IM, AM, and other relevant characters.) -- Would AM be allowed to test IM during the midterms? Maybe gloss over that part. Especially towards the end of Season 2, go more vaguely into the ending, to avoid making it obvious that you have no idea what happens after that. XD; Isolate the emotional core of the story (the emotional drama or problem) to solve in the final scenes, even if it avoids canon entirely. That’s preferable, in fact. Points to write, unrelated to canon occurrences: : -- AMIM want to spend a lot of time together, but they must balance their responsibilities. IMmom is pretty understanding and allows them a lot of freedom. -- Manager (needs name) is less understanding, hounds them to release a press statement. -- Most of their time together is spent in private or secluded places. Obvs, they frequent the beach for training. -- They often text and talk to each other on the phone, nightly if they haven’t seen each other. -- AM is still struggling a little bit with the fact that IM is so young, but he’s impressed by IM’s emotional maturity. -- IM is over the moon about AM, not enduring nearly the moral struggle AM is. He’s not an idiot, and he’s not oblivious, but he doesn’t think that there’s anything particularly wrong with them messing around a little. He’s considerate enough not to wind AM up when he’s busy or they’re in public, although sometimes he can’t help how he feels. (Being ‘turned on’ isn’t really strong enough of a feeling to cross the link; only acting on it is.) -- For his part, AM (at first, at least) tries not to touch himself, or at least only when he thinks IM is sleeping. Eventually they come to the conclusion that that’s not working out well-- and the most logical way to handle it, so as not to inconvenience either of them, is to go at the same time/ at set times. -- That is the most AM allows them to do (hugging/cuddling is totally fine, limited kissing is okay), and even that seems like too much to him, but he compromises with himself because he knows it would be worse if he didn’t. (It’s not as if he’s going to convince a 16-year-old to stop touching himself for 2+ years, and though his own urges are less frequent, it’s been uncomfortable trying to hold back entirely.) He doesn’t allow them to touch each other, and IM is actually pretty okay with this. Well, he respects it, at least. He’s just happy to have AM in whatever capacity he can. Some notes regarding the universe: -- laws regarding consent ages are a bit more lax, given the soulmate thing. AMIM would be more-or-less within their right to do whatever they want with each other, as long as IMmom is okay with it. And even if she weren’t, they could apply to be married, even at IM’s young age, by passing a test that proves they’re soulmates.(I don't think they'll do this. Manager would have a heart attack. ...then again, maybe he'd like the idea…) -- however, there is still certainly a stigma about age-difference relationships, particularly where one party is underage. 

Story 1 plot points to mention our resolve:

-- telling IM that his mom already knew

-- AM coming to terms with IM being a fan

-- AM telling IM his real name

-- AM telling manager about IM immediately. (Might be a good point to start with.) 

To time skip or not to time skip? I'm leaning towards not. New outline, after I've written a bit. 

1. AM talks to manager, Suzuki, and tells him about the whole situation, almost entirely honest. They decide to keep it a secret until AM has a successor. (AM POV) 

2. AMIM go on a date, where they talk about both applying to UA. IM wonders what AM is not telling him. They hold hands. AM brings up the paperwork Suzuki wants them to sign, and IM agrees. (IM POV) 

3. AM sees something that convinces him to offer OFA to IM. (AM POV) 

4. IM begins to train for OfA. (IM POV) 

5. IM goes to UA entrance exam. (AM POV) 

6. They begin at UA, and try to figure out how to act around each other, after they've had so much private time over the past months. (IM POV) 

7. The villains attack UA, AMIM touch-team to beat them, and people start to really put their relationship together. (AM POV)

END S1. Ugh how did this get so long that I have to separate it by season?! 

Touch2 titles:

Some related words: Touch, feel, sense, sensation, emotion, Touch, touched, touching, touches, touchstone, touch-tone, aftertouch, finishing touch, retouch, out of touch, in touch, untouched, Touched can mean: physically touched (he touched my arm), lightly mentioned (he touched upon the issue), emotionally moved (he was touched by the story), brought together metaphorically (their lives touched), affected (his life was touched by his decisions) Touch, taste, smell, see, hear

Leaning towards using other ‘touch’ words for different parts of overall story. 

Touch - original story

Retouch(ed) - this story 

Touch-up - maybe the next part

Finishing touch - the last story (though there might be another in between) 

Untouchable - first nsfw side story, before izuku is of age, on the phone with each other, feeling the echoes of their actions. 

Untouched - second nsfw side story, when izuku comes of age and they finally get together physically. 

Aftertouch - epilogue (years in future, maybe, working together) 

In touch - side stories taking place in the timeline of the story

Out of touch - side stories taking place before or after story, or from different character's point of view or about different characters. 

Chapter quotes:  Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity. 

-Edwin Hubbell Chapin (Chapter 1, Retouch) The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart. 

-Helen Keller The truly creative mind in any field is no more than this: a human creature born abnormally, inhumanly sensitive. To him, a touch is a blow, a sound is a noise, a misfortune is a tragedy, a joy is an ecstasy, a friend is a lover, a lover is a god, and failure is death. Add to this cruelly delicate organism the overpowering necessity to create, create, create - so that without the creating of music or poetry or books or buildings or something of meaning, his very breath is cut off from him. He must create, must pour out creation. By some strange, unknown, inward urgency he is not really alive unless he is creating. 

-Pearl Buck Aim for your star, no matter how far, you must reach high above and touch your life with love, you must never look back, but charge on! Attack! See your goal your star of desire, see it red hot, feel it burning, you must be obsessed with it to make it your true yearning, be ready my friends for when you truly believe it, you will certainly achieve it and by all of God’s universal laws you will always receive it! 

-Bob Smith We do not do well except when we know where the best is and when we are assured that we have touched it and hold its power within us. (lol god this one is awfully literal) 

-Joseph Joubert If you can learn from hard knocks, you can also learn from soft touches. 

-Carolyn Kenmore, Mannequin: My Life as a Model When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares. 

-Henri Nouwen And that’s everything I’ve got about Touch/Retouch! I might clean up that third chapter and post it some day, but *shrug*. 

[its-ya-boi-autumn]

Oof! Another Illumi short because I haven’t written him in a while either... it’s a little difficult for me to write him sometimes but I’m still gonna try because he’s just great. Also this has been in my drafts for freaking months and I had no idea how to end it, so sorry for it being extra short.

You felt a little stupid for setting up your room just for a video call, but you didn’t want to look like a slob in front of Illumi. It wasn’t that you were necessarily dirty, you just had some extra clothes lying around and some food boxes on the ground and on your bed. You had been genuinely surprised when he had agreed to join in a video call with you in the first place. He just didn’t seem the type for such “silly things”.

It was rather late at night as well, almost around 11. You figured Illumi wouldn’t even be up at this time of night. He was rather fixed on his routines, and it was likely he’d forget you wanted to video chat him at all. Your mind fixated on things he could be doing while put books back into their shelves. He could be training, bathing, eating, most likely training. That was almost all he ever did, or at least, what his excuse for not seeing you was almost every time. Though Illumi wasn’t the type to lie, so it must be true...

Just after you had turned off the main lighting and plugged in the faerie lights you had put up earlier that day, a noise emitted from your laptop. You jumped at the sound of Skype blooping and beeping it’s little song through the small speakers of the device. Quickly, you grabbed it up and set it on the foot of your bed, answering the call.

Illumi’s pale face met yours through the other side of the screen. His dark hair was pinned up in a ponytail behind him while he glanced around his desk for something. He didn’t seem to notice you on the call.

“Uh... hello?” you giggled. Illumi stopped what he was doing and glanced at the screen.

“Oh. Hello y/n.” he greeted quietly, his voice low like usual. You adored the sound almost as much as you adored the face beyond you. You smiled in return. His room was clean, as you had expected it to be. It was then you realized he wouldn’t have even seen your room, so there was really no use in taking the time to clean it up for him. Either way, you felt more relaxed in the spotless space. Illumi picked something up off screen and threw it to his left.

“What are you doing?” you asked suddenly. You blushed at your own impulsivity. Illumi hummed.

“Nothing really, just cleaning up a little.” he spoke punctually. You figured then that this call might not last long, nor would it be very entertaining. Illumi didn’t talk much, and with how awkward you already were, there wasn’t much to say to him.

“So, was there a specific reason you wanted to call me?” he stopped everything he was doing and sat back in his desk chair. His hands were in his lap while he stared at you intently. You blushed a little deeper, your hand moving to rub the name of your neck.

“Uh... yeah but it’s nothing too important I guess...” you started, already feeling dumb. He’d probably end the call the second you told him, saying there was no need to stay with you if there wasn’t anything needed. Though, for the time being, he said nothing, waiting patiently for your response.

“I just wanted to talk to you in general. Not about anything specific, just to talk for a little.” you finished explaining. Your eyes averted from the screen to play with your fingernails, picking at them and pulling them off.  “Oh, okay then. What do you want to talk about?” the reply was sudden again. Something you hadn’t expected him to say. You looked back up, your eyes meeting his.

“Oh! Uh- well...” you hadn’t thought about that. You should have thought about that... you knew he’d have nothing much to say, other than maybe something Hisoka was doing recently or something about training. You sighed, admitting defeat.

“Hmm... well there isn’t much going on here so, I guess I don’t have much either.” Illumi mumbled more to himself than to you. He peeked up at your screen.

“What’s been going on over at your place? I haven’t seen you in a while you know.” he asked, relaxing into his chair. You rested your head on your hand, thinking. What had you been doing in the last month?

“Um... well, not much really. I guess we got a new dog recently. Her name is Oreo. Wanna see?” you felt the excitement flood in. Oreo was a little Border Jack with black and white spots dotting around her short body. She was only 8 months old as well, turning 9 months within a few days.

“Sure.” Illumi obliged, setting his arms on the desk in front of him to watch you closer. You held up a finger and left the screen, opening your bedroom door to find Oreo. You heard snoring in the kitchen, noting that it must have been the little dog. You found her curled up against the wooden cabinets, snoring loudly.

“Hi baby~” you cooed at her. Oreo opened her brown eyes and started wagging her tail at you. Giggling, you scooped her up in your arms and shuffled back to your bedroom where your laptop still sit, humming quietly. You plopped your body down back onto your bed with an ‘oof’ while Oreo slammed down into your lap. You let you an exaggerated huff at the dogs weight.

“Jeez puppy I’m gonna have to stop feeding you so much huh?” you joked, ruffling her head. Oreo licked your hands in an affectionate manner. Illumi blinked at the image.

“She’s quite slobbery isn’t she?” he questioned, tilting his head at you. You laughed.

“Yeah sometimes, but most of the time she’s alright. She just barks a lot when the mailman goes by. Or when anyone comes by for that matter...” you explained, stroking the dogs back. The dog stared up at you with great brown eyes, its tongue lolling out stupidly as it continued to gaze upon you. Illumi stared as well, not knowing much of what to say. Instead, he threw his hair up into a bun and began searching through tabs on his laptop.

“Since there was nothing of importance here to speak of tonight, would you mind if I got offline? I do have a few things to look into before bed.” he stated plainly, scrolling through his email feeds. A part of you was saddened but knew he had a point. The two of you really didn’t have much to talk about, but seeing him was quite nice.

“Yeah, I’ll let you go then, it was nice talking to you though!” 

“As with you.” he responded before ending the call without a goodbye.

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

To My Soul

Summary: You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don’t even walk the same hallways twice. Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Every now and then, your paths cross.

Inspired by Van Morrison’s “And It Stoned Me”

Warnings: Some loneliness. This story is *soft*, there’s not much to warn about.

Author’s Note: Super thanks to @there-must-be-a-lock​ for the AMAZING image and mega suggestions. You really shaped this story. @glassjacket​, thank you for the relocations and the flails. I was nervous about my first Sam story. 

Word Count:1525

ItMightHaveBeenintentional’s Masterlist

To My Soul

Walking is lonely and cold tonight. 

Before you’d moved into the bunker, you used to open a window and listen to the crickets to calm your mind on the nights when you couldn’t sleep. It’s been several months now; the Winchesters have made every effort to help you settle in, but nights underground are long and far too quiet. 

You’ve taken to walking when insomnia strikes. The bunker definitely offers enough space to do so. Some nights you don’t even walk the same hallways twice. 

Dean and Sam have their own means of dealing with their occasional insomnia. Dean watches movies, listens to music, drinks, sometimes even punches things. You’ve joined him for a few of the less violent pastimes, at his invitation. You would never have intruded on your own, but he saw you pacing in the hallway and called out. Dean is easy to spend time with, and in the months you’ve known the Winchesters, you’ve grown more comfortable with him than any other person, save one.

Judging by the lack of sound effects from Dean’s room, the elder Winchester seems to be enjoying a rare night of easy slumber.

Sam has his own sleepless nights, and he resorts to fairly Sam-typical activities to occupy his mind. He does occasionally watch movies, mostly documentaries, but mostly he reads. 

Sam reads so much, so often, that the library seems odd without him seated at the table, several volumes spread out around him, his notebook and laptop fighting for space on the crowded surface. He always has suggestions for books from the library, subjects you would never have considered but somehow never fail to interest you. Sometimes you curl up in a chair with a warm drink, letting the sounds of his scratching pencil or tapping keyboard mesmerize you.

Either Winchester would be more than welcome tonight, but at some point during your time in their bunker, you’ve come to anticipate your quiet nights with Sam. Soothing and quietly welcoming, Sam’s presence helps you sleep better than a full day of hard labor.

You love watching Sam work with his hands, any task really, but especially writing in his notebooks. His hand dwarfs any writing utensil he uses, and yet his fingers curve and glide so elegantly across the pages. He doesn’t mind you watching, just keeps at his research, though you’ve noticed lately that he’s smiling more than he used to.

Seems like it to you, anyway. 

The library is depressingly empty tonight, feeling far too open and drafty without its most frequent inhabitant. You chafe at your arms, trying to buff some heat into your goose-bumped skin, and frown at the polished table top. 

Absent of its typical stacks of dusty tomes and scribbled notes, the table seems almost superfluous. But it isn’t the table or even the library itself that drew you here on your nighttime stroll. You realize with a start that you’ve begun to take Sam’s occupancy of the library for granted, counting on the comfort of his welcoming smile and quiet inclusion.

Something to consider, you think, momentarily at a loss. Another draft whispers past, and you shiver.

Maybe he managed to find some peace tonight. Never one to begrudge someone a good night’s sleep, you decide to try an old trick and head towards the kitchen, running through the options of hot drinks in your restless mind.

Soft music drifts from the open kitchen doorway, floating out of the dimly lit room. The golden light of a small lamp makes the industrial room seem softer, more intimate than its usual stark appearance. Sam sits at the kitchen table, hands wrapped around a mug, nodding vaguely in time to Van Morrison emanating from his phone’s speaker.

At the sight of him, relaxed and easy, warmth suffuses your body from your fingers to your cold-stiffened toes. You can’t help but smile; you don’t often get to see Sam this peaceful. 

You clear your throat quietly, not wanting to startle him. He turns, his eyes meeting yours, and he sits up straighter. Your heart flips at his infectious smile.

You’re ninety-seven percent sure that his face lights up a little extra.

“I hoped you’d wander this way,” he says. Even his voice is calmer tonight, and you take a moment to simply drink in the serenity of the room. The empty spot across from Sam seems terribly inviting as he waits for your reaction.

Being the direct subject of Sam’s attention is suddenly a little more intense than you can handle. Rather than confront that thought, you glance around, looking for some new subject of conversation. You raise your eyebrows and nod questioningly at the little lamp on the table. Sam follows your gaze, and his smile turns a little bashful.

“Didn’t feel like researching tonight. The library was too cold, so I snagged the lamp and brought it with me. This is easier on my eyes than the overheads, especially since the whole point is to relax. Y’know?”

Yeah...yeah, you do know.

The song on Sam’s phone ends quietly, switching to the next.

Half a mile from the county fair, And the rain came pouring down...

“I, uh…” He clears his throat, some of the bashfulness apparently spreading to his vocal cords. His fingers shuffle awkwardly around the mug as he glances away and then back. It’s difficult to tell, but in the dim light, Sam’s face seems oddly flushed. 

“I made some extra mulled cider, in case you, uh… I thought you might...if you want some. It’s in the pot on the stove.”

Your own cheeks heating, you smile your thanks and move across the room to the shelf where the coffee mugs sit. 

You’re not short, not exactly, but something about living with a pair of giants who each have at least six inches on you can be slightly irritating at times. For example, when the first row of mugs have been used and the second row are just at the edge of your reach.

We just stood there, gettin’ wet, With our backs against the fence...

You sigh and stretch, inadvertently bumping the mug back an inch or so.

For the love of…

“Here, sorry, let me-”

And then Sam is behind you, reaching up to help. His chest presses against your back, so warm, and his arm brushes against yours as his hand accidentally grabs your fingers instead of the mug in question.

Your breath catches in an embarrassingly half-squeak, half-gasp as a tremor runs down your spine, and you both freeze. 

Your body sings at every contact point. Your entire universe narrows down to this room, this one moment. It’s all you can do not to lean into Sam, turn in his arms, and just -

“Are you...are you okay? I’m sorry!” Sam’s voice comes out in a hushed stutter. 

Afraid to move, not wanting to break the spell, your gaze travels slowly up his arm to where his fingers are caged tentatively around your own. Your hand doesn’t seem to be sweating yet, thank god, but…

Oh, the water. Oh, the water. Hope it don’t rain all day.

God, he’s so warm.

Sam’s fingers curl around yours, careful and decisive, and he draws them down to your side. He turns his hand so that you’re palm to palm and slowly twines his fingers with yours. 

His other hand moves up to rest on your waist, exactly where it's meant to be. He leans down, his arms pulling you close, his jaw resting light and scratchy against your temple.

“Is this okay?”

You swallow hard against the sudden paralysis in your throat. All those nights in the library, watching those same fingers flipping pages, scratching notes, combing back through his hair, and somehow you never realized. 

And it stoned me to my soul. Stoned me just like going home, And it stoned me. 

An invisible knot in your chest loosens, and suddenly your breath comes easier. There is absolutely nothing stopping you from leaning back, taking this metaphorical step. In the dim, golden light of Sam’s little lamp, the two of you alone with the quiet, crooning song, Sam’s strong arms around you, everything suddenly feels easy and simple.

It feels like home.

Your turn your face to his. You’ve never been this close, close enough to see the fine lines around his eyes, the creases pressed into his skin from more than a lifetime of suffering and laughter and fighting. His eyes, dark in the muted light, are wide and still as he waits for you to decide.

Just as he’s done every night. No need to make him wait anymore.

You press your lips to his before you lose your nerve, and his intake of breath sweeps cool over your mouth before he returns the kiss. Careful and deliberate but with a hint of the strength that lives within him. And so very warm.

You pull back just enough to bump the tip of your nose against his. Eyes still closed, he exhales, a short little chuckle that curls his lips and relaxes his shoulders.

“Yeah, Sam. This is definitely okay.”

[fuckinuchihas]

hello! do you do oneshots? HAHA if so, may i request a sugawara x reader fluff where the reader has a really hard time expressing her love for him?? the plot could be something like it's vday but the reader is naturally a stoic & not very expressive person but really wants to show suga that they love him a lot?? thank you!! if you can't do it i understand!!!

So this took quite a bit longer than planned mostly because I kept putting it off. Also I had the first half written when I reread your request and thought, they probably wanted established relationship by the sound of it, so then with advice from my lovely @janellion I just used it as a “previously on” kind of thing.

Annnyyywho! Here is a thing about how difficult it must be to speak around the ever dashing Sugawara Koshi!

Also surprise ending, hope you like it!

‘This is it, today’s the day,’ you tell yourself as you mess with your hair just one more time in front of the mirror.

It’s Valentine's day and the one guy you’ve been interested in for what seems like forever, will be meeting up with you outside a cafe after classes are over.

The meeting was only scheduled because you were both a couple minutes late to the latest faculty meeting and they assigned you the job of writer (Sugawara) and director (You) of the Spring production.

Still...today’s the day, you promise yourself taking a deep breath before exiting your car and briskly walking toward the entrance.

Sugawara is already inside, he’s sitting at a table and smiles at you when he sees you come in. It feels like your heart is about to leap out of your chest but you give him a simple nod of acknowledgment.

You start toward the table but then decide to grab something to drink before joining him. It will give you something to do with your hands and it might even help with the awkward silences that tend to show up in your stilted conversations; though you’re not holding your breath.

When you get to his table, drink in hand, he smiles brightly at you again. Honestly it’s like staring directly at the sun and the warmth penetrates your chest like a spear.

“Sorry, I would have ordered for you but I’m not sure what you like,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“It’s fine, I got my own,” you say, pointing at your drink.

“I see that,” he answers, taking a sip from his cup.

“Sugawara I-“ you start, trying so hard to get the words out but they’re not coming and your frustration must be growing more evident because he just waves you off and suggests that the two of you get to work.

GAHHH why can’t you just say it. Three little words..I like you... such a tiny phrase and you can’t manage even a stammered out version like you’ve seen in dramas.

You ignore the disappointment you feel in yourself as you discuss and make plans for the program.

He gets a little awkward when you bring up any potential ideas or the story line and there’s a bit of pink in his cheeks as he turns to you with a nervous expression, “Actually, about that... I’m not really a very good writer. I do okay with things like essays but I’m no playwright.”

“I see,” you say, internally slumping. “I’m sure I can work something out for it,” you say, preparing to be blown off.

“No-“ he called out quickly.

You turn to him with surprise.

“I’m not saying that to-, y'know get out of work or anything I just really am a pretty terrible writer,” he says, scratching his head. “Do you think we could switch roles?”

“You want to direct?” you ask, nobody wanted to direct because it means wrangling a few dozen kids well enough to actually get them to rehearse.

“Yeah if that’s okay with you.”

“Uh.. sure I guess.”

“Thank you, I’m happy to help in any way I can but like I said before my academic writing skills are okay but when it comes to the more creative stuff I’m no good,” he says and you actually feel the sincerity of his words. Whether he actually isn’t good at it or whether he only believes that, doesn’t matter.

“I’ll do my best and put together a rough draft for you by next week. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, sure.. That’s pretty quick though so if you need a little more time that’s fin-”

“A week will suffice,” you say, nodding politely at him.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” he says, full of confidence you don’t know where came from.

You start to gather your things despite how badly you want to tell him, you just know the words aren’t coming; not today, not any day…

“Would you like to go for coffee-?”

You blink around the small caffe looking for anyone else he might have been speaking to but Sugawara is staring directly at you.

“I-we’re already having coffee,” you say, internally wincing at how dismissive it sounded. “I just mean-”

“No, like a date,” he says, and then your heart stutters a bit before picking up a double timed pace.

“A date...with me?” you ask, because part of you is starting to think you fell asleep on the drive and this is some sort of dream.

“If you would be interested, yes…”

“Yes!” you say immediately. “Absolutely yes!”

Sugawara smiles and the spear of the sun sets your heart on fire.

★・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★

That was a year ago now, your anniversary is coming up and you’ve been trying for so long to confess to him how you really feel but baking chocolates or buying cheesy balloons honestly doesn’t feel like enough. While you’d like to believe you’d be able to tell him how you feel after a full year of being together, you’ve met you and it’s unlikely.

Believe it or not, it’s actually one of your students who gives you the idea.

You watch as Xin puts a note in Kaituo’s bag.

It was so simple, how had you not thought of this a million times before?

You finish out the day even though you’re eager to get home and get the words down on paper. You know you’ll need at least a few tries to get it right.

Eventually you have something that can only be described as an actual love letter and a wide grin on your face.

When the day comes you meet Suga at that same café, this time he’s holding your favorite drink in one hand, his in the other as you find a table together.

You talk normally for a while before you start to feel the weight of your letter in the bag that you’re not even holding.

There’s a brief moment of relief when he goes to order a dessert for you to share. You use the opportunity to take a calming breath, pull the letter from your bag, and scoot it across the table.

Suga comes back with a plate and gives a cursory glance to the letter before looking back at you with confusion etched on his face.

“I-m not good with saying the things I want- no need to say so I uh, I wrote them down.

“This is so sweet I don’t think anyone has ever written me a letter before…”

You fight hard not to let the heat on your neck show on your face as well.

You slightly bow your head feeling a bit flustered and embarrassed but you know him well enough to see that he’s pleased and he takes a small amount of delight in teasing you.

When he lifts the letter up he raises an eyebrow at you, probably because of the heft of it he can feel how many pages are inside.

Each word carefully crafted to say what’s on your heart.

“Should I read this...here?”

You shake your head no quickly, mostly because you don’t know if you could stand to just sit there and watch silently as he reads all the things you’ve been wanting to say for the last year-almost two if you count the crush stage.

“Okay, thank you. I have something I need to do for a while but can I see you again later tonight?”

“Yes, of course,” you say biting into your dessert now that the fluttering sensation in your stomach has gone from queasy back to the normal excitement you feel being near Sugawara.

★・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★

After the two of you share dinner together he kindly offers to walk you home and along the way you stop at a small park bench where he starts to look nervous.

Oh no, was the letter too much?

You hear him say your name pulling you out of your thoughts.

“I just want to thank you for your letter. I actually read over it a few different times and knowing those words have been on your heart for so long...well it certainly makes this a little easier,” he says with a chuckle you don’t understand.

At least you didn’t, not until Suga stands up and then immediately drops to one knee.

He visibly swallows as your eyes go wide and your heart begins to race in your chest.

“I know we haven’t been together that long, not in the bigger scheme of things but I don’t want to date for another two or three years to confirm what I already know is true.” The ground has to be cold and you want to pull him up from it but he just rubs his hands together and chuckles your name softly, “You are the one person that makes me feel at home, at peace. I’ve loved you for a long time, longer than even you know.You are the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. So will you marry me?”

Again words won’t come but you nod excitedly, tears streaming down your face as you pull him from the ground and into your arms.

You finally shared the words on your heart and he finally showed you what was scripted on his own.

It was more than you ever could have hoped to have and you promised yourself that you’d always remind him just how much you loved him, no matter how many letters it takes.

★・・・・・★・・・・・★・・・・・★

MASTERLIST

[birbleafs]

[fic] Strange Creatures

Series: Artemis Fowl Rating: G Genre: Friendship & Humour, Post-series Character(s): Beckett Fowl, Myles Fowl, Mulch Diggums, Juliet Butler, Holly Short and Artemis Fowl II Summary: Mulch Diggums finds himself abruptly enlisted by the Fowl twins, Myles and Beckett, to create the best Eldest Brother’s Day gift for Artemis, much to Holly and Juliet’s amusement. A/N: Here’s my full piece for the Artemis Fowl Fanzine: A Fowl Mood! It was really fun to be part of this project - many thanks to the mods & fellow contributors for all their hard work. Thanks also to my bro Digi for being a wonderful beta ♥  There are still some leftover merch for sale if anyone’s interested. This fic is set a few years after The Last Guardian, without taking into account the events in The Fowl Twins (as I’d finished writing it last July). Fic can also be read on AO3. _______

“What strange creatures brothers are!” -Jane Austen- ~.*.~ Mulch Diggums was once again on the run and back to his old habits of skulking among dastardly rich Mud Men, pilfering trinkets and valuables from their homes. And once again, word of his not-quite-earnest—or legal, for that matter—endeavours soon reached the LEP’s ears. In fact, his current whereabouts had turned up as a flashing blip on Foaly’s screens when the centaur had been running one of his routine surveillance sweeps of the surface. That, however, is another story altogether, one that Foaly would happily indulge in if you let him. But Captain Holly Short is a busy elf—short on time and even shorter with patience. So alas, Foaly’s tale would have to be shelved. For now, at least.

So it was that Mulch found himself abruptly cornered by an LEP Retrieval squad in his own home—well, he was house-sitting at the moment, but hey, same difference—just as he was settling into a nice, warm mud bath. That’s the thing about the LEP. Always with the atrociously bad timing, never an ounce of tact. So much for being role models, upstanding fairies of the People. The last thing Mulch saw and heard was a deafening blast as the bathroom door burst wide open, and the zipping sound of a fabric-like netting whirling tight around him. There was a flurry of movement as he struggled in the velvet darkness enclosing him, before he found himself promptly hauled back to Haven City and into the dimly-lit interior of a drab holding room, sitting once again before Captain Short. “Holly! Mon chéri… Compadre!” Mulch cooed, tuning his natural dwarfish charm up a notch. “How’s my favourite elfin lady today?” “Cut the chatter, Mulch. I’m sure you know exactly why you’ve been detained.” Truthfully, Holly didn’t have any hard evidence for Mulch’s arrest this time—not yet, at least. But Mulch had hardly ever been innocent, even when he wasn’t actively committing a crime, so it wasn’t too difficult for her to pretend the LEP knew of his most recent of illegal endeavours (which they didn’t). Besides, she’d lost a stupid bet during a party several weekends ago, and—well. You reap what you sow. Holly made a mental note to never take another sip of a certain centaur’s home concoction of sim-alcohol, recreational study or not. Anyway, back to the plot: She had lost a bet and now she had to pull this dumb prank on Mulch in return for a favour for a certain Mud Boy’s family. Holly could almost hear said Mud Boy’s tired sigh of disapproval upon hearing of his friends’ latest shenanigans. Still, she’d also promised Artemis she would visit the twins soon and she figured this was a nifty way to kill two birds with one stone. Technically, it would be two Fowls and a dwarf. Holly chuckled at her own joke, certain that Artemis wouldn’t have appreciated that quip at all, figurative murder or not. Before Mulch had a chance to explain his innocence this time, Holly began listing down the years he’d have to serve, the cell block they had carefully picked out for him this time, the terribly cold draft they had made sure would pass into said cell every night. And just as Mulch was about to get suspicious, Holly shifted gears and offered a compromise instead. Even though he was still confused and rightfully wary of the sudden turn of events, Mulch tentatively accepted Holly’s deal. And soon, he found himself whisked away on a shuttle topside, piloted by the Captain herself. “So where are we headed?” Mulch asked once he’d settled comfortably into his seat. “Now that it’s just you and me, Captain… I’m allowed to be privy to the details of said ‘deal’, right?” Holly was tempted to reveal the truth then, but she figured it’d be funnier if she let the dwarf discover it for himself. Mulch was a crafty one, after all—it wouldn’t take him too long to realise what was really going on. She only gave him a knowing smirk and murmured ominously, “All things in good time, Mulch.” * From the E1 shuttle port at Tara, it was a quick jaunt to the Fowl Manor. Holly could already hear the voices of the twins drifting over the wind as they made their way past the last cluster of Artemis’ fairy roses and to where the twins and their nanny Juliet Butler were seated by the fountain in the courtyard. Seven-year-old Beckett Fowl was the first to glance their way; Holly could’ve sworn the child had canine-like senses, what with the way he had whirled around at their near-silent approach. He was the very picture of innocence as he bounced up to them, his radiant curls and bright-eyed stare reminiscent of an eager golden retriever puppy. “Holly’s here! And S’Mulch Dinggus!” Beckett squealed happily as he launched himself at her. Holly embraced him warmly, before waving a greeting to Juliet who stood patiently behind the boy. The dwarf tutted, unimpressed at the butchering of his name. “We’ve been through this the last time, little Mudskipper. It’s Mulch Diggums.” “That’s what I said,” Beckett giggled, turning back to look at Juliet. “S’Mulch Dinggus. Funny he can’t remember his own name.” Before Mulch could get a protest in edgewise, he was interrupted by a small, polite cough. He turned and saw a bespectacled, raven-haired Mud Child appearing by Beckett’s side. Myles Fowl had the same piercing blue eyes as his free-spirited twin, but unlike his twin, he was the seemingly more precocious and finicky of the two. He looked every bit the likeness of his eldest brother, Mulch noted humorously—from the meticulously pressed suit and tie to the neatly-combed dark hair. Heck, the kid had even perfected the infamous Fowl glare to an art form, crystalline and frigid as an Arctic winter. “You’re finally here as summoned, Mister Mulch,” Myles greeted solemnly. He ignored the wet, icky sounds of Beckett blowing raspberries beside him. “Took you long enough.” “Summoned?” Mulch frowned, before a thought struck him. He grinned toothily at Holly. “So that’s what this is about, eh, Captain Short? ‘Detained’, my hairy as—” “Language, Mulch,” Holly said, stepping on the dwarf’s toes all while matching his grin with a serene, innocent smile of her own. “Okay, okay. I’m sorry I had a Retrieval squad jump you back there in the house. But it’s not like you were likely to be agreeable and come quietly if you knew the Fowl twins had extended an invitation and personally requested for your…er, assistance.” “Is not invitatitions,” Beckett chirped as he chewed on a piece of purple beeswax crayon. “Arty said summons would do in the tongue of magicks, so we summons S’Mulch!” He gave a sagely nod, his mouth stained and flecked with purple now. Mulch gave Holly a look of disappointment. “Frankly, I’m hurt you think I’d even pass up the chance to humiliate my favourite Mud Boy, and what’s more, by teaming up with his own cute brethren. Okay then, little Fowl nuggets. What dwarfish advice would you need this time?” “First of all, we’re not nuggets,” Myles said coldly, just as Beckett clucked like a gleeful hen and made flapping motions with his arms. “I assure you that we are still one-hundred percent Homo sapiens, even if Beck has gotten very good at animal mimicry of late.” “I see this one’s got a great sense of humour,” Mulch observed drily. “Definitely Artemis’ brother.” “A-hem. As I was saying...” Myles scowled at the interruption, and Mulch held up a placating hand in apology. “Secondly, Beck and I, we thought it through for many weeks—Well, I did anyway. However, we weren’t able to make any significant progress in the lab even with Professor Primate’s expertise—” “Not quite sure where you’re going with this riveting story, kiddo,” Mulch muttered. “But I’m still listening, if that helps.” “—and after several failed attempts, we have conceded that we need help from someone with the right skills. Skills we do not yet possess.” Myles paused, his young face pinched with doubt. But his hesitation was fleeting, and he met both Mulch and Holly’s curious expressions with a determined gaze once more. “We want to throw Arty the best surprise Eldest Brother’s Day when he gets back,” the boy said. “So, would you please honour us, Mister Mulch, and teach us how best to make—” “Flatulence!” Beckett crowed as if on cue, punching a fist victoriously into the air. “Please, brother. Not this again.” Myles groaned. “You boys want me to teach you how to let a mighty rip?” Mulch asked, incredulous. “No, that’s not it!” Myles cried, exasperated. “Beck has gotten it all muddled! He means the fettling process used in pottery, not the crude effusion of intestinal gas!” He tugged frantically at Beckett’s sleeve, trying to stop his twin from belting out his favourite self-composed tune called A Song of Gas and Fire, to no avail. For two whole minutes, the group was forced to listen to Beckett’s high-pitched singing of “Pbbthh, pbbthh, rattle-boom! Gas and fire, gas and fire! Heave-ho, the window’s blown!” “Thanks, little Mudskipper, for that, uh, delightful performance,” said Mulch, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes once Beckett had finished his song. “I gotta say, you sure are a natural. But there’s still something I don’t really get. Why would you need my help for the surprise? Like don’t get me wrong, kiddos, I like you two enough. But what’s wrong with Holly or Juliet here, or even Butler himself? If anything, they’re better suited at picking out the mushy gifts...” He trailed off, thinking hard. “Well, I trust the Big Man’s taste for the sentimental, at least.” “Wow, thanks for the vote of confidence, Mulch,” Juliet deadpanned, with only the slightest roll of her eyes. “It’s true Butler had some good suggestions for gifts, but this is a Fowl twins initiative, so we figured we’d let the kids decide on their own. Besides, Beck had other ideas.” “My ideas the best ideas!” Beckett chanted, beaming brightly. “We decided that we want to make Arty a sculpture for Eldest Brother’s Day.” Myles supplied, glancing at Mulch once again. “We know that Mister Mulch is highly attuned to the necessities of good clay work by virtue of his biological make-up— “S’Mulch is good with muds and gas! I wanna learn how to blast clay backwards too!” “—therefore, you are best suited to teach us how to sculpt and—” “And flatulence!” Mulch tried his best, he really did, but he couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. He didn’t know which was funnier: the thought of the twins gifting Artemis Fowl, ex-criminal virtuoso and menace of the People, a squishy caricature blob of his miniature being or Beckett performing a pompous and fartastical symphony of A Song of Gas and Fire for his dear eldest brother. Either way, he was rightfully tickled and the twins were in luck. Unbeknownst to many, Mulch had spent some time dabbling in pottery and sculpting with clay when he’d lived amongst the celebrity Mud Men; he had chalked it up as weird hobby of sorts.  “You Mud twins are hilarious,” he said, once his laughter had subsided and he’d managed to straighten himself up again. “All right, I’m sold on this crazy venture. I’ll help with the sculpting of a masterpiece for ol’ Arty-boy.” From the corner of his eye, he caught a glance of Juliet’s smug expression. Her lips were curved into a wide Cheshire grin as she tapped Holly’s shoulder expectantly. The elf only groaned, before she reached into her back pocket to fish out a single gold coin and slipped it into Juliet’s fingers. Mulch frowned at the exchange, throwing them his best hurt-puppy look. “Running a betting pool on me and for only a single gold coin? I’m affronted, ladies.” “You only wish your crooked mug is worth half a penny,” Holly shrugged. “I’m being generous because Juliet’s a friend.” “Aww, I knew you were a big old softie inside!” Juliet sighed happily, reaching forward to teasingly pinch the side of Mulch’s face. “Now that that’s settled, someone can finally knead clay with the kids and get some work done before Artemis gets home from his conference this weekend.” She quickly stepped away, disappearing into the nearby garage for several minutes before she returned carrying a craft box packed with an assortment of smaller items inside. “These rascals had me running to art stores all over Dublin the past two weeks looking for all kinds of overpriced play-dohs, and yet hardly asked if I could help them to sculpt!” She grumbled, not quite unkindly, as she shook the items out from the box, laying them out on a patch of grass before them. Holly looked over at Juliet in surprise. “I didn’t know you were into sculpting.” She thought of all the hours the young woman had spent whooping over her favourite wrestling matches on TV as a teen. “Never pegged you as the artistic type.” Juliet snorted. “Pfft, me? Nah, I don’t sculpt. That’s more a pretentious Artemis thing.” “Why would you expect the twins to ask you to teach them, then?” “Well, I’d like to be asked first, at least! I took the time to buy all these fancy play-dohs for them, didn’t I?” Mulch leaned forward in interest, looking over the packets of “play-dohs”. He spotted several labelled as Creative Paperclay—at least Juliet managed to get some of the good stuff. He grinned toothily as he rolled up his sleeves, feeling a spark of excitement at getting to work with clay again. “Okay then, kiddos. Let’s get cracking and moulding.” * “What’s this Eldest Brother’s Day thing you Mud Men celebrate like anyway?” Mulch asked. They’d made their way from the courtyard into the Manor basement where Artemis had set up a work space for Myles’ messier experiments and tinkering projects. The group stood now before the large experiment bench. Juliet covered the top with a large plastic mat, and turning the craft box over, shook packets of Creative Paperclay and several plastic and wooden crafting tools out on the bench. At Mulch’s question, she turned and gave him a strange look, brows furrowed. Then she let out a short laugh when she realised he was actually being serious. “Silly fairy,” she snickered, glancing over the top of Myles and Beckett’s heads before she lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: “There’s no such thing as Eldest Brother’s Day. It’s just something the twins came up with but I’m not going to ruin it for them and tell them it isn’t actually a thing. I’m not a monster, you know.” “We know it, Juliet,” Beckett said suddenly, blinking up at her with those large blue eyes filled with mischief and daring. “But Artemis’ a simple-toon—” Myles giggled at his twin’s use of their brother’s old nickname, even as he fought to keep his expression stoic. “—and simple-toons need Eldest Brother’s Day. So we celebrate.” Beckett finished with a nod, as though he’d just gifted both his human and fairy nannies with his brand of enlightenment. “Riiiight,” Mulch said, shaking his head. He figured some things were best left unasked and unexplained, especially when dealing with incorrigibly irreverent Fowl children. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for that impromptu alliteration (it was the playwright blooming within him, he was sure of it) and turned back to the project at hand. The twins had already decided early-on the sort of sculpture they had wanted to create. After ruminating over it weeks before, Myles had settled on recreating a 5-inch figure of Jayjay the silky sifaka, the fluffy white lemur whose whimsical escapades were often included in the bedtime stories Artemis read them. Beckett, on the other hand, had chosen to fashion an honorary tribute to Artemis’ late Syrian hamster, Lady Maeve, poised upright on her hind feet in an impassioned stance, gnawing away at a two-headed wyrm. Once the twins had sketched out their preferred designs on paper, Juliet pinned the sketches up on the cork board on the wall for easy reference. Then they got to work. Mulch placed two cups of water on the bench, and proceeded to show the twins how to gauge the amount they needed for their sculptures and how to knead the clay to warm it up and make it more malleable. “It’s a bit like baking extravagant pastries,” he said as he cut a block of clay into various-sized pieces. “You roll the individual shapes out like this and then stick them together to form a whole creature. Like an animal jigsaw puzzle, so to speak.” “They aren’t edible or taste any good though, not like pastries,” Holly added quickly when she noticed Beckett staring a little too longingly at the piece he’d been kneading. She tapped his fingers away just as the boy lifted the clay to his mouth for a quick nibble. “No tasting?” Beckett asked mournfully. “No tasting.” The elf shook her head. “But I do have some special treacle and espresso power bars from Haven City. It’s much better than consuming bland clay. I’ll let you have a bite later when we finish sculpting Lady Maeve, okay?” It seemed like a good bargain, so Beckett closed his mouth and chewed at his lower lip instead, rolling his clay pieces under his palms with renewed fervour. They continued shaping their pieces. Mulch showed the twins how to score the ends of the individual pieces they’d made for the limbs with a plastic knife. Then they connected the scored ends of the limbs to the body, blending the seams and smoothing it down carefully with their fingers and dabs of water. They continued in a similar fashion for the heads, noses, ears, and tails. Once the twins were satisfied with their sculptures, Mulch carefully placed the pieces on a cool, clean shelf to gradually dry and set over the next 24-hours. When they returned later to check on their work, the twins found the dried sculptures were now off-white and grainy to touch, quite unlike the squishy beige blobs they had been pinching and moulding with their hands the day before. “And now for a good splash of colour to make your pieces really pop,” Mulch said, dumping several tubes of acrylic paints and brushes on the bench with much more flair than necessary. He had a paint brush stuck behind one of his hairy ears—it helped him feel attuned with the art connoisseur in him. “Jayjay has a mostly pure-white coat,” Myles mused as he picked out a few choice colours, “but I think a gold accent to his fur tips, ears and tails would bring out his features more.” “Gold, huh?” Mulch looked over the boy’s chosen colour scheme with approval. “Good aesthetic you got there, Mudling.” “A very Fowl aesthetic for sure.” Holly couldn’t help the quip, her eyes twinkling with mirth. Artemis would certainly appreciate the touch. “Lady Maeve wants to be purple like rain,” Beckett declared solemnly, having been uncharacteristically silent for five whole minutes. “Purple? But Beck, Lady Maeve was a golden long-haired Syrian.” Myles tilted his head towards his twin. “If you paint her fur purple, Arty might not recognize her.” Beckett’s attention, however, seemed to be two steps ahead of the conversation. He’d already dipped his brush with paint and was dabbing streaks of purple all over the hamster’s body. “The Lady requests a cloak of purple rain, so purple she shall be.” The adults could barely stifle their chuckles while Myles groaned once again in defeat. He decided it was probably for the best and turned his attention back to painting his lemur. It was nearly noon when the twins added the last dabs of paint, after which Mulch proceeded to spray a coat of clear acrylic varnish over the sculptures to preserve and seal the colours. Then, he stepped several paces back from the bench to marvel at the fruits of their labour. “We have finished at last.” Myles’ voice was soft, awe pooling in his eyes. Hesitantly, he turned to Juliet and Holly, and then glanced back at the dwarf, searching for reassurance. “What do you think, Mister Mulch? Will Artemis like it?” Mulch rubbed at his beard thoughtfully. Both sculptures looked very much like what you would expect of two seven-year-olds’ valiant attempts at artisanal clay work. “Hmm.” He clicked his tongue lightly as he paced around the work bench, reaching into his inner art critic for the right words. “Now, Myles: Despite the crooked tail, you did a fairly good job at carving the fur textures on your lemur. Plus, adding gold accents to the white fur is very innovative and makes Jayjay glow nicely under the light. A very regal and classic touch overall.” Mulch came to a dignified pause before the second sculpture, rubbing his palms together as if in deep thought. “As for Beckett’s recreation of Lady Maeve: It seems far more… robust than the original, almost challenging anatomy and even physics itself. But the bright mixes of purple and gold contrasts nicely with the green and gore of the flailing wyrm, adding a surprising dynamism to the entire piece. All in all, two very good attempts, my young apprentices.” Holly and Juliet were already sighing halfway through Mulch’s needlessly opulent commentary, but even they agreed with the dwarf’s final assessment, much to the relief and delight of Myles and Beckett Fowl. * When Artemis Fowl the Second arrived home from his two-week long conference on Wildlife and Biodiversity Conservation, he was surprised to be greeted only by an unusually silent living room, devoid of the typical sounds of playful bellowing and childish laughter. Leaving Butler to unload his luggage from the Bentley, Artemis wondered briefly at the absence of his two brothers and Juliet, their sitter, before he noticed a strange sort of rumbling noise and vibration coming from somewhere below him. Curious, he headed for the basement, moving cautiously towards the noise. It was there that he found the twins asleep and cuddled around a familiar rotund shape sprawled upon an old velvet sofa. The fairy had his head thrown back against the cushion and was snoring rather noisily. “Ah,” Artemis said, eloquent as ever. He steepled his fingers together, taking a moment to process the scene before him. “Arty…? Oh, you’re finally back.” Holly’s soft voice broke him out of his reverie. He turned to see his old friend curled up on a second sofa, blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Welcome home,” she yawned a greeting. “Juliet’s in the kitchen fixing up some snacks, I think.” “Hello, Holly. It’s good to be back among familiar faces again. It seems that I’ve missed quite a party while I was away…” Artemis trailed off when he caught sight of the strange creatures placed on Myles’ experiment bench. “They’re supposed to be a surprise for you when you returned. For Eldest Brother’s Day.” Holly explained when Artemis raised a delicate eyebrow. He lifted up one of the sculptures for a closer inspection, his forehead creased in confusion at what looked to be a purple rodent gnawing on a plump string of green linguine—Beckett’s. “Eldest Brother’s Day?” Artemis echoed. He reached for the second sculpture—Myles’ lemur—before walking over to take a seat beside Holly on the sofa. Holly stretched her arms as she sat upright. “It’s kind of a long story.” “I expect so. Do enlighten me, if you will.” “Well, let’s see...” Holly began, brushing the side of her cheek with a finger. “Once upon a time, there were a pair of twins who, Frond only knows why, admired and looked up to their chaotically unhinged older brother greatly.” Artemis gave her a slightly wounded look, pressing a hand to his chest in a show of mock offense. “I’m appalled, Holly. You of all people know I prefer calculating to chaotic. There is a method to my madness, after all.” “Ever the theatrical misunderstood genius, aren’t you?” Holly rolled her eyes, even if she couldn’t help the soft laugh that escaped her lips. She nudged his shoulder playfully with her own, a show of affection. “Myles and Beckett adore you immensely—you know that, right?” Artemis beamed, warmed by Holly’s laughter and the comfort of being close to friends and family once more. He watched his sleeping brothers, curled closely towards each other much like two peas in a pod, before he turned his gaze back to the sculptures in his hands. “I know,” he said softly, still marvelling at the twins’ recreations of Jayjay and Lady Maeve. And for the barest of moments, in the quiet that stretch comfortably between them, Artemis Fowl knew that this may only be the start of the first (of many) Eldest Brother’s Day he would experience, but it was already a very good day nonetheless. And he was content. —End—

[dgennk]

Undertale: Saving Dreemurrs - Halloween

NOTICE: [I just wanted to write something and post it, to get back into writing. I’m working on an AU for Undertale, cause that’s captured my heart since January, and I just wanted to get my toe wet on something silly. Why Halloween? Cause I had some white Reese’s when I was thinking this up. Maybe I’ll rewrite it for Halloween this year? Anyway, thank you for reading, any constructive criticism would be helpful.]  Friday October 31st, Halloween. 

Within the Underground, this date held no special worth, just another day to live for the next. On the surface however, this date marked a special occasion. As the sun would set, children and adults alike would leave their homes, adorned in costumes for one goal. 

Sugar rush inducing, cavity spawning, sweet candy. 

Sour, bitter, tooth-rotting sweet. Candies and confections were prepared and bought for costumed humans of the night.

Today this tradition held strong, especially with the inclusion of monsters that once called the Underground their home.

This could be merrily seen within the Dreemurr abode, as its children returned from hours of trick-or-treating. Four children scrambled into HOME with pillow cases filled to bursting with sugary delights.

“Your outerwear, children!” their trailing guardian, Toriel, reminds as she shuts the door behind her. 

“Yes mom!” “Got it!” and “Yes, Ms. Toriel!” choired the children, closely followed with the shuffle of clothing. Scarves and jackets, tossed at the basket beside the second entryway, the act hardly slowed their rush.

With a skip into the foyer, Frisk kicks off his final boot and breaks for the right hall. “Last in trades free!”

“Huh?” Asriel gasps while MK lets out an indignant ‘Dood!’ Only for them to be left behind by the other human child.

Chara cackles, their foam forked tail wiping as they turned the corner.

The two boys scramble to give chase, neither willing to part with their treasured trove.

Toriel hummed as she hung her snaily shawl a step from the door. A light thud had her eyes flutter but the bleat that proceeded drew a knowing smile. “Perhaps,” she muses, “I should unveil it a tad earlier.” Her smile grew. 

“That wasn’t fair,” mumbled Asriel, sitting at the center circle mat, sack of candy buried in his lap. He rubbed his snout, slightly bruised from his fumble.

“Come on dude, don’t be sore,” Mk laughed beside him, his candy sack untied from his chest.  “Your mom’s dress was just too long!”

“I needed it for my costume!” proclaimed the prince fervently. He threw his arms around his bag and dug his face deep. It worked in tandem with his wide-brim green hat to obscure his downcast look. “And, it’s a robe, not a dress.” 

“But like,” MK began, a brow risen with a perplexed twist of the snout. “Could have made it shorter.”

“That,” chimed Chara with a playful smile, reclined on the far right bed. “Wouldn’t be authentic.”

A groan escaped the hidden boss monster. “Chara, please stop teasing.”

The jester’s smile grew. “Okay, Az.” Bells jingled with their chuckle. 

Frisk tapped his painted chin in thought, face turned up for the starry-blue ceiling. He hummed and nodded then headed for the down prince. “I change my mind,” he leans down, while reaching a blue hand into his right pocket.

“Hm? Frisk?” The prince peered up.

“Here,” The child placed a treat on Asriel’s bag. A blackish ball, about the size of a doughnut hole, with ovid sprinkles topped on its shell. It was inside a clear twist wrapper, no labels to be seen.

“Where did we get those?” Chara mumbled aloud, with a lean to peer over.

A small smile came over Asriel’s mostly shaded visage as he accepted the gift. “Thanks Frisk.” He opened the wrapping, it was hard and didn’t smell much like anything. He still appreciated it all the same. He slipped it between his teeth and took a small crunch to it.

His reaction was a bit of a surprise to the others watching. 

Chara paused to stare, wide-eyed. Their brother had taken to the candy well. No, that was an understatement. The boss monster moaned in delight, holding his cheeks as whatever piece of confectionery in his mouth seemed to overload his senses. She couldn’t help but twist her head at Frisk, only to stare, numb from his expression. His eyes gleamed scarlet in the shadow of his hair, a telling smile etched onto his face. “... Frisk?”

“Azz, dood,” MK calls, “WHAT is that?”

The boss monster only groaned before turning his head with a bob. “Oh,” he muttered lightly, his voice muffled somewhat. “It's greht, like moh’s pie, but,” he pauses to savor the taste on his tongue. “It's tahfy!”

“Eh?”

“Hey Asriel!” the rubber-clad Dreemurr smiled wider. “You can have more if you want!!” 

“Critical hit!” Chara grunted.

“You ghot more?!” Asriel bursts to his feet, his own candy forgotten to the floor. 

Hook. The thin smile on Frisk’s face had blossomed into a face-splitting grin. “Yeah, a dozen if you wanna trade!”

“Oh,” pauses Asriel, “Righht! Uhm… Do you have sohmethhing in mihnd?”

Line! “Well…” he draws it out before clicking his teeth. “How many of those big Reese's do you have?!”

DEVIL! Chara screams internally.

“Oh, those,” Asriel smiles brightly. “Papyrus and Undyne were giving out the really big stuff, they gave me 5. I think they were… jumbo?” he trailed, unsure and flustered. He hadn’t really read the packages at the time. He perked quick though, beaming. “You can have them! If you want?”

“Yes! Yeah!!” Frisk chirps while pulling a white bag from his candy sack. With palpable eagerness he presents it forward to the prince, only for both to stumble. A blur swooped between and snatched it, leaving the two at a loss!

Chara’s glower twinkled, standing high on the bed parallel to the other. “You sneak!” she accuses. “No one gave us these on our route! Where did you get them?”

Frisk’s brows pulled down with his angry expression. “You can’t take my trade candy! Give it back!”

“You had these since the start, didn’t you!?” Chara ignored Frisk’s demand and instead placed the bag behind their back, their other hand pointed at the miffed blue munchkin.

“N-No I didn’t!” protested Frisk.

“You’re a bad liar!” She giggled angrily in retort.

“Come on guys!” MK yawned at them. “Let’s just start eating candy already!”

Frisk whips his hand out to point at Chara, squinted eyes burning red hot, “Not until Chara lets me get my Jumbo Recess!”

“Your Jumbo Recess?!” Chara repeated with a haughty laugh. “You knew I was going to trade for them! I always trade with Asriel!”

Now the youngest Dreemur pulls back, arms crossed over their chestplate. “I didn’t forget! I got something for you too!” he ends in a huff.

“Wait, what?” blinked Chara.

“I was gonna trade for your Rice Krispie Treats with this!” he finds and reaches into his candy-sack. After a shuffle he takes a deeper reach inside and withdraws an oval shaped treat, just a few inches shorter than his face, covered in a clear wrinkled wrapping.

Chara was speechless, arms falling slack.

“Where did you get that giant egg! Is that chocolate?!” Mk was right by it, looking over the super-sized egg thing.

“I got it from the store,” Frisk started with a matter-of-fact tone. “It was pretty hollow but mom helped me put cream inside, so it’s like those egg things you get from dad.”

“Cadbury... Eggs.” Chara slowly corrects. Realization struck her brain. Frisk and mom had made this for them. 

Her heart swelled in the chest, rosy cheeks now venetian despite the grey paint. “Hey…” She couldn’t look Frisk in the eyes. “Sorry.”

“Trade this for your Rice Krispies and we good!” the boy gave a thumbs up.

“Sheesh,” Chara smiled, and reached for the bag she dropped. “I get it, I get it.” She didn’t meet a paper bag, instead her hands landed upon something fuzzy. She blinked and looked down.

Asriel was draped over his bed. Where the bag once was, his head was now. His green hat now on the floor, forgotten. He was chewing groggily, half-lidded eyes gazing at nothing in particular while a large mass of stringy, sticky taffy laid within his maw. Wrappers with nothing inside laid all over the bed. The bag was on the floor now, torn open.  

Frisk grinned.

MK laughed.

Chara groans.

“...Uh?” Asriel tried to speak, however, the tough candy made it embarrassingly difficult.

“Hey dude!” Mk, popped in front of Frisk excitingly. “You got something big you can trade me?!”

“Fufufu!” The child laughs in the manner of a hero. He turned to Chara and handed them the monster of a creme egg. Then, he turned around and walked to his sack, shrouding it from prying eyes.

MK waited with a held breath as the human slowly rose, his arms held before him but close to hide what laid in his hands. 

“Are you ready for this?” Frisk asked anonymously. He didn’t need to look back, he could feel the intensity of MK’s nods. He could hear the whisper of their draft. “Then get ready…

For the dragon!!”

“YOOOOOO!” Frisk had unveiled a stupidly thick gummy in the crude shape of a dragon head, about the size of, again, Frisk’s face.

“Where did you get these?” Chara balked.

Frisk closed eyes glinted and presented the gummy head with one hand and pointed at the star-struck monster. “For your ring pops, I’ll give you this! Deal?”

MK had like 8 of those. 

“Deal!”

With the transaction concluded, Frisk happily handed the massive wyrm head to the monster who lifted it with his maw alone.

“Fris-” Before Chara could repeat her question, a knock came at the door, drawing all the children’s attention.

A laugh came as the door knob was turned. “I’m sorry to interrupt in on the fun-oh!” Toriel paused, seeing the state of the four. “I can see you’ve already begun trading. Well, I have to ask you to finish your candy for the time being.”

“Uh?” MK whines, gummy the size of a fist in his mouth. “Ow cooh?”

She couldn’t help her excitement. “Well, It was for the party later this evening, but I had so many ingredients I made a second chocolate pumpkin and snail pie!” she clapped. “I thought we could share that between ourselves before the rest arrive.” 

The looks on Chara and Asriel’s faces would always confuse Frisk. Pumpkin and chocolate sounded good but they had a feeling there would be more snail out of the three.

“Hael?” MK questioned. 

Asriel was first on his feet this time, a blur of rainbow met everyone in the room as he dashed out first.

“H-Hey! Wait Asriel!” Chara leapt after them. And MK soon followed after, though with far less enthusiasm than before. This left Toriel and Frisk.

The Boss Monster could only be amused by her child’s expression. She reaches out her hand. “Do not worry,” she gave a wink. “I had made a slice with no snails for yourself.”

And with that Frisk beams, racing for their mother and gripping her hand tight. They were all-but dragging her out now, a toothy smile on their face.

Toriel laughed, “my, my.” And closed the door behind them, to go enjoy a treat with her children.

[bs-dogs]

Reason Living

Summary

Nakahara Chuuya. Bold. Confident. Dramatic, with just the right amount of flare.

Behind the mask, there’s little Chuuya can do to keep the tremors, the lassitude—  the void that threatens to consume his entire being—  at bay.

And then suddenly he’s switching bodies and falling for a stranger who has dead eyes, a familiar face and a name that tastes like hope and regret on his tongue. There’s a shift in Chuuya’s chest that feels like it should’ve been there all this time, and breathing comes easily to him now.

So what do you think would happen if Chuuya stopped switching bodies? Find out why, of course!

(or the Kimi no Na Wa AU nobody asked for, but here it is. Complete with idiots!Skk pining for each other, fluff, angst, time travel and 2 people trying to find their place in this world.)

CH 1

As Melos lay with arms and legs flung out on the ground, sleep began to overcome him. But then, suddenly, a murmuring sound reached his ears. Raising his head slightly, he held his breath and listened. The sound came to somewhere nearby. Rising falteringly to his—

A knock on the door interrupts Chuuya’s stream of thought, cutting off the vivid imagery that was building up inside his mind. He jumps slightly at the sound, not even noticing how his hand is tired after gripping the pen too tightly, and that the playlist he had the mind to play before working has already stopped. Now, he sits disgruntled on his swivel chair, alone and surrounded by silence with a short manuscript in front of him.

Whiplash. That’s the word to describe what he’s feeling right now. There’s a sense of nausea after being pulled back with enough force to startle him, and then there’s the familiar feeling of apprehension that quickly reestablishes itself into the groves of his weary body.

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to anchor his mind back to the real world. Reaching out, he grabs the small Sheep plushy besides his pen holder, grounding himself with the texture. It works, and he sets it down before looking out of the window. It’s dark out, something that doesn’t really shock him since he has the tendency to forget the passage of time whenever he’s focused on something.

Shooting a glance at the clock to his right, the hands point to ‘7:48’. He isn’t given the chance to think about who might be visiting him, of all people, this late into the evening for another knock makes itself known this time with a little bit more force behind it.

“Yes, wait up,” Chuuya says, voice lighter than he feels, and stands tiredly after pushing himself away from his desk. His feet gently pad across the room to reach his front door, not even bothering to look through the peephole to check who it is. Pausing before opening the door, Chuuya takes a couple of breaths to mentally ready and compose himself before opening the door. 

‘It’s showtime.’

With his best smile in place, Chuuya greets the visitor, a close friend of his— really, his only friend at this point. 

Opening the door wider, it takes a moment for Chuuya to get over his initial shock, “Poe! What brings you here?” He asks and gestures for the shy man to enter. The man ducks slightly under the doorframe, his impossibly tall build making it difficult for him to enter— his hand protecting the raccoon on his shoulder, Karl, from knocking into the frame. Being a smaller person than the foreigner, Chuuya can’t help but be a tad jealous of the man’s height. It’s an ugly feeling which he tries his best to dismiss.

“Oh, I just thought to check on you and stuff…” His voice is almost a whisper, trailing off at the end as if unsure. 

They sit down on Chuuya’s couch, one of the few things of luxury in his apartment, and let a moment pass in silent as Karl titters downward and on his guest’s lap. Once Poe has situated the two of them comfortably, the man takes note of the singular light source and the disheveled desk before opening his mouth, “Did you get too engrossed in your work again that you forgot, Chuuya?” He asks in his soft voice, aware of how much of a workaholic Chuuya is.

All the man in question can do is laugh awkwardly, swiftly flicking the lights on, “Well, you know me…” Chuuya is a little bit blinded by the sudden brightness and laughs lightly to try and mask it, “Would you like some tea? Coffee?” He offers, already halfway to his small kitchen when Poe politely refuses, “No, I’m good. I already ate something.”

“Oh, okay then.” He sits down again, his brain scrambling to think about why Poe would visit him so late.

‘He already passed me his draft, and we had lunch the other day so…’

As if hearing his thoughts, Poe heaves a sigh and chuckles, “We were supposed to meet by the café, remember?” The brunet chuckles, “I invited you…”

Then it suddenly clicks for Chuuya and his chest tightens, “Oh!” He exclaims “The date with the cute guy! I’m so sorry I forgot.” He looks down, voice taking an apologetic tone, “I swear I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine. It looks like you have a lot of work to do, so I understand.” Poe kindly says, pausing his petting of Karl to pat Chuuya’s shoulder in reassurance before retreating to Karl’s fur once more. The smaller man smiles at his effort, appreciative especially since he knows of the author’s shyness and aversion to physical contact, “So, how’d it go?”

Poe’s face reddens at an alarming rate, sputtering as Chuuya leans forward and teasingly grins at him, “It was, uh, nice. We just talked and ate and…”

“And?”

It doesn’t take long before he caves in, “We agreed to meet again next week,” He pauses, biting his lips, but it’s obvious to Chuuya that he’s happy with the way the corners of his lips lift up, “Ah… And he… I think he flirted with me?”

“Hot damn, our precious boy bags himself a second date!” Chuuya laughs. At the sudden loud sound, Karl skittishly stands up in alertness before trying to sleep again. The next time Chuuya talks, it’s comparably quieter, “It’s a good thing I didn’t third-wheel, eh?”

“You wouldn’t be bothering us though, he likes debates.” 

“Are you saying I like to argue?” Chuuya can’t help but tease, drawing in his eyebrows and pretending to frown. Poe doesn’t buy it though, choosing to simply smile at him, “Chuuya! I could never!”

They both share a laugh, a nice ambience settling around them. Talking to Poe really calms him down. It really is nice to have a friend or two, Chuuya supposes. He grew up as a very quiet child, rarely letting anyone in— his cold and closed off demeanor only intensifying after that incident a few years back. Over time, he did shake off the hard exterior and began to try the whole “friendship” thing again. Chuuya ponders that it paid off quite well, if his nice chat with Poe is anything to go by.

They met each other almost a year ago, when the man was looking for a new editor for his novel after his previous one, Lovecraft, suddenly disappeared from the face of the Earth. Luckily for him, Chuuya saw his online ad and the rest is history. The writer is quite skilled, his works mostly science fiction and mystery, and Chuuya admires his passion for literature and writing.

“It’s one of his works, isn’t it?” Poe’s voice cuts through the comfortable silence between them, eyes resting on the manuscript on Chuuya’s desk, “The one you’re working on right now?”

Speaking of skilled authors…

“Yeah,” He starts, “The style, the aura, the feel…” Chuuya struggles to find the correct word to explain how he just knows that it’s his work— the mysterious author Chuuya’s been handling for all of 4 months now. He uses different pseudonyms, affirmed by his boss when he once thought to ask, but the distinctive tone and presence of his writing stays the same. Something about the way the author uses word and symbolism is striking, almost alluring, and the literature-geek inside him just melts every time Mori hands him another manuscript.

It doesn’t help that he doesn’t even really need to proofread anything; the grammar is absolutely impeccable, so he spends his time just absorbing the story, Chuuya doesn’t understand why his boss still sends them to him if everything is flawless already, but he’s not really one to complain.

“Well, what name is he using right now? What’s the manuscript about?” His guest’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. 

“Kuroki Shunpei. It’s a retelling of one of Schiller’s, about friendship and trials.” He starts, “It’s amazingly short, the shortest I’ve ever handled of our mystery person— but I’m sure it’s him.” There’s conviction in his tone, certainty clear in his eyes. Maybe it’s only a gut feeling, but Chuuya’s instinct and intuition have never failed him before.

Poe hums, “That’s new. Isn’t he more of a darkly personal introspection kind of person? Maybe it was, um, written experimentally?”

“Maybe,” Chuuya considers this, “But I haven’t really finished reading yet. I was actually hoping on doing everything today since it’s not as long.”

“So that’s why you were so invested, you were pining away at your mystery guy.” Poe says, tone flat and eyes twinkling. Chuuya thinks he sees smugness in there somewhere.

“Pining? I was just reading, you moron.” To which Poe replies, “Oh, I know you. If anyone had to court you, they’d make sure to send you disgustingly purple prose because of your disease.”

“Say that one more time, I dare you.” Chuuya says, trying to exact the respect he deserved because he is the host here, damn it!

Poe just languidly stares at him, “Chuu-nii, think about it. Maybe he’s your, uh, soulmate or something? Why would Mori even give you the manuscripts if they’re already perfect as is? Maybe there’s a hidden message or a code…”

“First of all, you are older than me, and I don’t have some stupid high schooler disease. Second, there are no hidden messages. And what if he’s an old guy?” Chuuya almost shrieks at Poe, words starting to jumble together the faster he speaks, “And, you know, you’re a mystery writer, not a romance writer for fuck’s sake!”

“So, you checked for secret messages, huh?” Poe raises an eyebrow questioningly, his amusement radiating off him in waves. Chuuya ratters on, sharp sounds and indignant noises as he tries to save himself from the slip-up, “That’s not it at all! I was just— How— What?” His brain short circuits, regretting all of his past choices that’s led to this bout of teasing.

Karl skitters off of Poe’s lap and onto the floor before being scooped back up again, this time being settled against Poe’s chest, “Relax,” He says, lips twisting up, “I was joking anyway. But I do hope we find out who it is.” 

‘We’, Chuuya thinks. It’s the first time someone he’s only known for so long used that word in conjunction with him, and it’s a nice feeling— like someone is on your side for once. He warms at the thought and inwardly promises to himself to make it up to the man.

“Yeah, I do too.” 

-

He closes the door behind him, slowly making his way to the kitchen and grabbing himself a glass of water. The cool liquid is a welcome feeling as it slides down his parched throat, drinking greedily after talking for a long while. He glances at the clock again, idly wondering how he survived interacting with a human for 2 hours straight. Chuuya sets the now empty glass on the counter with a loud clunk, the harsh sound cutting through the heavy air like a butter knife, and contemplates whether he’s hungry enough to want to eat. It takes him a few minutes before ultimately deciding that no, he’d rather sleep because talking really does take a lot more energy out of him than most people. Besides, it’s not really the first time he’s skipping so he’s quite sure that his stomach wouldn’t protest that much after all this time. 

Sighing, he closes the lights and feels the tension from his shoulder lift slightly. The cover the shadows provide him is a much needed comfort— Chuuya’s always preferred the dark over brightly lit rooms. There’s something about people not seeing him and feeling invisible enough to let the cracks through that makes him feel more human than when he stands under the spotlight. Or maybe because it’s the familiarity of having your environment match how you feel that puts his mind at ease? Whatever it is, all Chuuya knows is that he feels safer now.

It doesn’t take long for his eyes to acclimate to the dark; his body already accustomed to the way his apartment is laid out to the point where he could live comfortably even with his eyes closed. He doesn’t trip over wires or stray papers or the books haphazardly strewn about, doesn’t bump into the corners of his desk and bookcase as he goes into his room. Chuuya hasn’t cleaned in a while because of work, but even then he still knows where everything should be in the organized chaos.

He doesn’t change clothes since he didn’t really go out earlier today, and barely goes through his nighttime skincare routine. Chuuya doesn’t really see the point of taking care of himself if no one is going to see him on a daily basis anyway, but he was brought up to at least maintain his cleanliness and appearance.

His adoptive mother— Kouyou, or Ane-san as he likes to call her— beat the need to look presentable into him the moment he stepped foot in her teahouse. And even after years of moving out, he still can’t shake the need to stay clean and hygienic as much as possible. He supposes that he should thank her for that, since he would be akin to a hobo by now if she didn’t raise him to be so prim and proper.

He pats his face dry and looks at himself in the mirror. His eyes trail after the dark bags and tired expression and thinks he looks miserable. He does feel miserable, so he gives himself that, and proceeds to brush his hair. The split ends are troublesome, but he makes it through with only a few red strands sticking to the brush before his arm tires and the giant need to just lay down and rest consumes him. Sluggishly, he drags himself to bed and just stares at the ceiling.

Despite the fatigue that uncomfortably settles in his body, he can’t sleep— and Chuuya’s just so tired of everything but of course he can’t sleep. He thinks about what’s wrong, as if he can list down all the things that’s wrong with him before the sun rises up in a few hours, before he finally gets up and turns the fan on. The sound of the machine whirring does little to calm him down, but it’s better than wallowing in silence. He never could sleep in the quiet, the static blaring in his ears somehow louder than the occasional loud shouts coming from the unit next to him, so he does his best to get comfortable. Chuuya readies himself for another night of terrors, already anticipating the way smoke clogs up his nose and the way heat tickles his skin.

He hopes the empty feeling that continues to persist inside is gone the next day before he surrenders himself to unconsciousness.

-

The next time he meets Poe again, it’s in their favourite café. It’s two days after they last saw each other, but Chuuya can’t really remember what happened yesterday. Maybe he got drunk. Remembering how tired he felt the other day, he wouldn’t put it past himself to try and drown himself with wine. The fact that he woke up with an unsettling feeling in his stomach just cements his theory. Must be a weird hangover.

Poe is waiting for him at their corner, a milkshake already in front of him, “Chuuya! Are you really sure you’re okay enough to go out? We could always reschedule.” The concern is palpable in the man’s tone, his soft voice hurried and fretful. 

Chuuya thinks it’s because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

“I’m fine,” he says, “And I wanted to make it up to you anyway.”

“For what?” Poe asks, hands stilling from scratching behind Karl’s ears, his head tilting slightly in question.

After sneaking a glance at the counter and noting that the line is, in fact, longer than usual, he answers, “For ditching you the other day?” Maybe Chuuya should wait until the queue is shorter? 

“But you already did?”

This makes Chuuya halt, confusion tearing its way through his mouth, “What?”. The question slips from his tongue, his mind automatically forcing himself to Think, damn it! What did you do yesterday?

Poe stares at him, trying to find a hint of whatever it is he’s looking for before carefully responding, “You did— yesterday, remember?” He says, “You suddenly called me and we ate in your apartment and talked about your mystery author.”

It takes a few minutes for Chuuya to recover from his brain short-circuiting. Distantly, he notices how his breath is getting a little bit labored and shallow and how he’s shaking. He doesn’t feel like himself right now— doesn’t feel like it’s his body and feels more like an outsider privy to his thoughts.

“Oh… Maybe I got too drunk to remember.” He tries to laugh it off, sounding like he’s convincing himself rather than Poe, “I don’t really remember much. Did I do anything stupid?”

The man takes another sip from his milkshake, already halfway through and it reminds Chuuya that he still needs to order, “You did say a lot of, uh, dark things…”

Warning bells sound through his mind.

“Like, you know— Chuuya, if you ever need someone to talk to, I’m here. I know how it feels like and I care about you, okay?” Poe continues to worry, eyes strong and vulnerable. His hands fidget, like he wants to reach out and touch Chuuya and reassure that he’s okay, “I’m not trying to pressure you into anything…”

Chuuya now knows it’s not because Poe caught him blacked-out drunk.

Thoughts of hot chocolates and banana bread fly out of his mind. Faintly, he feels the back of his eyes warm and thinks that there’s a slight possibility that he might cry. He takes a deep breath in, counts from ten just like his therapist told him and tries to relax. It’s hard— harder than usual, like he’s sinking deeper and deeper into the ground and right now he feels like he doesn’t want to breathe anymore.

He tries anyway.

“Thank you,” He finally murmurs, “ I— Fuck…” The words are like broken glass, slicing at his lips the moment they try to break free from his mouths and it stings, “I’m not…”

Chuuya came here today with a slight bounce in his steps because he missed feeling okay when talking with Poe, so he surely didn’t expect to be talking about this. It’s like a slap to the face— like a cold bucket of water being dumped on him because he sure as hell wasn’t ready for his only friend to learn about this.

It’s like a breach of privacy. He was trying so hard to seem fine and okay— he should be fine and okay, damn it— so the fact that Poe thinks he’s not is throwing Chuuya off right now. In retrospect, it was a bit outlandish to think he could take this dirty, dark little secret with him to grave. Soon, preferably. But now the cat’s out of the bag, and he really wishes he didn’t wake up today.

How funny and coincidental is it that someone probably borrowed his body for a day and they’re just as, if not more so, miserable as Chuuya? Because if it were Chuuya, he’d keep up the façade as the workaholic, the outgoing and headstrong and stubborn person until the day he finally died. But he wasn’t Chuuya. He wasn’t Chuuya yesterday, and he slipped and now the first friend he’s had the pleasure to have in years knows how ugly and pitiful he is. 

Something warm presses against his shoulder and he looks and sees Poe looking at him with his arm outstretched. There’s no pity, no disgust, just resolve and worry and a promise. 

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It’s okay.”

Oh fuck, Poe is going to realize that meeting Chuuya was a mistake sooner or later. He’s going to finally figure out that Chuuya isn’t really who Poe thinks he is and that he’s a fake. Oh fu—

“It’s okay to not be fine.”

Chuuya tries to remember if anyone ever told him that. He’s not sure.

-

The man— Poe, his name is Poe— stares at him worriedly. It finally occurs to him, in order, that:

a.) He probably shouldn’t have said that.

b.) He’s not himself right now.

“Chuuya, are you okay?”

c.) He definitely shouldn’t have said that.

He laughs it off, waving his hands. The lower-pitched tone scratches against his voice box and he feels like a stranger and an intruder and that he shouldn’t be here. He feels like this is a fever dream, like something from a movie or a novel. He thinks, ‘If this is a fever dream then why couldn’t I have just dreamed about Odasaku?’ and promptly shuts that thought down because does he really want to wake up crying and shaking inconsolably again?

He smiles, “I’m fine.”

Hi everyone! I’m vvv late but here’s my work  for the bigbang! I’ll be queueing my work over the next few hours. Thanks for reading and see y’all in the next one!

Links will be provided at the last post, thanks!

[niiwa-angel]

A Sudden Realization

//Authors note: so I wrote this and tried to post it and it didn't go through. So now I'm mad and Imma write it again. This is a Skylanders Academy fanfiction. If you would like any others just ask, I am planning to do a trans ftm Jet Vac, TERFS don't interact. Hope you all enjoy//

Spyro lay awake, watching the stars out his window from his bed in his room. His mind was to loud for him to fall asleep, and he had long since resigned himself to the long night. He was conflicted, this heart was heavy in his chest as he tried to work through his emotions. He liked girls, he knew he did, he liked flirting with girls and dating girls, so he logically must be interested in girls. But then Crash came, and now he had no idea what to think about himself, he was fairly certain that what he felt wasn't friendship, but likely something more. And he was so confused, he knew that his adopted family wouldn't care, this school was pretty accepting, but he was still concerned about their reactions. Resigning himself to a sleepless night, Spyro tucked his wings tighter against himself and stared at the floor.

~~~~~~~~~timeskip to morning~~~~~~~~~~

Stealth Elf finished her yoga and stood up with a stretch, her morning training had gone well, she had beaten her high score, and was now ready for some breakfast. She slipped down the hall, already smelling the pancakes from the upper level, she hopped onto the railing and slid down to the first floor.

"Smells Good!" She called to her hot friend, grabbing food off his plate and dancing out of reach while he yelled and reached for her.

"This is why we can't have nice things!" He muttered, with a hint of amusement as he continued to cook. Stealth Elf ate her confiscated flapjack as she surveyed the room, quick to notice a missing member.

"Where's Spyro?" She asked, looking for the purple dragon and finding nothing, not horn nor hide of him.

"Probably still sleeping. You know him Elfie, he stays up playing a game or something and he sleeps in the next morning, I'll poke him before we leave." Eruptor snorted, eyes still on his pancakes, guarding them from thieving elves.

"No you won't, I'm up." Europtor jumped and turned, seeing Spyro draft himself down the stairs. His wings were drooping and his eyes were dull and blank, he looked sick.

"Whoa buddy, what happened to you? Ya look sick!" Eruptor gently said, trying not to be to loud in case his friend had a headache. Elfie had also come to a similar conclusion.

"Do you want to stay home Spy? We can talk to Eon, I'm sure he wouldn't mind." It was well known that Eon was very firm about resting when you were sick, as a suck person on a team was a liability and if it spread to others than it could leave Skylands unprotected. Still Spyro shook his head.

"Nah I'm fine, just a bit tired. I could not sleep for the life of me last night." He lied, he normally would love to stay home and relax but the thought of being alone with his conflicted thoughts was scarier than dealing with Professor Jet Vac if he fell asleep in his class. His friends looked unsure but relented and all of them headed out to the academy.

~~~~~~~~At the school, Jet Vac's pov~~~~~

Jet Vac considered himself an intellect. He was a professor at a prestigious school, so he had to have some level of higher intelligence, so he noticed right away when Spyro walked across the court yard that something wasn't right. His wings were limps, his head was down and he was trailing behind his friends when normally he would be infront of them walking backwards to talk to them. Jet Vac knew that if he went over and asked what was wrong he would not get an anwser, all he could do was wait until his class that Spyro was in and hope to keep him afterwards. Unfortunately, that was at the end of the day, so he slipped into his room and waited for the first bell to ring and preparing for a long day.

~~~~~~~~timeskip to last class~~~~~~~

Spyro had never been so happy for Jet Vac's class, normally he wasn't a fan but right now he was as excited as he could be when he was this tired. All he had to do was make it through one more 45 minute class and he could go home and try to get some information as to what was wrong with him, maybe he could go to the on campus doctor. And it was a Friday, so he had a whole two days to figure this out and start fixing it, if he could stay awake he was home free.

~~~~~Jet Vacs Pov~~~~~~

Jet Vac was never more happy to have a class with Spyro in it. Any other day and he would just be hoping the young dragon wouldn't throw to many paper airplanes, or tell any ridiculous jokes and throw him off his game. Now he was relieved, see Jet Vac didn't have any of his own kids, but he cared for his students like they were his kids and though Spyro was a difficult academic student, he was a good kid who genuinely cared for everyone he encountered and if he was this down, something must really be bothering him. Jet Vac didn't really have a plan, so he would see if Spyro fell asleep and if that didn't work he would just ask to speak with him after class.

That entire lecture seemed to move in slow motion, at one point Jet Vac almost wanted to ask one of the tech kids to see if his clock was broken. He noticed that around 15 minutes into class that Spyro had dozed off, his head resting on his paws and desk, as he walked by Stealth Elf went to go shake him awake but he stopped her.

"No no dear, he looks like he needs it, just make sure he doesn't fall out of his seat. We'll leave him be." Stealth Elf looked absolutely shocked, as Jet Vac wasn't known for being keen on people sleeping in his class, but she nodded and kept an eye on her scaley friend for the remainder of class.

When the bell rang she went to wake him up again before Jet Vac stopped her again.

"I've got him, you two go home. I wanted to speak with him any way." Stealth Elf and Eruptor shared a glance and nodded, leaving the room. Jet Vac smiled and returned to his desk, content to just mark his papers while he waited for his young student to wake up.

~~~~~~~~ an hour later~~~~~~~~

Spyro woke up with a jolt and no idea where he was, it took a few attempts to get the sleep out of his eyes and mind before he realized he was in Jet Vac's classroom. He looked up and saw the bird in question sitting at his desk, lifting his head to look at him. Spyro jumped to his feet, trying to apologise before his teacher could lecture him.

"Professor Jet Vac, I am so sor-" his sentence was cut off as he crashed to the floor, his paws still numb from sleep and not responding to his commands. Jet Vac leaped from his seat and hurried to his side.

"Now Now, take it easy my boy, your body needs a break." He soothed as he helped the purple dragon to his paws. Spyro stood with his head down and waited for the lecture that never came. Instead, Jet Vac smiled and walked him over to a chair next to his desk and offered him some saltine crackers he had hidden in his bottom most drawer on the right hand side. Spyro hesitated and took one, nibbling at it a bit before he mumbled,

"Sorry. I'm uh, I'm sorry I fell asleep in your class." Jet Vac chuckled, causing Spyro to jerk his head up.

"Have a seat Spyro, take another cracker. I'm not mad, you looked like you needed that nap." He said, sitting in his desk chair and pushing the crackers closer to Spyro. "Talk to me, my boy, what's bothering you?" He asked, hoping to the giants that Spyro would talk and get that weight off his chest.

Spyro hesitated and thought about how he was going to spend his weekend, trying to find a cure for whatever was wrong with him, and without warning, broke down. He hadn't cried that hard in all his life as far as he could remember, his entire body shaking with sobs. He was vaguely aware of Jet Vac handing him some tissues and leaving the room, the door clicking behind him.

//great, he's gonna get Eon or Elfie and Eruptor and they all get to see me like this.// He thought, trying his hardest to reign in the tears, only to start hiccuping and having a harder time breathing. He could year the door open and pushed is head under his wing.

"Here, drink this try to calm down. There's no need to be embarrassed." Spyro peeked out from under his wing and saw Jet Vac kneeling before his chair and holding out a glass of water.

"Th, thanks." He choked out, accepting the cool glass and sipping it, relishing the cold liquid on his sore throat. JV nodded and sat back down in his chair.

"Not a problem, Spyro. I'm sorry to push, but if you would like, could you tell me what's bothering you?" He pushed, hoping that Spyro didn't break down again.

Spyro swallowed and took a deep breath. "I think, that I might have had feelings for Crash. More than just ones I feel for Elfie and Eruptor, like, not just friendly ones. I think, I'm not sure, I have a crush on him? And that doesn't make sense because I like girls! I've always liked girls! But now I'm looking back and I think that maybe this has happened before and I didn't notice, and god I don't know what's wrong with me!" He had started crying again about midway through that jumble of words but he didn't have it in him to care, he was just waiting for the backlash of what he had just said. Jet Vac seemed to straighten his shoulders, set his beak and rose up, coming closer to Spyro.

"Now listen and listen well Spyro. There is nothing wrong with you, it is perfectly normal to like boys and girls, I have plenty of friends who do, I don't know why you thought there was." Jet Vac put his hands on Spyro's shoulders, hoping the contact would help ground him.

Spyro, didn't seem convinced. "Then why didn't I notice earlier?" He asked, "Why didn't I realise before that I liked boys?"

Jet Vac thought for a moment and then replied, "Well, you're at a weird age Spyro, you're figuring yourself out and sometimes that brings about realizations that we feel should have been obvious. That doesn't mean it isn't still valid, my goodness, if you had figured it out 25 years from now it still would be valid." Jet Vac shrugged as Spyro started to seem hopeful.

"You promise, promise! There isn't anything wrong with me?" His eyes practically begging for the confirmation that he wasn't broken, while simultaneously asking for this not to be a joke.

Jet Vac thought for a second. " Well you talk in class and can get a bit cocky during training but No, there is nothing wrong with you." He joked, hoping to get a laugh and instead he got an armfull of Spyro, his arms wrapping around him tightly.

"Thank you." Spyro whispered, shaking a little from tiredness. Jet Vac hugged him closer.

"Anytime my boy, anytime." They stayed like that for a moment before breaking away.

"Now then," Jet Vac said, shaking himself a bit, "head home, enjoy your weekend, get some rest. I'll see you in training on Monday."

Spyro nodded and headed for the door, calling, "Thanks JV!" Over his shoulder. Jet Vac smiled and sat back down to finish his papers and remembering all the students who had come to him over the years with similar problems. No Spyro defidently wasn't alone.

Fin

// So I based the sleepless part after myself, it took me a while to figure out what I was and a lot of overcoming internalized homophobia to accept that there was nothing wrong with me. I hope you enjoyed, send me headcanons and I can write other stories like this one. As mentioned above I hope to do one with Jet Vac but I'm a slow writer so it might be a while. Thank you for reading feel free to like!//

[hovercraft79]

One Thing Leads To Another

What starts as an ordinary day at a Witches Conference turns into a slumber party with Julie Hubble and three little witches - and Hecate Hardbroom may never be quite the same.

1st in the Hecate’s Summer Playlist Series

Words: 8,911

Rating: General/Teen

Title comes from a song by The Fixx

Chapter 1

 Hecate Hardbroom was not enjoying herself. Her back ached from sitting in a plastic chair at a plastic table all afternoon, and her face had been forced into a fake smile for so long that her teeth were beginning to itch. Mentally, she comforted herself by thinking up as many creative ways as possible to torture her publisher. She was up to 297 – no, an image of the man sitting in the polar bear exhibit of the London Zoo, slathered in walrus blubber, blossomed in her mind. 298, then. She pushed a book back to its delighted owner. She still didn’t see why she had to endure these horrid book signings.

  Another copy of Potion Making for Advanced Witches landed with a thud in front of her. A breathless voice asked, “Can you make it out to Pernilla?” She smiled thinly and began writing her standard Inscription #3 inside the cover. She didn’t understand why presenting her new book at the Traditional Witching Conference wasn’t sufficient marketing for her publisher. Her seminars were always well attended and well received. Her previous two books sold well enough. Another book was presented, for Jessamyn this time. Hecate scarcely looked up before beginning Inscription #4.

 Her face hurt. No one was meant to smile this much – save Pippa, perhaps. But Pippa was, well, Pippa. Smiling had always been her default expression. A genuine smile ghosted across Hecate’s features until the next book was pressed upon her and her aching fingers began Inscription #5, to Elanora.  

 At least she had only one more of these dreadful book signings to do, and then the rest of the summer break would be blissfully free. She couldn’t wait to return to Cackle’s and disappear into her private quarters, her empty potions lab and the quiet afternoon teas with Ada. She craved the peacefulness that fell over the castle once the students departed – especially one particular student with long brown plaits and a penchant for mischief.

 “I really liked your presentation, Miss Hardbroom.”

 Hecate’s head shot up, her frozen smile replaced by slack-jawed surprise. “Mildred Hub-ble?” Her eyes flickered back and forth between Mildred’s hopeful face and the wary, protective expression on her mother’s. “Miss…er…Ms. Hubble?” Too late, she remembered her manners and lifted her hand to her forehead. “Well met.”

 “Good afternoon, Miss Hardbroom.” Julie Hubble placed a hand on Mildred’s shoulder. “Millie here’s been on and on about the lecture you were giving at this conference all summer long. Coming to hear it was the only thing she wanted for her birthday.”

Hecate could see her own look of disbelief reflected on Julie Hubble’s face.

“Will you sign my book, Miss Hardbroom?” Mildred pushed the book across the table. “Please?”

Hecate looked at Mildred’s hopeful gaze staring at her from across the table, then down at the book in front of her, trying to process what was happening. Never, ever, had one of her current students attended one of her lectures – and for it to be Mildred Hubble, of all people? Her lips quirked into a faint smile. Of course, it would be Mildred Hubble. A warm feeling fluttered in her chest, growing stronger by the second, like a hand-laid ceremonial fire being coaxed into flame. Suddenly, she realized that she very much wanted to sign Mildred’s book. She flipped the book open and picked up her pen before she realized that she had no idea what she wanted to say. She must have stared at the blank page for longer than she realized because, when she looked up, Mildred was trying to hide her disappointment and Julie Hubble looked like a storm cloud about to spew lightning. “I can’t sign it. Not right now.” She tensed for the reaction, knowing she hadn’t said that right. She wasn’t disappointed.

“Now you see here, Miss High and-”

“Mum!” Mildred looked stricken. “It’s okay.”

“It most certainly is not! You paid for your book just like everybody else!” Her voice was getting louder, causing Hecate no small amount of panic.

“Miss Hubble! I…uh…” She leaned around them until she could see the next few people in line. “I’m so sorry, but, if you could just excuse me for a few moments…” She grabbed Mildred’s book and motioned for them to follow. She directed them around a corner, hopefully out of earshot if she couldn’t keep Ms. Hubble from shouting.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at,” Julie hissed.

“Please,” Hecate held her hands up. “Of course, I’m going to sign it,” she watched Mildred’s mother visibly relax, if only a bit. “I just don’t want to write the same things I write in all of those strangers’ books. I…I need time to think so I can do it properly.” She looked at Julie Hubble, who still looked somewhat cross. “I want to do it properly.” Ms. Hubble huffed out a breath, blowing a bit of hair out of her eyes while she regarded Hecate. After a moment she gave a curt nod. Hecate didn’t expect the rush of relief she felt. “Mildred,” she said, leaning down so she’d be at eye-level. “I would be honored to sign your book. May I take it with me so I can take my time? It is for your birthday, after all. It wouldn’t do for me to do a rush job. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”

“Oh, but that would be perfect, Miss Hardbroom! Tomorrow is really my birthday. It’s when my party is and everything!”

“Well then, that shall be perfect indeed.” She straightened up and moved to return to her table. A firm grip on her elbow pulled her to a stop.

“Miss Hardbroom,” Julie Hubble stepped closer and lowered her voice so that even Hecate’s sensitive ears had to strain to hear her. “Look, I’m sure you mean well, but please, don’t make a promise to her that you won’t keep.”

Hecate’s eyes widened in shock at the very idea. “I’m not.” She leaned in, “I wouldn’t.”

“Tomorrow.”

Hecate looked down at her hand, now gripped fiercely by Julie Hubble. “Tomorrow. I will bring the book, properly inscribed, to Mildred tomorrow. On her birthday.” She squeezed Ms. Hubble’s hand. “I swear it.”

 - - - - - - - - - - 

 “That’s quite a number of drafts, Hecate.” Ada looked at the dozen or so crumpled pieces of paper scattered across her deputy’s desk. “Perhaps a break and a cup of tea will do you some good?” She waved her hand and a full tea set appeared in its usual position on a table between two wing chairs in front of the fireplace. “You can tell me all about this project that apparently needs to be perfect. Who knows? Maybe I can help?”

Hecate sighed heavily and leaned back in her chair, stretching some of the stiffness out of her shoulders. Perhaps a break was in order. She pushed herself to her feet and crossed to the fireplace, gratefully accepting a cup of tea. “Mildred Hubble came to my lecture today,” she said, lowering herself into her chair.

“Did she?” Ada covered her smile by taking a sip of her tea, pleased that Julie Hubble had used her tickets after all. “I’m sure that was a…surprise for you.”

“To say the least,” Hecate smirked into her cup. “Apparently, it’s what she wanted for her birthday. I don’t even know how she knew about it.”

“Oh, I may have given Felicity Foxglove an interview about what the teachers get up to in the summer - for her gossip column, you know.” Ada’s blue eyes twinkled at her over the brim of her cup. “You really should read it, Hecate. It’s very informative.” She gestured to Hecate’s desk. “How does Mildred’s attendance at your seminar relate to your current work in progress?”

“She purchased a copy of my book and wishes me to inscribe it.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m finding the task more difficult than I expected.”

“And why do you suppose that is, Hecate?”

“I’m sure you have a theory.”

“Indeed, I do, dear. I believe you are struggling because what you write to Mildred is important. That little girl matters to you, Hecate, whether you care to admit it or not. You certainly matter to her.”

Hecate snorted in disbelief. “I hardly think so.”

Ada slammed her tea cup down with enough force to rattle the rest of the service. “Hecate Hardbroom! That is quite enough!” She took a calming breath. “Now. You know that I love you as if you were my own daughter, but sometimes I swear you are intentionally obtuse.” Hecate opened her mouth to speak, but Ada didn’t give her the chance. “Think for a moment about what it was like when you first came to Cackle’s.”

Hecate frowned. She didn’t like remembering those days at all. Only twenty-one years old, she’d arrived at Cackle’s still mourning her mother’s death from ten years prior, still mourning the loss of her friendship with Pippa and still reliving the terror of her training under Mistress Broomhead… which had only just ended. She’d been alone, frightened and traumatized, barely in control of her own magic at that point, and not all the time. It was Ada who had taken a chance and hired her. Ada who had taken Hecate under her wing, Ada who’d mentored her, Ada who had comforted her when years of repressed emotions had finally burst free. “It’s hardly the same, Ada,” she ground out, voice tight with emotion. “She’s hardly motherless and I like to think that I’m not as…terrible as Miss Broomhead was.” Pain lanced through her stomach. Her greatest, most secret fear was that she was, deep down, exactly like her old teacher.

“You are nothing like her at all, Hecate,” Ada said, as though she could read Hecate’s mind. She placed a hand on her Deputy’s knee. “If you were, you wouldn’t be here. You worry about too many things as it is, dear. Don’t let that be one of them.” She squeezed Hecate’s knee before taking up her tea again, spelling it back to the proper temperature and settling back in her chair. “My point, Hecate, is that, while Mildred’s mother may be alive and well, she’s hardly in a position to help her daughter navigate the magical world. She needs a witch for that and it seems, my dear Deputy, that she has chosen you.” Ada peered at Hecate over the top of her glasses, eyes pinning her in place with their intensity. “I do hope you recognize that for the honor that it is.”

Hecate blinked away the tears that were starting to prickle just behind her eyes. “I do,” she whispered. And I know I need to do better by her, she thought, but instead she said, “It still doesn’t help me figure out the inscription, though.”

“Doesn’t it?” Ada asked. “I believe if you’re simply honest with yourself about your feelings for Mildred Hubble, you’ll find it much easier to be honest with her.”

- - - - - - - - - - 

 Hecate read through the inscription one last time. It was…satisfactory. She hoped. Glancing at the pocket watch ever-present around her neck, she was surprised to find that it was just after midnight. Rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness, she pulled Mildred’s book in front of her so she could transfer her draft into the book itself. Pen in hand, she ran her fingers along the cover, still feeling the same rush of pride she’d felt when she’d held her first published book in her hands. Bittersweet, though, as she recalled. She remembered the ache she’d felt when she couldn’t give one to her mother, the only person she’d thought would want one. Then there had been the wholly different sort of ache when Ada, Miss Cackle at the time, had said that she would be honored to have the copy meant for Hecate’s mother. She’d cried the next time she’d entered Ada’s office and found her book, sitting with pride of place on Ada’s coffee table, where it would be one of the first things visitors would see. That had been the first time Hecate had cried in front of another person since Pip – well, in a very long time. Ada hadn’t made a fuss, though. She’d simply handed her a cup of tea and remarked that she couldn’t exactly pin the book up on her refrigerator, so the coffee table would have to do. It was some months later, when she had accompanied the Headmistress to the home of a prospective teacher and seen her refrigerator, covered in her daughter’s artwork, that she finally understood Ada’s meaning.

She shook her head to clear away the memories and took up Mildred’s book again, frowning at the sturdy brown cover. Mildred had purchased the basic edition – suitable for schools and student witches. Not, Hecate decided, suitable for Mildred’s thirteenth birthday present. She pushed the book aside and waved her fingers in the air. Another book materialized in front of her – the Reserve Edition. A surge of pride jolted through her like a hex. This was her book, as it was meant to be, as she’d dreamed of it long before its publication. She ran her fingers lovingly across the cover. The embossed leather cover looked black at first glance, but, when tilted in the light, deep purple undertones shone through, like the iridescent wings of a darkling moth. The title and her name looped across the cover in a metallic pewter ink designed to match her own spidery handwriting. The same dark silver edged the pages. The only spot of color was the silk place holder ribbon stitched into the binding. The deep magenta exactly matched the ribbon that had once held Pippa’s ponytail secure, but for the last thirty-five years had marked Hecate’s place in whatever book she was reading. The ribbon was a feature included in each of her previous books – an homage to the pink witch who, every time Hecate had made corrections in their textbooks, had encouraged her to just write a potions book of her own.

Altogether exquisite, Hecate thought, even if she did say so herself. Morgana hopped onto the desk, headbutting Hecate firmly in the shoulder and glaring balefully at her. “Yes, Morgana, I know. Pride is unbecoming in a witch.” She opened the book and prepared to write the inscription but paused again. The Reserve Editions were prohibitively expensive – only a handful were ever produced. She had a set, and Ada, of course, and a set resided in the library of the Magical Council. And a set resided in the personal bookshelves of one Pippa Pentangle. Hecate had gasped and cracked her favorite teapot with an accidental spurt of magic the first time she’d seen them in the background of a mirror call. Pippa, for her part, had been infuriatingly nonchalant about it. Of course, she’d purchased Hecate’s books, she’d said. Perhaps now that things were better between them, she might even persuade Hecate to sign them.

The memory jolted Hecate back to the present. She needed to get this inscription done.  She clicked open the pocket watch and checked the time.  The book promised for tomorrow was now due later today. Snapping the watch closed, she held her hands over the book and recited a collection of protective charms, locator spells and durability incantations. After a few moments she was satisfied that the book was as ready for Mildred Hubble as it could ever be. A satisfied smile playing across her lips, Hecate finally settled down to write the inscription.

  Chapter 2

Hecate slowly materialized in the hallway outside the Hubble’s apartment. Steeling herself for whatever awaited, she knocked on the door. A moment later it swung open, revealing Julie Hubble, dressed in faded jeans and a hand-dyed purple tunic.            

 “You came!”            

 “You needn’t sound so surprised, Ms. Hubble. I said that I would.”             

 “I know, but…”             

 Hecate stiffened. “Ms. Hubble, I am aware that you don’t think very highly of me, but I do not make it a habit to lie. And I would never lie to Mildred, certainly not about something like this.”              

Julie studied Hecate’s face, gauging her sincerity. After a moment she nodded. “No, I don’t believe you would,” she said softly. “I should have had more faith.”    

 Something unexpectedly eased in Hecate’s chest. “Perhaps I could have given you more reason to have it.” They appraised each other a moment more before Hecate remembered why she was there. Twisting her fingers in the air, she summoned a small bag, hesitating a second before she pulled out the book and presented it to Mildred’s mother. “I…I didn’t wrap it yet. I expect you’ll want to approve the inscription before Mildred sees it.” Hecate didn’t understand why it suddenly felt as though a colony of bats had taken flight in her stomach. “I know I don’t always say…the right thing.” She pressed the book into Julie’s hands, too uncomfortable to say anything else.

 Julie accepted the book, turning it over and frowning. “This isn’t the book Mildred bought yesterday.”

  “No,” Hecate replied, staring at the floor, back ramrod straight. Her arms were pressed against her sides, the only movement the anxious rubbing of her thumbs against her fingertips. “I took the liberty of trading Mildred’s student copy for one of the other editions. I have her student book for her as well.”

 “It’s beautiful.” She traced her fingers over the flowers embossed onto the cover. “That was very generous of you.” Julie opened the book, but before she began reading she placed a hand over one of Hecate’s, stilling her fingers. “You don’t need to be nervous, Miss Hardbroom. I’m sure you did a fine job.” Hecate pulled her hand free, clutching her pocket watch instead as Julie turned back to the book. She thought she would die when Julie started reading aloud.

 Dearest Mildred,

I am honored that you chose to attend my seminar as part of your birthday celebration. I hope that this book helps you learn to be a better potions mistress – and you will learn! Improving your skills in the Craft will certainly make you a better witch, but it is your generosity, your kindness and your fierce determination to do what is right that make you a great one. I’m so very proud of you, Mildred,and lucky indeed that I have the privilege of watching you grow.

With highest regard,

Hecate Hardbroom

 Julie read it through twice more to herself before raising her eyes to Hecate’s, heedless of the tears tracking down her cheeks. “I – I hardly know what to say.” She gently closed the cover. “I think you’ve just given Mildred her One Thing.”

 “It was okay then?” Hecate asked, furious with herself for her insecurity but needing to know. Julie nodded and she felt her chest unclench a bit more. “I don’t understand what you mean by her One Thing, though. Is that…good?”

 “Oh, you know, it’s that one thing you were given as a child that you treasure for the rest of your life.” She handed the book back to Hecate, trying to square up the woman in front of her – a ragged bundle of nerves and insecurity – with the terrifying Deputy Head she’d met at Parents Evening. She felt certain that this one was the real Hecate Hardbroom. “For me, it’s a brooch that belonged to my mother and her mother and so on and so forth. I think for Mildred, it will be this book, from you, that she treasures all her life. And that, Miss Hardbroom, is a very good thing.” She reached out and squeezed Hecate’s triceps.

 “I’m glad.” A tremulous smile flickered across her face as she waved her hand over the book, magicking it wrapped in a dark purple paper with a black velvet ribbon. “Please give my regards to Mildred for her birthday.” She handed the gift back and raised her hand to transfer but was stopped short by an iron grip on her wrist.

 “Oh, no, madame. You will give this to Mildred yourself. She deserves that much. So do you.” Hecate opened her mouth to argue but stopped when Julie gave her wrist a shake. “I know that you can’t transfer with me holding on unless you take us both. I have no intention of letting go. I’ll hang on until school is back in session if needs be. So,” she smirked at Hecate’s horrified expression, “you can come in, have a cuppa and give Millie her gift or,” she grinned, like a shark about to snatch up a baby seal, “you can transfer us back to your place and ruin Millie’s birthday.”             

Hecate narrowed her eyes but couldn’t see a way out of her predicament. “Well,” she huffed, “when you put it that way.” When Julie still didn’t let go, Hecate rolled her eyes and took the gift back. “I promise I will stay.”           

 “If you insist,” Julie said, winking. She ushered Hecate into the apartment. “Millie! You have company!” She gestured for Hecate to sit at the kitchen table and turned her attention to making tea.         

 “Is it Enid and Maud?” Mildred raced into the kitchen space, skidding to a stop when she realized who was seated at the table. “Miss Hardbroom!” Mildred beamed. “Are you coming to my party?”  

Hecate’s eyebrows practically disappeared into her hairline. Mildred actually looked hopeful. “I’ve brought your gift back.” She placed the package in front of the girl and tried to keep her voice soft. “Your mother said you could go ahead and open it.”              

It hardly seemed possible for Mildred to shine any brighter, but, somehow, she did. Rather than sitting in one of the chairs, she scooted over to stand right beside Hecate, well inside what she considered her personal space. “It’s very pretty, Miss Hardbroom.” She reached out and ran a fingertip along the velvety ribbon before slowly untying it and setting it aside. Next, she turned her attention to carefully removing the paper.             

 Hecate quirked an eyebrow; she’d expected Mildred to rip through the paper. She glanced at Julie to find that Mildred’s mother had clearly expected the same thing.              

 “Miss Hardbroom!” Mildred gasped when she opened the box.  She gazed at the book for several seconds before reverently lifting it out of the box, snatching her fingers away as soon as it was safely on the table. “It…it looks like you. At least, what you’d look like if you were a book.” She looked up at her teacher with absolute adoration. “I’m afraid to touch it, it’s so nice.”        

 “It’s your book, Mildred Hubble. You are free to touch it as you wish.” She leaned closer to the girl and lowered her voice. “I’ve added a few spells and enchantments to it. It’s not as fragile as you fear.”

Mildred nodded and opened the cover. Hecate held her breath as Mildred read the inscription. When she’d finished, she looked back and forth between Miss Hardbroom and the book several times before flinging her arms around Hecate’s neck. “It’s the bats, Miss Hardbroom,” she whispered, “and so are you. Thank you.”

After a shocked moment Hecate managed to hug the girl back. “Happy birthday, Mildred,” she murmured into her hair, blinking back tears. She felt a reassuring hand on her back. 

 “The One Thing, Miss Hardbroom. I do believe you’ve gifted Mildred her One Thing.”             

Hecate nodded before the contact became too much. She gently removed Mildred’s arms from around her neck. “Why don’t you go put your new book away. You’ve got to get ready for your party.”

 “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.” She gathered up her book and raced out of the kitchen.

“Oy,” Julie called after her. “Make sure that room of yours is well and truly clean before the other girls get here.” She placed a cup of tea in front of Hecate and gathered up the discarded wrapping paper, purposely giving Hecate a moment to compose herself.

 After a few sips Hecate felt more herself. “Did I hear Mildred say that Maud and Enid are coming to her party?”

 “That’s right. Those two, plus Lizzy Fletcher, a girl from her old school. They’re having a sleepover.”

“A sleepover? With three teenage witches?” Hecate set her mug down so fast she nearly spilled her tea. “Surely one of their mothers is also coming to supervise.”             

 “No, just me. And the witches.” She couldn’t decide whether to be amused or irritated by Hecate’s increasingly horrified look. “It’s fine, Miss Hardbroom. I’ve sorted it already. It’s a non-magical sleepover – a Muggle party. That’s the theme. No magic.”         

 “M-Muggle?”             

“The non-magical people in the Harry Potter books.” Hecate’s blank stare remained. “The theme of the party is no magic. Lizzy’s mum is coming along for most of it. We should be able to handle four little girls.”            

 “It’s the three little witches that concern me, Miss Hubble. You can’t possibly think you’d be able to handle some sort of magical mishap.”           

 “You’d do well to remember that it is Ms. And I resent the implication that I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been a parent for a while now, you know. I’ve thought this through. That’s why the theme of the party is no magic, so they won’t do magic. It’s also why I’ve made sure to invite Lizzy and her mum, isn’t it? The Witches Code specifically prohibits revealing witches to non-magical people. They can’t use magic without violating the Code. I reckon that’s my insurance that they’ll behave.” Julie’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the caller ID. “Hang on, that’s Lizzy’s mum. I need to take this.” She stepped into the living room.

Hecate sipped her tea and mulled over Julie’s plan to use the Code to enforce behavior. She had to admit, it was rather…brilliant.  Her estimation of Julie rose a few notches. She heard Julie’s voice getting louder.

“She’s got what?....Oh, Lydia, that’s too bad….uh huh….uh huh…No, don’t worry at all. I can cover three little girls…” After a few more minutes of chatter, Julie hung up. She stared out the balcony doors for a moment before stomping back into the kitchen and flopping into the chair next to Hecate. “I guess you got the gist of that?”

“It sounds as though you’ve just lost your insurance.”

“So it seems. Still,” she forced a cheerful tone into her voice, “it’s just three little girls.”

“Three little witches,” Hecate corrected.

Julie scowled at her and puffed up to argue, then suddenly deflated. “How much trouble am I in, do you think?”

Hecate shrugged. “I’m sure it’s not too late to cancel the party.”

“Are you daft? The girls are meant to be here in…” She checked her watch, “less than an hour! I can’t do that to Millie! How would you have felt if your parents had cancelled one of your birthday parties last minute?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Hecate said, a rueful grin on her lips. “I never had a birthday party. My family didn’t believe in celebrating frivolous things.”

“Oh, that’s…” she trailed off, unsure what to say, wondering what sort of childhood had produced Hecate Hardbroom. “What should I do? And before you say it, I can’t cancel the party. I mean, they know they aren’t allowed to use their magic tonight. I’m sure they’ll behave.” The look of incredulity on Hecate’s face cut off anything else she might say.

“Ms. Hubble. I’m sure I could fill a book with examples of those three doing things they aren’t allowed to do. In fact,” she tapped a long fingernail on the tabletop, “I may have read you just such a book at the last Parents Evening?”

“You’re not helping.” She slapped her palms against the tabletop, thinking. “Soooo…. You’ve never had a slumber party, then?”

Hecate frowned, not sure of the direction of – OH! “Absolutely not, Ms. Hubble! That would be…no…NO!”

“Mildred’s already asked if you were coming and you didn’t actually say no.” She leaned forward, pulling out the heavy artillery. “You know that Millie will be thrilled…for you to be here…on her birthday.”

Hecate narrowed her eyes. “That’s a low blow, Ms. Hubble.”

“Desperate times, Mistress Hardbroom.”

Hecate tried to muster an argument, something – anything – about school regulations prohibiting such things but she had nothing. In fact, she knew that Ada not only wouldn’t prohibit her participation, but would actually encourage her to ‘take part’ as she was always telling Hecate to do. She sighed. Heavily. “I don’t know what goes on at a …slumber party.”

“It’s as good a time to learn as any.”

“I suppose so, Ms. Hubble.”

“Call me Julie,” she said, holding out a hand. “Welcome to the party.”

“Hecate, then.” She clasped Julie’s outstretched hand. “I’ll just need to mirror Ada and let her know that I’m not returning to Cackle’s tonight.”

“Come on then, you can use the one in my bedroom and I’ll find you something less” she glanced at Hecate’s long, black brocade dress, “witchy to wear.” She stood and pulled Hecate along behind her. “Have you ever been bowling before?”

- - - - - - - - - -  

 “Let me see if I’m getting this right,” Ada said, seriously. “You want to stay at Ms. Hubble’s and have a sleepover with your little friends? Hmmm… I’ll have to think about that. Have you finished your expense reports?”

“I placed them on your desk this morning. I told you they were ready for your signature.”

“Have you submitted final marks for our permanent records?”

Hecate didn’t understand why Ada was asking if she’d completed tasks that Ada was certainly aware that she had. “You know that I did.”

 “Very good.” Ada leaned towards the mirror. “And have you cleaned your room?”

 “What?” Behind her Julie failed at stifling a laugh. Hecate spun around to look at the blonde, clearly confused.

 “She’s having a go at you, Hecate,” Julie laughed. “She’s teasing you.” She tossed a pair of black leggings and an emerald blouse onto the bed next to the befuddled witch. “She’s making sure you’ve done all your chores before you go play with your friends. Like any good mum would do.”

 Hecate spun back to the mirror. This time she recognized the playful glint in Ada’s blue eyes and the barely contained grin. “Very amusing, Headmistress,” she said in a clearly unamused tone.

 “I’m sorry, dear, but I couldn’t resist.” Ada leaned forward. “You’re doing a very kind thing for Mildred, Hecate. I hope you’ll also relax and have a pleasant time yourself.”

 “I’ll do my best. Then, perhaps when I get back, we can discuss raising my allowance.”

 “We’ll see,” Ada clapped her hands together. “Do have a pleasant evening – maybe you’ll even get some sleep. Please tell Mildred ‘happy birthday’ from me.” She reached out to end the call but stopped halfway. “Oh, and Hecate? Don’t let them freeze your bra.” The mirror went blank.

 “WHAT?” Hecate whipped around to find Julie laughing too hard to breathe, much less answer.

 - - - - - - - - - - 

 “Sssss!” Hecate hissed and gripped the grab bar over the window as Julie whipped her car around a slower cab, honking for good measure.

“You sound like a snake, HB!”

 “So you’ve said, Enid.” How on earth did people do this every day? “I could have transferred us without having to risk life and limb.” She checked her seatbelt buckle for the tenth time.

 “It’s a Muggle party, Hecate,” Julie said, slowing down to stop at a traffic signal. “What are the rules for a Muggle party, girls?”

“No magic!” They chorused from the back seat.

 “Very good,” she glanced at Hecate as she pulled out into the intersection.

 “Ms. Hubble?”

 “Yes, Maud?”

“I’m starting to feel like I’m going to be sick.” She leaned her head against the front seat.

 Julie looked in the rearview mirror. Maud was definitely a bit green around the gills. “Do you get carsick, sweetheart?” She turned the air conditioning up full blast and directed the vents to blow on Maud. “This should help. We’re almost there, love.”

“But- “

“NO!” Hecate turned around to face the young witch. “Absolutely not, Maud Spellbody. You will not be sick in this car. Do I make myself – “

 Hecate was cut off by the sound of retching and wet splattering, immediately followed by the shrieks of Enid and Mildred. She sighed and turned back to Julie. “May I use magic now, Ms. Hubble?”

 “Quickly,” she said, rolling her window down.

 - - - - - - - - - -

  “What do you mean we have to rent shoes?  Why on earth would I wear shoes that countless other people have worn?”

 “Because that’s how it’s done, Hecate.” Julie rolled her eyes at the horrified expression on Hecate’s face. “Fine then,” she leaned in and whispered, “conjure up your own pair of shoes, then get them on. Here,” she rummaged in her purse a bit, pulling out a pair of athletic socks, which she pressed   into Hecate’s hands. “Take these socks and go with the girls to lane 14. Disco bowling starts in about five minutes. It’s easier to see before the blacklights and mirror balls start up.”

“You know I don’t know what any of that means.”

“Just go with the girls and follow Mildred’s lead; she’ll explain what to do.”

               Hecate did as she was told, the noise from the bowling alley already giving her a headache. Why had she thought this would be a good idea? She spotted the girls at their lane, Enid and a now recovered Maud looking at everything at once, eyes wide with wonder. “HB!” Mildred was standing on one of the plastic chairs, waving her over. She forced herself to smile and wave. The girl had been far too excited when Julie had explained that Hecate would be joining them for her party. After a few moments of stunned silence (and a bit of teasing by Mildred’s mother), the other girls had gamely accepted Hecate’s presence as part of the party. She was doing her best not to be Miss Hardbroom, but she wasn’t sure she was being very successful. She swept into their lane and set her shoes and socks down. “Get off of that chair, Mildred Hubble.” No, she wasn’t being successful at all.

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom,” she grinned and jumped off the chair. “As soon as you’ve got your shoes on, you can go pick out your ball. The swirly ones glow the best.”

By the time Julie joined them with a tray of drinks and nachos, everyone had their shoes on and a ball picked out. The lights had cut out and been replaced with swirling colored lights, lasers, blacklights and the twinkling of the mirror ball. Dancing Queen, by ABBA, blared over the speakers. Julie sang along as she put her shoes on, then entered their names into the scoring system. Then she showed everyone how to hold the ball and throw it. Mildred went first so the other girls could imitate her. Before Hecate’s turn Julie grabbed her hand and pulled her close so she could talk to her without having to shout over the music.

 “Your nails! You’ll want to magic your nails shorter if you can.” She felt a tingle in her hand and looked down to see that Hecate had shortened her nails to just past her fingertips. She wiggled them, eyebrows lifted for approval. “Better,” Julie said, “now go get ‘em, Hardbroom.”

 Hecate approached the lane, holding the ball just as Julie had demonstrated and tried to match what she saw the other bowlers doing. She held on to the ball a bit too long and it landed too far down the lane with a thunk. It wobbled down the lane, hanging on to the edge just long enough to knock down one pin before it dropped into the gutter. She heard Enid laughing behind her. “At least I got one in on my first try, Miss Nightshade.” She raised an eyebrow in challenge before looking at the scoreboard and Enid’s zero points. And so, the game progressed, with Hecate and Enid in a vicious battle for second-to-last place. Even Maud seemed to catch on better than either of them, knocking pins down with every throw. Her only mishap being an accidental release of the ball on her backswing in the fourth frame. Hecate’s quick snap of her fingers changed the balls trajectory just enough for her to pluck it out of the air before it damaged anyone. She handed the ball back to Maud and then sat down next to Julie, who handed her a soda. “I hope that was an acceptable use of magic, Ms. Hubble?”

“I’ll allow it, but just this once, Miss Hardbroom.” She laughed and took a sip of her own soda before looking at Hecate. She noticed a tension in her shoulders and around her eyes. She leaned over and spoke in her ear. “Are you okay, Hecate? Mildred’s mentioned that you don’t seem to like crowds or noisy places. Is this too much for you?” She squeezed Hecate’s shoulder.

  “It is…a bit much, but I’ll manage. The girls are having a good time.”

 “They are,” Julie agreed. “They’ll still have a good time if you were to…I don’t know, cast some kind of spell that might make it a little less noisy in lane 14? Can you do that?” She waited for Hecate to nod. “Then why don’t you do that, love. We’ve got a long night ahead of us; I don’t want to lose you now.” Hecate closed her eyes and whispered a few phrases under her breath. Suddenly the volume of the bowling alley dropped by half. The girls looked around, then at HB, who was now holding her head in her hands while Julie patted her shoulder. After a few seconds Mildred nudged Maud and reminded her that it was her turn.

 An hour later Hecate was learning that she liked pepperoni pizza, very much indeed. She was also learning that she rather enjoyed coming in second-to-last, three pins higher than Enid Nightshade. The victory was small, but ‘twas her own. They made sure to put Maud in the front seat for the ride back to the flat.

   By six pm, the presents had been opened and the cake devoured. Three little witches, hopped up on sugar and caffeine, whooped and hollered in the tiny living room, chasing one another around the room. Hecate had received another dispensation from Julie and had placed a muffling spell on the apartment. No matter how loud the girls got, the neighbors wouldn’t be disturbed. Hecate, however… Well, she’d snuck a headache potion while she’d been in the lavatory.  Julie had asked for one half an hour later.

    By seven pm, the girls had painted every available fingernail in the flat – Hecate’s, back to their normal length, had been painted several times in an attempt to replicate a set seen in a YouTube video. Each nail was a different pattern of primary colors. They gave Hecate a start every time she looked down at her hands. Julie sported a much more sedate emerald green. Hecate never imagined that she’d be covetous of emerald green nails.

  By eight pm, Hecate had finished her regular mirror chat with Pippa. “I knew you liked Mildred, deep down, Hecate,” she’d said. “You’re doing a wonderful thing for her, and her mother. I can’t wait to hear all about bowling.” A warm flush rose up from her stomach. “Are you managing to enjoy yourself, at least a little bit?” Hecate had surprised them both by saying that she was, actually, having fun. “It reminds me of when we were young, before…” she’d said, feeling her usual feelings of guilt bubble up whenever she thought about their school days and how they ended. “Hiccup. Don’t. There’s no point to it anymore,” she’d said. “We’re here now, as we were meant to be. Besides,” she’d grinned, “I want you to tell me all about your new manicure.”

  By nine pm, they were settling into the living room to watch Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. Everyone had a mug of hot cocoa, save Hecate who insisted on her usual tea. Julie was in the kitchen, popping popcorn while the DVD loaded.

“So, you’ve never seen it either, Mildred?” asked Enid

“No,” Mildred answered, somewhat crossly. “And it’s not fair. I should have seen it ages ago

“Keep that tone up and you won’t see it tonight, either, missy.” Julie handed the girls a large bowl of popcorn and handed a slightly smaller one to Hecate. “What is the rating on that DVD?”

Mildred didn’t even have to look to answer. “PG-13,” she sighed.

“Hm. And…how old did you turn today?”

“Thirteen.”

“Well, then I guess tonight’s the proper night then.” Julie tossed a blanket to Hecate. “Now, budge up, witchlet. Grownups get the sofa.” She pointed to the pile of pillows and blankets on the floor, then settled herself next to Hecate once Mildred was out of the way. “Push play, love.” As the movie started, she leaned over and whispered to Hecate, “if we’re lucky, they’ll be asleep by the end.”

“I have a sleeping draught that will guarantee it,” Hecate whispered back. Julie threw a few pieces of popcorn at her in reply. She couldn’t help the occasional snort that escaped her whenever a particularly ridiculous statement about magic was made. About thirty minutes into the movie they were introduced to Professor Snape, the potions master. Enid leaned over and whispered something to Mildred. She turned around and glanced at HB, then whispered into Maud’s ear. Soon all three girls were whispering and looking. Finally, rolling her eyes, Hecate spoke. “Yes, girls. I can see the similarities.” She tried to sound stern, but the giggles following her statement suggested that she didn’t quite pull it off. “They always seem to make potion makers the bad guy,” she huffed.

“Maybe he’s the bad guy, or maybe,” she grinned at Hecate, “maybe it’s all an act and he’s just misunderstood.”

  By midnight the girls were not asleep. Rather, they were playing Dance Dance Revolution, eating more cake and gossiping about schoolmates, teachers and anything else that crossed their minds. Julie and Hecate had removed themselves to Julie’s bedroom – time for the adults to make themselves invisible, Julie said. Hecate sat, cross-legged in a borrowed a t-shirt and cotton pajama bottoms on the bed, playing gin rummy with a similarly clad Julie. Her hair was down and loose and she was feeling abnormally relaxed. They’d talked about Mildred, Hecate’s own struggles to control her magic when she was younger and Julie’s experiences as a nurse. They exchanged tales of unruly patients and unruly witches until they were both laughing so hard tears rolled down their cheeks.

“You know, Hecate, I like you so much better when you aren’t carrying on about all of Mildred’s shortcomings.” She saw Hecate’s entire body stiffen. “Oh, don’t get yourself knotted up. You’re fun, Hecate Hardbroom. I’m glad I’m getting to see this side of you. I’m glad the girls got to see it as well.”

Hecate felt the flush creeping up her neck. “It’s not…easy for me to relax. Pippa was always the only one that could…help me be less serious. Then I ruined that. Ada tries, all the time, but at school I seldom feel I can afford to be…softer.” She plucked at the bedspread. “Frankly, I’m surprised tonight’s gone as well as it has. Normally,l I would have mucked everything up by now.”

“Maybe it’s easier when you don’t have to be the responsible one?” She shrugged. “Maybe my nursing background makes it easier for me to help you remove that broomstick you keep shoved up your arse?”

Hecate chuckled. “I think I like you better when you aren’t lecturing me on the Witch’s Code.” A burst of laughter from the other room interrupted their conversation. “You’ve referred to this gathering as both a sleepover and a slumber party…”

“Yes, well, both those names are terribly inaccurate.” She smiled. “If you need to get some sleep, I can take the first watch.”

Hecate shook her head. “Leave no woman behind. I’m all right. I can always take some Wide-Awake potion if I need to and I have extra if it comes down to it.”

“Surely we can outlast three little witches. We aren’t that old.” She cocked her head. “Has it gotten quiet out there? Maybe they’ve finally settled down?”

Hecate cast out her power, trying to hear better. Suddenly her eyes flew open. “Those little…” She clambered off the bed. “They’ve cast a silencing spell between the living room and your bedroom!”

“What!” She joined Hecate at the door, straining to hear anything. “Sneaking little witchlets.” Hecate reached for the doorknob, ready to go full Hardbroom on them. Julie stilled her with a hand to her wrist.

“Wait, I’m having a bit of a think, here.” An evil smile spread across her face, causing Hecate to quirk an eyebrow. “This could be a valuable teaching moment – don’t mess with your mother or your potions mistress.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Well, I told you we were meant to be invisible for the girl’s party, but, you really can be invisible. This seems a good time to use that skill.”

“I see. So, you want me to violate your decree of no magic – again – so we can spy on the girls?”

“Do you have a problem with that?”

“Indeed not, Ms. Hubble? I rather live for that.” She held out her arm. “Would you care to join me in the living room?”

“Absolutely,” she said, clutching Hecate’s elbow. She raised her other hand and they slowly dematerialized.

In the living room the girls sat in a circle, the lights dimmed. Enid held a tiny flame in the palm of her hand that she was holding under her chin. “As the clock struck midnight, a scratch-scratch-scratching began at the door.” She scratched the floor with her free hand. “When no one answered, the door FLEW OPEN!”

Hecate and Julie flashed into being. “AND WHO WAS IT?” Hecate shouted. The girls screamed and Julie laughed so hard she could hardly stand upright.

“MOM!” Mildred was practically hyperventilating, but Enid was already giggling.

“Would anyone care to explain the Silencing Spell on the bedroom door?” Hecate straightened and tried to look severe, but the effect was somewhat muted by the hedgehog on her t-shirt. “Well?”

The girls looked at each other, then at Hecate, their mouths hanging open like a trio of codfish. Finally, Maud whispered to Mildred, “Just ask her!” Mildred shook her head so hard Hecate worried she would fall over.

She glanced at Julie, then sighed. “Ask me what?”

“AreyoudatingMissPentangle?” Enid blurted out.

“Wh-what?” Hecate’s face felt like it was on fire. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Girls,” Julie said, placing a calming hand on Hecate’s arm. “HB doesn’t want to talk to you about that and it isn’t really polite to ask.”

“That’s why we spelled the door, Mum.” Mildred looked stricken at the idea she might have hurt Miss Hardbroom’s feelings. “It’s just that… she had to go and mirror her because they always mirror at eight o’clock and…and the ribbon in your book - it’s exactly the same shade of pink as Miss Pentangle’s dress.” She fidgeted with one of her plaits. “I guess we just wondered if it was true… because I sort of hope that it is true. I’m sorry if we’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Hecate concentrated for a moment on just breathing. Julie’s hand still rested on her arm, her thumb now brushing a circle along her bicep. She tried to be angry, but Mildred’s worried expression took the anger right out of her. She was actually a bit proud of how perceptive Mildred had been. “You’re mother’s right. You shouldn’t concern yourself with your teachers’ romantic lives.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom,” the girls said in unison.

“But since you did ask,” Hecate continued, “the answer to your question is: I don’t know.” She smiled. It felt good to acknowledge the possibility out loud. “It’s too soon to tell. BUT,” she leaned over them, “We do not need any help in the form of potions or spells or enchantments of any sort. Do I make myself clear?” The girls nodded again. “Good.” She straightened up, taking a deep, calming breath. “Now, if you really want to hear some ghost stories, make room. Julie and I will show you how it’s meant to be done.”

 By two am the girls were finally falling asleep, Beauty and the Beast playing in the DVD player now. Hecate and Julie were trying to fit themselves into Julie’s bed, but they were both a bit tall and gangly to be comfortable.

“Good grief, Hecate, you are all knees and elbows, aren’t you?”

Hecate snorted. “Says the woman whose clothes fit me perfectly.” She tried to roll onto her side, but she was too close to the edge and nearly rolled off. “You should have seen me when I was younger – too tall, too skinny. Ungainly. I still feel that way, most of the time.”

“I know what you mean. We turned out all right though, didn’t we? Millie will as well.  She is all arms and legs right now, isn’t she?”

“She is at that stage,” Hecate replied, not wanting to offend Julie by offering up just how awkward she thought Mildred was. She needn’t have worried.

“I mean. Have you seen her run, Hecate? She looks like a great git of a spider with those long arms flying out to her sides.”

“Ms. Hubble!” Hecate gasped in mock horror. “How am I ever going to not see that image whenever she’s racing through the castle? I’m meant to be stern then.” She failed to stifle a laugh. “I always pictured a bat, though,” she said, grinning.

“Hmmm, I can see that – the way she flaps those arms when she runs.” She sighed, over dramatically and pulled the blankets up higher. “She’ll grow into her height, though. Just like we did. You actually turned out to be quite graceful.” She ignored the disbelieving noise from the other side of the bed. “Adolescence seems so much kinder to the petite girls, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Hecate tried to bend her knees but she immediately knocked into Julie’s. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to bump.” She shifted carefully onto her back. “By the way, I’m not really used to sharing and I…may have a tendency to sleep diagonally.” Hecate could practically hear Julie’s eyes rolling.

“Brilliant.” Julie flipped her pillow over and fluffed it. “Well, just so you know, the only person I’ve shared with in years is Millie, so… if you find yourself being cuddled, just roll me back over to my side.”

“Lovely. Um, as long as we’re having these midnight confessions, my familiar Morgana has indicated that I may snore.”

“Seriously? Your cat complains about your snoring?” She sighed. “I guess I’ll be rolling you over, then.” An enormous yawn nearly dislocated her jaw. “Oy, Hecate. I’m getting too old to stay up so late.”

“Even as a child I was too old to stay up this late.” Hecate’s voice was beginning to take on a raspy, sleepy timbre. “Julie? May I ask you a rather odd question?” She waited for an answering grunt. “Are we friends, then? I mean, after this weekend? Or do we go back to how we were before? I’m afraid I’m not very good at reading social cues.”  She cleared her throat.  “It’s a language I’ve never learned to speak properly.”

Julie raised herself onto an elbow and placed the other hand on Hecate’s shoulder. “I very much hope that we are, Hecate. I enjoyed your company today – so much more than I ever thought I would. You care about Millie, you are brilliant fun to be around, when you let yourself be, and…and I trust you to tell me the things I need to know about the magical world. So yes, I intend for us to be friends.”

“Thank you. I’d like that a great deal. I don’t have many friends, I’ve always seemed to be too much myself.”

“Good.” Julie lowered herself back down but kept the one hand on Hecate’s shoulder. “And Hecate? Being yourself is all I’d ask for you to be. How else can we teach the girls that they should be proud to be themselves if we can’t do the same? And, if you ever need a… a translator for some social cue, I’m more than happy to help.”

“Thank you, Julie. I shall endeavor to do the same for Mildred in the witching world.” Maybe, she thought, after this weekend Mildred would be more likely to ask her help when she didn’t understand things.

‘I’d appreciate that.” She reached over and turned the lamp off, shuffling under the covers until she found a comfortable position that only barely touched Hecate’s leg. “Since we’re friends now, why don’t you come over sometime next week to watch the next Harry Potter movie?”

“I’d like that,” she mumbled, enjoying the warmth the invitation started blooming in her chest.

“And why don’t you invite Pippa Pentangle while you’re at it?”

Hecate’s eyes popped open. Suddenly she wasn’t quite as sleepy as she thought.  A wide grin slowly spread across her face. “I think I’d like that as well.”

[hymn2000]

Freeze - MCU AU Fanfic - C22

Previous chapter(s): 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Story synopsis:- When a burst gas main destroys everything and leaves Peter with nothing, the Stark’s take him in. Thrown together by necessity, they then need to try to keep it together and build a new life. Devastated by loss, Peter doesn’t make things easy for them, and Loki and Tony struggle with their own grief and the responsibility of having someone completely dependant on them.

Chapter description:- Peter’s anger gets the better of him

Story warnings/themes: character death, hurt/comfort, trauma, grief, depression/mental health issues, bullying, corporal punishment

Relationships: Frostiron (Loki x Tony) (romantic), Tony and Peter (platonic), Loki and Peter (platonic)

From the same AU as Called To Be A Rock

Chapter 22 - What You Looking At?

-

Discharge papers signed, they walked out of the hospital. Once they reached the car, Tony gave Peter a hard pat on the bottom.

“You’re a smart kid, but you really lack common sense sometimes” he frowned. “You could have done yourself permanent damage”

Peter didn’t say anything, and climbed in the car. He looked down at his bandaged hand. The anaesthetic was wearing off and it was starting to throb. Tony climbed in on the drivers side. He looked at Peter’s hand, and at Peter himself.

“I trust you won’t go putting your hand through any more pictures any time soon”

Peter folded his arms over his chest.

“I’m not the one you should be angry at” he grumbled.

Tony sighed heavily. “Put your belt on”

-

“And we’ll only be making it right, 'cause we'll never be wrong, together we can take it to the end of the line, your love is like a shadow on me all of the time”

“I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark, we're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks”

Peter pushed between them. “I really need you tonight, forever's gonna start tonight-!”

May grabbed hold of him, pulling him back.

“Leave them alone!”

“Why? They think it’s funny”

He was right: Tony and Loki were both laughing at him.

“It’s just a bit of fun” Loki said. wiping under his eye with his thumb. “Why don’t you choose the next one?”

Peter picked up the MP3 player. May looked over his shoulder.

“Don’t pick something stupid”

“Oh, please do!” Tony said. “It’s funnier when it’s stupid”

May sighed, taking the MP3 from Peter. “Well, if it’s stupid you want...”

Peter’s face lit up as the song started. He jumped at Loki, grabbing his hands.

“You know this one!”

Loki laughed, pulling May up from her seat and forcing her to join them. Tony laughed too, taking May’s hands so Peter had Loki to himself. Peter grinned up at Loki, word-perfect in his miming, somehow still managing to look great when he was messing about. He was happy - maybe that was it. Tony was enjoying himself too, and as much as she might not admit it, May was too. She kept looking over at Loki, laughing at him, admiring him... These were the times Peter loved best - when they were all being silly and happy, and comfortable doing it. Peter loved showing off and playing with Loki, and mirroring each others almost-dancing was perfect.

“I swear sometimes that man is out to get me!”

-

Peter looked up. He hadn’t realised he’d nodded off, and he felt weird. He went off to Tony’s room and pushed the door open.

“Peter! Don’t you know how to knock?!” Tony snapped, furiously scrubbing the tears from his face. “What do you want?”

“Well, nothing, not if you’re gonna be like that” Peter scowled, turning on his heel.

“Peter? Hey, hold up” Tony rushed after him, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to snap”

“You’ve been crying again” Peter said, looking him up and down. “I think we need to forget about him”

“What?! Peter! Don’t say things like that!”

“Well, why not?! He doesn’t care about us! He wouldn’t’ve stopped writing if he cared! He wouldn’t have even walked out in the first place!!”

“He does care! He’s just...”

“He’s just what?! I hate him! I hope he never comes back!”

“You don’t mean that”

Peter growled. “How would you know what I mean? We’re better off without him. He’s never gonna come back, and I’m glad of it! He’s horrible and he’s upset you and he doesn’t even care!”

“Peter, what’s gotten into you?? It’s three o’ clock in the morning”

“So? You know what I’m saying is true! I don’t get it! Why do you still love him? And why did she like him so much?!”

Tony put his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “You need to calm down”

“Why should I?! I hate him! He could’ve had his pick of anyone, so why did he have to choose May?! She was too good for him! I hate him, I hate him!” Peter shook Tony’s hands off, knuckling his eyes. “You can’t even deny it. I read more of that diary; I know what kind of filthy stuff you used to get up to. I hate him! He’s just using you, he was using her too! He’s nothing but a selfish little slut!”

There was a horrible silence. Tony closed his eyes for the count of ten, and then looked at Peter.

“I’m in half a mind to wash your mouth out with soap” he said. “You need to calm down and go back to bed”

“But-!”

“One more word” Tony said. “One more word, and I will be scrubbing your tongue with a bar of carbolic, do you understand?”

Peter did understand, but he didn’t like it. “Why are you picking on me all of a sudden? Fuck! It’s not fair! It’s not my fault you married a fucking slapper-”

-

Peter pushed a chair up under the door handle to barricade it. Tony had followed through on his threat, and it had been utterly disgusting. But Peter supposed it had been effective, because now he never wanted to say a word to that man every again. How long the effect would last was another matter entirely.

-

Peter woke up to Tony banging on his bedroom door, and was forced to get out of bed and move the chair so he could open it.

“Oh good, you’re up. Get a move on, sweetheart”

Peter glared at him. “I’m not going”

“Uh, yes you are” Tony said. “You had half a day off yesterday, and there’s no reason for you to miss any more lessons”

“I said, I’m not going”

“And I said you are” Tony said, scooting round him and finding his satchel. “Did you do your homework last night?”

“I didn’t have any”

“Right. Are you having breakfast with Macy again today?”

“I’m not going to school”

“Yes, you are. Now stop being silly and get ready” 

Peter shook his head and sat down on the bed. 

“Peter, so help me, if you don’t get yourself ready, then I’ll do it for you” 

“Fine!” Peter shouted, standing up and pushing him towards the door. “But when I come home all bloody and bruised, it’s gonna be all your fault!”

-

“Oh Peter, what happened to your hand?” Millie asked.

A picture fell off the wall, Peter wrote. Well, it wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

“Oh dear, does it still hurt?” she touched his bandages gently. 

“Poor Peter” Flo said, giving him a hug. “You’re not having much luck this week, are you?”

Peter leant against her. Somehow he was glad he’d lost the fight at home this morning. It was good to be around friends. 

All three girls made a big fuss of him, even more so than usual, and even Malaki braved the girls and came over to give him a hug. Peter couldn’t stay angry at the world, not with these four on his side. It felt like everything was ok - for now, at least.

-

Peter sat in the kitchen doing his homework. They’d been asked to start drafting their ‘My Family’ autobiographies, but Peter was ignoring that one. He’d hidden the slip in the back of his jotter where Tony wouldn’t think to look. 

“Hey kid”

Peter ignored him. 

“Hey, don’t ignore me” Tony sighed. “Where’s your phone?”

Peter stayed quiet.

“Peter! I said, where’s your phone?”

“What does it matter to you?”

“Don’t speak to me like that! Give me your phone”

“Why should I?”

“Because I said so! Stop being a pest and just do as you’re told”

“Leave me alone! I’m busy!”

Tony sighed, grabbing hold of him and feeling in the pocket of his hoodie. Peter snapped, hitting out and shoving him.

“Get off!”

“Hey, stop that!” Tony said, his voice cold. He’d managed to get his phone, and Peter tried to snatch it back. “Oi! Sit back down”

“Give it back!” 

“No. Now sit back and finish your homework”

Peter didn’t. He jumped at Tony and wrestled his mobile back out of his hands. Tony wasn’t best pleased. He inspected the scratches on his hand and glowered at him.

“Now, there’s no need for such violence” he said. “Give me your phone”

“NO!”

Tony gave up. “Oh, fine, then! I was considering doing you a favour, but if you’re going to be such a brat, I can see it’d just be a waste of time. Go to your room”

“I’m doing my homework!”

“Well, go and do it in your room”

“No way! It’s either doing my homework or going to my room; not both. So make a choice”

“Don’t you try to barter with me, young man!”

Peter rolled his eyes, and Tony grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him.

“You are driving me insane! Go to your room!”

He released the boy. Peter huffed and stormed out of the room. He slammed his bedroom door behind him, and just to be annoying, plugged his MP3 into the speakers and turned the volume up high.

-

As predicted, there was soon a banging on his bedroom door. 

“Peter! Turn that down!”

Peter turned it up, if only to be defiant. Tony didn’t appreciate this. He pushed the door open and turned off the speakers.

“Hey!”

“You’re just being difficult for the sake of it now” Tony frowned, unplugging the speakers and tucking them under his arm.

“Hey, those are mine!”

“Consider them confiscated. You can have them back when you learn to behave yourself”

“That’s not fair!!”

“It’s not raining either”

- 

Peter stayed in his room for a bit, but the longer he was alone, the angrier he got, and he soon went off to track down Tony.

“I thought I sent you to your room”

“You did”

“So why are you stood there, then? Are you here to apologise?”

“I’ve got nothing to apologise for” he said, sitting down heavily.

Tony sighed deeply, closing his laptop. “Kid, give me a break. I’ve got enough to deal with without you making it even more difficult. Please, won’t you just behave yourself for five minutes? I need to work”

“What about tea?”

“After the way you’ve behaved, I don’t think you deserve it”

Peter narrowed his eyes at him. “I’ll ring Li and tell her you’re starving me”

Tony opened his laptop again. “Don’t try to blackmail me, kiddo”

Peter watched him. He didn’t know why he was acting like this - but then, nothing had made much sense since the accident, least of all his feelings. He felt like being difficult. He took Tony’s laptop, scrolling through the spreadsheets.

“Hey, give that back!” Tony snapped.

“I’m just looking!” Peter said, hanging on to it. 

“Peter, I’m not in the mood for your idiocy. I have stuff to do. Now give it back”

“I wanna see what you’re doing”

Tony wrenched the laptop out of his hands. “I’ll show you. So this launch-”

“I don’t care about the launch” Peter said, pretending to yawn. “Can’t we do some proper work”

“This is proper work” Tony said, frowning at him. 

He looked at Peter, at the way he was acting, and in that moment, he really hated him.

“Well, it’s boring. Can’t you take a break? I wanna go out”

“You’re not going out” Tony said. “It’s a school night”

“So?”

“So, you need to get to bed at a reasonable time”

Peter rolled his eyes, making another grab for the laptop. 

“Oi!” Tony snapped, swatting at him. “I’m trying to work. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“No” Peter said. “I mean, I would, if you hadn’t confiscated my speakers, and if you’d said yes to me going to Millie’s. But you have, and you didn’t, so I don’t”

Tony gave him an exasperated look, and tried hard to focus on his work. Peter watched him for a moment.

“Can I have some rose lemonade?”

“It’s Loki’s”

“So? He’s not here, is he? It’s not like we’ll ever see him again, so it’s not like he’s gonna miss it” he stood up, and Tony grabbed hold of his wrist.

“Don’t you dare”

Peter huffed and sat back down. “You’re a fool for thinking he’s gonna come back”

Tony closed his eyes and started counting. One, two, three, four-

“I reckon he’s found someone else now”

“Peter, I swear to god-” 

“What? This means you can get back with Pepper if you like. Or one of the other thousands of girls you’ve shagged”

“Peter, if you don’t shut up-”

“Moving on might be a good idea, y’know”

“Peter! You’re going to earn yourself a good old-fashioned smacked backside if you don’t give it a rest”

Peter went quiet. Tony dared breathe out.

“I’m right though”

Tony snapped. “Right, that’s it-!”

-

As soon as Peter started crying, Tony suddenly felt absolutely awful. 90% of him wanted to hug him close and kiss his face and say he was sorry and that he didn’t deserve it and that he would never do anything like that ever again. But 10% of him knew that Peter had been naughty and rude and had been trying his luck and needed to be disciplined and put in his place. And the 10% won.

“If you’re going to continue to behave so atrociously, you’ll continue to be punished for it. There’s no excuse for the way you’ve been acting recently. Now go to your room. I don’t want to hear so much as a squeak from you until morning”

Peter went without argument, crying into his hands, and once he was gone, Tony flopped down on the sofa. Acting parent was exhausting. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could cope with this.

*

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: vi

shh, this is very therapeutic.

part v/AO3.

Lucy gets through the next several weeks mostly on autopilot. There’s spring break in there somewhere, but she doesn’t really notice, since she spends it working anyway. Her dissertation is inching toward the final finish line, though she still has to write a conclusion, put together her bibliography (which will be an absolutely torturous process of going through the whole thing and copy-pasting every footnote – why hasn’t someone invented a better way to do this yet?) and add her acknowledgments: places she went for trips, foundations who gave her scholarship money, people she’s collaborated with, that kind of thing. Most of it is straightforward, but when Lucy gets to the personal section, where people thank their parents, significant others, grade school teachers, supervisors, etc., she stares at the screen until it goes out of focus. Ordinarily she’d write, Thanks for everything, Mom and Dad, no problem at all, but how can she do that now? Thanks for everything, Mom and Henry Wallace, except for never telling me who my biological father was? Thanks for everything, Mom, but Benjamin Cahill, why?

Lucy leaves that part undone, just adds Amy for now, and finally pushes back her chair and lets out a hoarse war cry of victory, punching the air with both fists and startling the nearby students. She emails it to her supervisor, Dr. Kate Underwood, with the triumphant subject line FIRST COMPLETE DRAFT!!!!, then cleans out her carrel with something probably akin to what a new mother feels, when they finally hand her the baby after the sweat and strife of labor. Not that Lucy’s interested in kids, at least for a while, but still.

She sleeps like the dead for the entire weekend (her neighbors are actually still being quiet, and she certainly isn’t going to tell them that she’s probably never going to see Flynn again) then gets up and goes off to her final review meeting with Dr. Underwood on Monday. Most of the changes she suggests are small, though there’s one part of the last chapter that she pushes Lucy to do a little more with. Nothing outside her usual corrections, but since that was the chapter Lucy was dramatically interrupted from writing with the Weekend of Total Insanity, it triggers something in her. In one of the more embarrassing moments of her life, she bursts into tears in Dr. Underwood’s sunny office, as her supervisor looks bewildered, gingerly hands her Kleenex, and finally asks if everything is all right.

Lucy figures that last-minute nervous breakdowns are far from uncommon for PhD students just about to submit, and there’s a ready-made way to play this off as just that, which she more or less does. There are student counseling services that she could probably make an appointment with, though they’re busy enough at crunch time that it would be another few weeks until anyone saw her. And she just can’t picture sitting across from some graduate-student psychiatrist-in-training and actually making sense of this. Has the usual feeling that she doesn’t need to burden people with her first-world problems – “starving kids in Africa syndrome,” one of her friends called it. This is a little more than ordinary, perhaps, but still.

Having promised that she will have the changes in by next Monday, Lucy confirms the date for her oral examination, six weeks from now, and realizes that she has no idea what she will be doing for that time, aside from sleeping and bingeing on TV shows. Her work is done, she has class to finish teaching but only two days a week, and her schedule gapes perilously wide open. She isn’t good at sitting around and doing nothing; can manage maybe a week or two, then she starts feeling that she needs to be productive. Another gift from her mother. She never let Lucy just veg out during the summer as a kid. She had to be doing an extracurricular, or preparing for a AP exam, or off at Young Achievers Camp, which is exactly as nerdy as it sounds. She’s not sure she even knows how to rest.

Once Dr. Underwood has sent her off with advice to get some sleep and feel proud of her accomplishment, Lucy staggers out into the world beyond Stanford like Rip Van Winkle. It’s a nice day, warm and summery and almost difficult to remember that that whole ridiculous seventy-two hours ever happened, and she pauses. Then on a sudden impulse, she digs out her phone and scrolls through her contacts. Hits call, and waits.

Wyatt Logan picks up on the last ring, sounding slightly breathless. “Hello? Lucy?”

“Hi. I’m sorry, is it a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. What’s up? Are you all right?”

“I. . . yeah, I am. I just. . . finished my dissertation, actually. And I thought if you were in San Francisco, maybe we could meet up and grab a coffee, or. . . or something?” Her heart flutters in her throat. “Just, you know, to catch up?”

There’s a slightly awkward pause. Then Wyatt says, “I’m, uh, I’m back in San Diego, I’m based out of Pendleton. And I promised my wife we’d go to the beach today, or whatever.”

“Your w – ” Lucy can feel her cheeks turning the color of a fire engine. “Oh my God, I didn’t – I really wasn’t – of course. No, no, of course. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

“Yeah.” Wyatt coughs. “Congratulations on finishing your dissertation, that’s an amazing accomplishment. Nothing else weird has happened recently?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. Maybe they’ve given it up.” Lucy knows this is too easy, but she wants to think so. Likewise, she both does and doesn’t want to ask. “Have you heard from Flynn?”

Wyatt hesitates. “No. I called back to the hospital a week later, they said they let him out, but I have no idea where he went. Probably off the grid. I would, if I was him. There’s an APB out, anyone who sees him is supposed to call it in. Whoever Rittenhouse is, they’re still very, very pissed.”

Lucy struggles to take this in. On the one hand, it’s good news, of a sort, that Flynn somewhat recovered and was released from the hospital, but was this because he was ready to roll again, or because he didn’t want to take the risk of lying there waiting for his enemies to show up? There are a nearly unlimited number of ways that they can kill him in a hospital and make it look like an accident, after all. If he is officially persona non grata for a lot of powerful and high-ranking people, and he’s hurt, that doesn’t sound like a good combination. Maybe he’s fled the country, gone up and crossed into British Columbia and hidden out somewhere in the Canadian Rockies. Lucy reminds herself that either way, she shouldn’t care. Whatever the hell his actual feelings on her might be, he made himself clear.

“Thanks,” she says, after a too-long pause. “Let me know if. . . well, whatever happens, all right?”

“Do my best. Congrats again on the dissertation.” Wyatt clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Lucy echoes, cheeks still hot, and hangs up rather quickly. Well, that was a disaster. She should have known that the only guy she’s even attempted to ask out recently was unavailable, though there’s a cute-ish geek with glasses who smiles at her whenever he sees her in the coffee line. Lucy thinks his name is Alan. But not even for the principle of the thing can she really work up any desire for a closer approach. After a final moment, she fishes her keys out of her purse, heads to her car, and tries to decide if 280 or 101 will be more congested at this time of day. She ends up taking the latter, despite the unpleasant associations of recent escapades on it, up to Amy’s apartment in South San Francisco.

Lucy turns into the complex, parks, and heads up the steps to Amy’s place. She rents it with two of her friends, one of whom is named Sage Tranquility and the other of whom is usually getting arrested at protests. There’s plenty of room at the Preston house in Mountain View, it’s not like Amy had to move out, but she’s always butted heads with their mother far more than Lucy has. Said that she would rather live in a shitty apartment, away from Carol’s domineering and constant questioning about why she’s doing this sociology degree and wasting her potential, and build something that was hers. Lucy doesn’t know how much she should tell Amy, but she is the only person she feels like confiding to.

Amy opens the door a few moments after Lucy’s knock, her headphones around her neck still emitting the echoes of her music, but she pauses it at the sight of her sister. “Hey, you. What are you doing here? Aren’t you still working on your dissertation?”

“No, I just finished it. Just. Hey, are you doing anything right now?”

“No. Come in.” Amy frowns. “You don’t seem super jubilant, Luce.”

“I. . . have a lot on my mind.” Lucy blows out a breath. “I’d kind of like to talk.”

Amy agrees, gestures her in, and goes to fetch some cookies from the kitchen, before they got to the secondhand futon, Amy sits down, and beckons Lucy to put her head in her lap. “Okay,” she says. “So talk.”

As Amy gives her a head rub, which feels heavenly, Lucy closes her eyes, tries to find somewhere to start, and can’t think of any way to do this delicately. She teeters and stumbles at the edge, then finally comes clean about Flynn, about Rittenhouse, about Benjamin Cahill, about Wyatt, about everything. That it turns out they’re only half-sisters, that Carol has lied to them – to her – her entire life. That her real father is Corporate Darth Vader, and all of this. . . all of this. . . she’s slowly losing her mind, and has just squashed it down and put it away to concentrate on finishing. Now that’s done, and she’s. . . here.

Amy stays quiet as Lucy talks, until she finally chokes up and can’t finish. Then she grips Lucy’s shoulder hard and says fiercely, “We’re sisters, all right? We’re sisters. I don’t care what Mom did or did not tell you, it doesn’t change anything. We’re just the same as we’ve always been, and nothing is ever going to take that away from us.”

“Thanks.” Lucy’s voice remains stuck in her throat. “I just. . . this has been a lot.”

“Shyeah.” Amy reaches over her for a cookie, breaks off a bite, and dangles it above Lucy’s mouth like a zookeeper feeding the seals. Lucy manages a weak laugh and snaps it up, as a sigh shudders through her from head to heel. They remain in silence for several more moments, until Amy says, “So, this Flynn guy. You have feelings of some kind for him, but he’s a complete emotional disaster, not to mention possibly on the run from the feds for God knows what or where or why. Accurate?”

“I don’t – ” Lucy opens and shuts her mouth. “I wouldn’t say I have feelings feelings for him, he’s – I don’t really – ”

Amy raises one eyebrow. “Now who’s being the emotional disaster?”

Lucy feels as if this is rather unfair – she’s here sharing her problems and trying to work through them like a grownup, even if, yes, she did repress them for several weeks beforehand and hope they would go away. “I’m not the one who set my phone passcode as the day he saved my life, then told me not to fool myself that he wanted to see me again and basically vanished off the face of the earth!”

“Fair.” Amy considers this. “But you do feel something.”

“He saved my life. Twice. He did endanger it the second time, but. . .” Lucy stops. “Maybe there was something between us, or I believed a little too hard in fate or design or whatever. I could have been imagining it, but. . .”

“But you don’t think you were,” Amy completes. “He just blew it. Super hard. Complete buffoonery.”

Lucy snorts. “Remind me why I bother with men again?”

“You could always date another lady,” Amy points out. “I liked Carine.”

Strictly speaking, this is true, and does have a certain appeal after the recent overabundance of testosterone in Lucy’s life. But she dated Carine Leclerc, a journalism student from Montreal, for eight months in her senior year, and while Carine was making noises about looking for jobs in California after she graduated, it stalled over the fact that Lucy never got around to introducing her to Carol. It wasn’t exactly a secret – Amy knew, her friends knew, they went to a pride parade, there were pictures – but Lucy never talked about it directly with her mom. It wasn’t the queer thing, exactly. Just that whenever Carol discussed Lucy’s future, it always seemed to involve a husband and kids. Not because of any awe or reverence for the patriarchy – Carol gave both her daughters her own surname, rather than, apparently, either of their fathers’, and was a women’s studies professor for many years – but, well. It just did. And while you can obviously have a family by non-traditional methods – adoption, fostering, surrogacy, whatever – Lucy somehow didn’t get the impression that was what her mom had in mind. The kids just seem to be part of it. It’s why, although she’s not really had any enthusiasm for the idea now, she’s subconsciously penciled it in for five or eight years in the future, once she’s presumably met Mr. Right. Lucy has all kinds of arguments with herself over whether that makes her a bad feminist. But because it’s what her mom wants –

“Oh, God,” Lucy says hoarsely. She raises both hands to her face, then drops them. “You’re right. I really have let Mom dictate my life, haven’t I?”

The expression on Amy’s face clearly says, no duh, although she charitably refrains from uttering it aloud. Instead she says, “I still think you should have followed through on that band thing. At least it would have shown her that you can stand up to her.”

“I – no, that was definitely a bad idea, I’m glad I didn’t.” Lucy is still Lucy, and thus cannot believe that she ever treated the prospect of her education so frivolously. “But maybe if I went over there now and confronted her about Cahill – ”

“You’re sure that’s a good idea?”

“What? You’re always the one telling me to push back against her more!”

“Yeah, I know.” Amy chews on a thumbnail. “But this is more than about just that, isn’t it? From what you said about Cahill, it sounds like he’s mixed up in some pretty skeevy shit. I give Mom a hard time a lot, but maybe she did have a good reason for separating us from all that. Are you sure you want to know?”

“If they come back, I should at least know the truth.” Lucy rubs at her tired eyes with her fingertips. “I’d like to think they just gave up, but I’m not sure. Maybe if I tell her that I know, it might help clear the air.”

Amy gives her a probing look. “And are you going to tell her about Flynn?”

That catches Lucy short. She wants to say that she will, that if she’s demanding or even requesting honesty from her mother, she should be prepared to return the favor. But something – she doesn’t even know what, not quite what it was with Carine – gives her pause. “Why would I?” she says feebly. “It’s not like anything actually happened.”

“Aside from him turning up and you two going on a three-day joyride that ended with him getting shot and telling you to go piss up a rope.” Amy’s tone is more or less lighthearted, but her expression is serious. “That’s definitely something that happened.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. She reaches for the last cookie and eats it, partly to give herself an excuse not to talk, then brushes off the crumbs and gets to her feet. “Well, if I am heading over there today, I should get going before the traffic gets too bad. I should at least tell her that I finished.”

“Because you’re hoping she’ll finally tell you that she’s proud of you?” Amy glances up at her. “You know you did a good job even if she can’t choke it out, right?”

“Of course I know.” Lucy manages a smile, picking up her purse. “See you later, Ames.”

Her baby sister hugs her, not without a final look, and Lucy lets herself out, heading to the parking lot and getting into her car. She drives down to the Preston family home in Mountain View, the attractive four-bedroom ranch house on an affluent, leafy street where Lucy grew up. Worth a tidy chunk of change if Carol decided to downsize, since it’s currently just her living there, but she has held onto it. Not good at letting go of things, Carol Preston. It is only in the last few days that Lucy has realized just how much, and it saddens her.

A light is on in the kitchen as Lucy parks by the curb and gets out. She heads up the front steps, noting that the plants could use some watering; it’s not like her mother to let things droop, or look anything less than perfect, daughters or azaleas alike. This is her house as much as anyone’s, and yet Lucy stands there for a long moment, feeling as unwelcome as a door-to-door salesman or friendly local Jehovah’s Witness. It feels as if she finally got here the way she was intending to do seven years ago – before the accident, before nearly dying, before Flynn, before Flynn’s reappearance, before Benjamin Cahill and Rittenhouse, before everything that’s brought her back. She tries to rehearse words in her head, questions, justifications. Nothing really occurs to her.

Lucy swallows hard, and rings the bell.

It takes a bit before she hears footsteps, and then Carol Preston opens the door. She looks down at her eldest daughter in surprise, or perhaps confusion. Something about her seems as off, less than pristine, as the drying flowers, and her makeup is slightly smeared, though Lucy can’t imagine her mother actually crying. “Lucy,” Carol says. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been finishing my dissertation.” Lucy twists her fingers together anxiously. “I – I did finish, by the way. Just today. Dr. Underwood gave me her final changes, Dr. Gardener in anthropology still has to look it over as well, but he’s at a conference until Friday, so that will take a little longer. But – yeah, it’s done, I did it.”

“I see.” Carol considers, then steps back. “I think we should talk. Come in.”

Lucy follows her mother inside, wondering if Carol’s guessed somehow, if Cahill came by to creep on her as well or ask why she never told Lucy the truth, and feels absurdly guilty for causing more trouble. She almost starts to apologize, though with no idea what for, and a tiny, ridiculous part of her half-hopes that Flynn will be sitting in the kitchen, somewhat recovered if doubtless no more tactful, come by to ask Carol what she knows about Rittenhouse. Which seems like a bold move, given that he’s a wanted fugitive from the government, but reality doesn’t have much to do with Lucy’s thought process just now.

Nonetheless, it comes crashing back in in a cold, sobering wave when they step ins. There’s a piece of paper lying on the counter, and Lucy can’t see the wording, but it looks clinical. Hospital. Carol turns it over as Lucy tries to get a better look, then says, “Tea?”

“No, it’s all right, I was just over at – ” Lucy stops. “Mom, is… is everything…?”

“I went to get that cough checked out, like you wanted,” Carol says, after a slight pause. “And, well, the scan turned something up in one of my lungs. They’re going to run more tests, they can’t be sure, but there’s a possibility it’s malignant.”

She says this like the professor she’s been for thirty years, explaining a difficult fact with her usual classroom voice, and so it takes Lucy a moment to understand. Then she does, and it feels as if the world has gone out from under her feet. “M… malignant? As in cancer?”

“Yes.” Carol takes a deep breath. “I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected – your father was a heavy smoker, after all, and I never picked up the habit until I met him. I stopped when he died, of course, but if this does come back positive…”

Part of Lucy wants to inform Carol point-blank that she knows Henry Wallace isn’t her father and never was. The rest of her wonders how awful you have to be, to confront your mother about that when she’s just told you that she might have cancer. “I – I, I’m so sorry,” she stammers, once more as if this is her fault, has not gotten the right score on a test or has whined about never having summers off. “Mom, I’m sure it’s fine, but if – ”

“But if it’s not?” Carol looks at her levelly. “I know we’ve had a bit of distance recently, Lucy, but this is the sort of news to put things in perspective. Of course, there’s medicine, there’s chemotherapy, there’s options. We don’t know anything yet. But if the worst-case scenario does come to pass, I really want to make the most of whatever time I have with you. There’s still so much I need to teach you, to talk with you about.”

Yes, Lucy thinks, there is. But any urgent desire to force answers to all her questions has vanished in her flood of guilt and fear and concern. “Of course, Mom, of course. If there’s anything I can do – and I’m sure Amy too, we’d both be happy to – ”

“I’m not sure about Amy.” Carol sighs. “But if you have finished your dissertation, like you said, and therefore don’t need to be at campus every day… I’ve seen that apartment of yours, Lucy. It’s terrible. Is there any way you might consider moving back in? We would be closer here, we’d be together. It would be easier, and if I did get sick…”

“No, of course. Of course I’ll move back in. Absolutely, you don’t have to worry about that at all. My lease on campus runs through the end of the school year, but – ”

“I’ll pay your early termination fees.” Carol takes Lucy’s hand. “I really want us to be together again. Believe me.”

“Me too,” Lucy says in a rush. “But – if the test did come back clean – if you’re not really… well.” She can’t bring herself to utter the name aloud, speak of the devil and he will appear. “If you’re not… sick, do you… will you still want me back?”

“Why on earth wouldn’t I?” Carol looks hurt. “Do you think I only love you when you’re useful? You are my daughter, my eldest daughter. So much like me, my historian. You’re so bright and you’ve worked so hard. Of course I want you back.”

Lucy opens and shuts her mouth, then reaches out, and Carol wraps her arms around her, pulling her close, as Lucy rests her chin on her mother’s shoulder and has to struggle to blink back tears. And so, within ten minutes of going home with the intention of some final confrontation, some ultimatum or insistence on separating herself from Carol’s trunk, Lucy instead cleaves back in, root and branch, and promises that she will never bring it up again.

There really isn’t time to arrange a move – even a short-range one – between the last-minute rush of dissertation edits, job applications, and graduation plans, and Lucy’s apartment has a few pitiful half-full boxes sitting around, which she will toss things into when she remembers. She feels like a terrible daughter, which is not helped when Amy calls her up at the end of the week and wants to know what happened to telling Mom off. “You know how she is, Lucy! Even if – God forbid – she was actually sick, doesn’t this seem a little…?”

“A little what?” Lucy challenges. “Are you really going to accuse our mother of faking possible lung cancer just because she wants – I don’t know what, something?”

“I didn’t say she was faking,” Amy says reluctantly. “I’ve been worried about her health too. But Mom has a couple nest eggs, you know she does. If it got to the point that she needed a live-in helper, she could hire someone who actually knew what they were doing and would get properly paid for it. That’s not your job. You’re not that kind of doctor.”

“I know.” Lucy shifts the phone to her other shoulder. “But – look, I know what we talked about, I know what we said. I just don’t think this is the right time to bring it up.”

Amy doesn’t argue with her again, but Lucy can sense that she still isn’t pleased. And yet, all of that goes out the window when Carol calls them both and says they should come by, there’s something she needs to tell them. That doesn’t sound like the kind of invitation that ends with “and nothing’s wrong, the doctor said I’m fine,” and indeed, it doesn’t. The biopsy results came back. It’s cancer. Carol’s prognosis isn’t terrible – they caught it before it was already irreversible – but it’s not particularly great either. The words fifty-fifty chance are used. A lot will depend on how she responds to treatment.

Amy starts to cry – she and Mom have fought a lot, but they do still love each other – and Lucy puts an arm around her, feeling numb. It feels crass to ask for any graduation celebration, even if she’d like one. Suddenly, even applying for jobs is up in the air. Lucy doesn’t want to complain about being inconvenienced by her mother’s serious illness, but she was so ready to start her own life, do something else, stretch her wings, and now she’s back in the birdcage, throwing away the key. It just doesn’t seem (and she winces at the thought) fair.

Lucy finishes the rest of the revisions recommended by her second supervisor in a blur. At the last meeting before this three-hundred-page monster is sent off to the committee for reading and to the printing service for binding, Dr. Underwood mentions that she’s been in contact with the history department at Kenyon College in Ohio. Kenyon is a small liberal arts college, upper-tier and avant-garde, and while it would unfortunately mean living in Ohio, there is currently an opening in the faculty for a junior lecturer with almost exactly Lucy’s research specialty. Dr. Underwood has passed her name on, and the people at Kenyon would like to speak to her next week, if that works.

Lucy’s first reaction is delight and disbelief. Tailor-made opportunities for academic jobs at places where you would like to work, and that are looking for your research interests, are as rare as the proverbial rain on the Sahara. She’s thought for a while that she’d like to teach at a small liberal arts school, one of the places that doesn’t think SAT scores are a good measure of academic performance and give a lot of focus to student development – somewhere in the Northeast, maybe. Sarah Lawrence, Vassar, Middlebury, Wellesley, something in that vein, the usual schools described as “diehard liberal” by U.S News and World Report in their college rankings. Stanford is obviously Stanford, but it takes a lot of work not to get lost in the machine, and plenty of students who come through Lucy’s classes now are clearly just checking elective boxes and playing on their laptops during lecture. At a place like Kenyon, she could actually talk to them more, have smaller and more immersive seminars, supervise senior projects and have more of a say in shaping the department. Have that exact chance to make it her own, rather than following in predestined footsteps.

At that, however, something catches Lucy short. She remembers Benjamin Cahill essentially promising her that he could get her any dream job she wanted, anywhere in the country. Is this Rittenhouse’s clever new strategy? Realize that the face-to-face approach backfired bombastically, and take a more subtle approach, pull some strings and call in some favors so this fat juicy worm just happened to land on the right hook? Would she move there and find herself surrounded by their people, or expected to pay something substantial back?

Asking Dr. Underwood about this, however, just makes Lucy sound crazy. She doesn’t mention anyone by name, but she delicately probes whether anyone just happened to call up and offer this, and if so, why. Dr. Underwood is puzzled, says that no, this has been in the works for a while and it just happened to time well with Lucy’s completion. Due to someone who knows Dr. Underwood, who supervised so-and-so’s thesis, etc. – not the creepy Rittenhouse networks of patronage, but just the usual byzantine channels of academia – Lucy currently holds right of first refusal on the job. If she turns it down, they’ll shop it more broadly, but assuming she doesn’t completely bomb the interview, buys some winter clothes, and is all right exchanging Palo Alto for Gambier, it’s hers if she wants it.

“I…” Lucy hesitates. “My… my mom was just… she was actually just diagnosed. With cancer. She wants me to move back in and spend more time with her. I don’t know if I could justify going to Ohio instead. That’s the exact opposite of what she wants.”

Dr. Underwood hastens to offer her sympathy, and appreciates that this is a difficult decision for Lucy to make. However, while she knows family commitments are important, ultimately Lucy needs to think about what she wants from her career and getting established and so on. If Lucy does decide to stay in California, there will probably be several teaching opportunities at Stanford for her, and she’ll submit papers to journals and attend conferences and the rest of the rigmarole that it takes to be a Professional Academic ™. It’s not necessarily the wrong thing to do. But Dr. Underwood thinks Lucy should consider the Kenyon job carefully. She knew Carol when they were both faculty in the department, knows what kind of personality she had, and maybe it’s not the worst thing for Lucy to go.

Lucy nods and smiles, even as she wants to go somewhere private, put her face in a pillow, and scream. At least the damn dissertation is done, exam date is firmly set, no more of that, no more, praise Jesus, NO MORE. She picks up her bag, swings it to her shoulder, and heads out of Dr. Underwood’s office, riding down the elevator and stepping out into the foyer. As she does, she collides with someone coming the other way, and starts into the usual apology. But as she does, she catches a glimpse of the face under the hat, and freezes. Reaches out to grab at his jacket sleeve, her voice a hiss.

“Flynn?”

Garcia Flynn has not been having the greatest week. Or two. Or three.

He stayed for six days in the hospital, being cared for by a doctor named Noah who was entirely professional to all outward manners and appearances, but who kept shooting him looks out of the corner of his eye that made Flynn suspect the worst. Either he’s a Rittenhouse agent, or he used to be some sort of gentleman acquaintance to Lucy, and Flynn would almost prefer the former. At least that way he could kill him without anyone being too upset about it.

Of course, and regretfully, killing is off the table, at least for the moment. At least for Flynn himself, as he’s fairly sure that Rittenhouse has authorized everything short of public beheading to apprehend him, and which was why he decided that he was no longer going to trust to the dubious safety of Santa Rosa Memorial and the judgment of Noah. . . whatever his damn last name is, Flynn hasn’t been arsed either to find out or remember it. So he checked himself out against medical advice, gave a fake name and address for the bill (the American health system is a racket anyway, and technically he’s supposed to have insurance – yes, the NSA does offer dental) and left the rental car in the garage. It’s too conspicuous, and he has bigger fish to fry than whether he is blacklisted by Enterprise in the future. They can take it up with John Thompkins, later.

After which, Flynn rode a Greyhound (yes, it’s as miserable as you’d think, especially when you’re six-foot-four) to some shithole Inland Empire city, somewhere in California close to the Nevada border where nobody goes if they can possibly avoid it, probably still riddled with decades-old radiation from the Las Vegas test site. Rented a room in some motel that definitely has one filled with haunted clown dolls, laid low, gingerly tended his raw wounds with over-the-counter antibiotics and sutures, and was forced to admit it was a good thing he did not die of septicemia. He hasn’t succeeded in coming up with a new plan just yet, as it’s clear that he’s been cut off from the usual channels with extreme prejudice. He has kept his old phone with the NSA numbers, but keeps it switched off and hasn’t used it. He can’t risk calling Karl to see what he did, or did not, know about the Wyatt Logan fiasco.

And so, Flynn grimly considers his options. He can try to throw together another fake identity and go to Canada, or travel on his real name back to Europe and hope they haven’t gotten Interpol on this, or just lie here in a motel room that might literally be the manifestation of hell on earth, with air conditioner that barely works in 25-plus Celsius heat and a stain that looks like a murder victim on the carpet. If Rittenhouse is after him, no holds barred, he may just be able to avoid their notice if he stays, especially for a man whose professional tradecraft is disappearing. And yet.

The more Flynn thinks it over, the more he can’t account for everything going sideways as fast and as comprehensively as it did, unless Rittenhouse was plugged into the whole thing almost from the beginning. They must have multiple high-level operatives across several branches of government, focusing on the ones you’d expect – CIA, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security, whoever’s stealing your personal information these days – but by no means limited to them. They could be salted through every level of middle bureaucracy (he wonders if all DMV and IRS workers get an automatic membership) and beyond. It sounds ridiculously, relentlessly paranoid, like that prizewinning intellectual who insists that the Royal Family and other leading British celebrities are all secretly lizard people. But given what Flynn saw at the gala, Cahill and his powerful, well-connected, wealthy friends, this also might not be entirely off the ranch, and that means he has to do more digging. Where?

It takes him a bit, but he recalls what Lucy said to him at their first (well, first real) meeting. Something about David Rittenhouse, who Flynn discovered to be a famous eighteenth-century astronomer and professor at the University of Pennsylvania, and asking if he founded it. Flynn doesn’t know the answer to that question, but it seems to strain credulity that the man it’s literally named after has nothing to do with it. It also is not a given that Rittenhouse’s secret archives are housed somewhere at UPenn, but there are several things named after the man in Philadelphia. It’s not entirely implausible.

That, therefore, is where Flynn is faced with the final part of the plan. It’s going to be hard enough for him to get in as it is, what with the Take Dead or Alive order they probably have out on his head. But if he didn’t appear to be attached to it – if it was just an innocent research visit from an up-and-coming academic who would have plenty of legit business with UPenn’s history collections on colonial America, and he just so happened to appear –

Flynn is well aware that this is quite a reach. That it’s dangerous, that it’s unfair, that he doesn’t really have any right to ask it, given how their last parting went, and what he said then. That she has any number of things to do right now, and none of them necessarily involve dropping all her work and heading cross-country to pick up, again, the world’s most demented and dangerous scavenger hunt with him. No sir.

He checks out of the motel and hops a ride with a trucker the next morning.

As they stare at each other for a very long and very excruciating moment, all Lucy can think is that he shouldn’t be here. Rittenhouse could have been watching her from afar, guessing (correctly, apparently) that she will prove too tempting a target for Flynn to resist contacting again. Maybe this is the moment they jump out and dogpile them both, or – or –

Lucy hesitates only a split second before tightening her grip on Flynn and dragging him around the corner into an unused classroom. She bangs shut the door behind them and leans against it, legs trembling. “You need to get out of here.”

“You just shut me in.” Trust Flynn to have a smart-aleck response readily at hand, as he watches her from under hooded eyes. “We would need to try reversing that first.”

“Just be quiet.” Lucy clenches her fists, fighting a brief urge to slap him. “Did anyone see you?”

He shrugs. “It’s a public university, I imagine they did. Nobody who seemed to recognize me, though.”

Lucy blows out a breath, getting the table between them just so there will be something to prevent her – or him – from anything intemperate. “You’re such a bastard.”

A hard, sardonic smile glimmers in the edges of his mouth. He seems unruffled by the accusation, almost even pleased. He does not bother with small talk, explaining where he’s been, or why he said everything he did in the hospital. (Don’t fool yourself that I want to see you again. . . this is my war, I don’t need you and yet, lo and behold, here he is. He’s a disaster.) Instead he says, “Did you finish your dissertation?”

“Yes,” Lucy says, curt and unwilling. “I have a lot going on, a lot, so why don’t you just – ”

“Is there anything else you can pretend to be working on?”

“What?” Screw the table, she might want to do something intemperate after all. “Why?”

His eyes remain on hers, cool and unswerving. “I need your help.”

[notthetoothfairy]

KLAINE ADVENT 2017: LoveSick (16/24)

Summary: Kurt has SCID and can’t leave his house. Ever. Luckily, Blaine moves in next door.

A/N: A fic?!?!?! Yes, my dears, after what feels like an eternity, I finally wrote a new thing. I was going to do just one prompt for @klaineadventbut - ha ha ha, and ho ho ho - never mind, I’m writing an entire story. And I’m late. Sorry about that!

The plot is loosely based on “Everything Everything”. Saw it on the plane, didn’t end up liking it all that much but I loooved the premise for Klaine, so here it is. :D It’s not all that realistic, sorry about that, but I tried to make it as accurate as possible!

Beta: @a-simple-rainbow (who’s surprised? not us - we’re basically fandom wives)

Read: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24

Read on: AO3 (to be added later)

PERFORM

“So, how are we doing this gift exchange thing?” Kurt asks, smiling at Blaine from where he’s standing at his window, phone pressed to his ear.

Blaine is sitting on his bedroom’s window sill, the curtains still strictly closed behind him.

“I’m ready when you are,” he challenges, though he’s really anxious to reveal his present. He hopes Kurt will like it – it wasn’t easy to find something non-material that wouldn’t be a big problem to give to Kurt but in the end, he had thought of something that also very conveniently coincided with something on Cooper’s Wooing-Kurt list.

Kurt’s eyes widen. “Wait, what? You’re ready, like, right now?”

“You’re not?” Blaine asks, surprised. “I assumed that was the reason you called.”

“No, I called to ask you to come over here. To do this in person… you know?”

Blaine scratches his head and laughs. “Sorry, Kurt, not an option. I can’t physically bring the present with me.”

“O-kaaay,” Kurt says slowly, tilting his head. “Well, I’m still requesting your physical presence for my gift because… I just kind of need you here for it.”

Blaine is sure the intensity of their locked gaze is somehow going to melt both of their windows, so he breaks it for a second to look behind him and tug at the curtain slightly. Kurt leans forward slightly, and Blaine’s pleased to detect curiosity in his eyes. At least it’ll be a surprise – ideally a good one.

“Well, I can go first and then come over after?” he offers. “Since mine is, uh, right here.”

He glances at Kurt, and sees him nodding. “I like that,” he says.

“Okay, ready?” Blaine asks. Kurt nods again, and Blaine pulls at his curtains. “Ta-daaaah.”

He slips off the window sill and steps aside to give Kurt a full view. He worked on the present all weekend, with some help from his brother. It took some re-arranging – his piano is now right at the window so that the wall next to his desk is completely free – but it should be right in Kurt’s line of sight, at least that’s what Blaine gathered from his visits at Kurt’s. He took a sneaky picture with his phone to make sure.

“Blaine,” Kurt breathes out. “Is that- did you-”

Blaine peeks out the window and bites his lip into a smile when he sees how Kurt’s taking everything in hungrily, eyes flitting from one detail to the next.

“I figured if you can’t go to New York, I’ll have to bring New York to you,” Blaine explains. “Or, well, Times Square. The whole of New York would have been difficult.” He laughs nervously. “So, yeah, that’s why I wouldn’t let you see the past two days… uhm- and-”

“Thank you so much,” Kurt interrupts his rambling. There’s an audible gulp on the other line. “I- Blaine, I don’t even know what to say… I mean, that’s the best gift ever.”

Blaine chuckles. “Well, that’s a good thing to say. So you like it?”

“I love it. It’s so thoughtful! I’m sorry you had to defile your bedroom for it.”

“Nonsense, I love New York, too.” Blaine shrugs, taking a few steps backwards to point to his artwork. “And I’m not sure you can see it but I actually used canvas panels so I didn’t actually paint on the wall, just on the canvas. Maybe it can actually move to your house one day, once it’s completely dry… behind glass and stuff.”

Blaine saw the display cases in Kurt’s house that sealed off some of the pictures on the walls, so he figures Burt and Carole might be okay with it.

“Really?! Wow, Blaine… wait, and you painted that yourself?! It’s not store-bought?!”

“No, they didn’t really have the picture I was going for. They have the skyline but not Times Square with all the Broadway ads… see, I put Rent here, and then Wicked, obviously… Les Mis… Cooper helped, he’s much better at painting than I am, to be honest. It’s better from afar, too. And we used pictures to copy from, so it’s not-”

“Okay, can you stop selling your present short, please and thank you?” Kurt asks, laughing. “I don’t care about the flaws, I’m just way too floored right now to even process that you painted a Times Square canvas for me, like- gosh, that’s amazing.”

Kurt spends another few minutes gushing about Blaine’s present – so when it’s Blaine’s turn to come over and receive his own present, he’s feeling all warm inside already just from knowing he made Kurt happy. Kurt’s face is pink from the moment Blaine steps inside.

“I don’t know how to follow that,” he admits once they’re in his bedroom, Blaine on Kurt’s bed and Kurt at his desk.

Blaine shakes his head. “I’m sure I’ll love your present, too.”

Kurt takes a deep breath. “Alright. It’s… uhm, it’s also nothing I can actually give you, but, uh…” He pauses and reaches behind him to grab his laptop. “Well, I’ll need you to read this.”

Blaine raises his eyebrows, intrigued, as Kurt hands him his laptop, a word document opened for him to see.

“Okay,” he says, taking a moment to comprehend what he is reading. He scans the first page, notices character descriptions and lines, and stage directions. “Wait, is that- is that your script for your musical?”

Kurt squirms on his seat. “Well, it’s a draft of some of the scenes I have a clear idea on, but just… read on.”

Blaine does as he’s told, taking his time and smiling at some of the jokes Kurt has put in there.

“Okay, I didn’t factor in how much the waiting would be killing me,” Kurt groans, hiding his face behind his hands. “I’ll just stay like this until-”

“Wait, the main character is based on you, right?” Blaine interrupts.

Kurt nods – and of course it is, the character fits Kurt like a glove.

“And is… is his, uh, boyfriend…?” Blaine asks, not sure how to finish. But the character description is pretty telling: dark messy hair, obsessed with dorky bow ties, aiming for a career in music…

Another shy nod from Kurt. He lowers his hands to look at Blaine, though his blush has deepened significantly.

“I… it wasn’t meant to be a- a love story, originally,” he explains. “But – then you happened, and I couldn’t shake the idea of writing what… this… feels like.”

“Kurt…” Blaine whispers, torn between staring at Kurt and scanning more of the dialogue. Now he’s the one scrambling for words. “Oh, what’s this, a song?” he asks, cringing when it comes off as if he’s changing the topic. It’s just that there are so many feelings threatening to burst out of his chest, like he is going to explode.

“Yeah.” Kurt clears his throat. “I wrote it this weekend. Tried my hand at composing again. I promised to let you compose for me, and I will, but this one was too personal not to do it myself. And… I can sing it for you, too. It’s- I know it’s unlikely I am actually going to perform this on stage, ever, so if I am going to get the chance to perform it for you, then this way, I guess. That’s why I wanted you… here, right now.”

Blaine blinks, curious. He didn’t expect another surprise and he realizes now that this is Kurt’s actual present to him, not the script.

“I would love that,” he says honestly.

Kurt takes the laptop from him, opens his music program and plays the accompaniment file. It’s a piano ballad, right up Blaine’s alley, and of course Kurt knew that. Blaine sits up straight, gives Kurt all of his attention.

Hearing Kurt sing for the first time is breathtaking. His voice shakes slightly as he starts but he regains control once he reaches the chorus, and as far as Blaine’s concerned, Kurt should sing every song on the radio from now on. His lower register is smooth and soothing, and his higher register is absolutely angelic.

Blaine realizes as he listens that the song is about the two characters communicating through a window between them, inching closer until the glass is all there is between them. Kurt’s character fantasizes about the glass disappearing, about feeling the other’s lips and skin and breath for the first time, and concludes that he’s missing something he’s never actually had.

It’s not perfect, a little rough around the edges, but Blaine doesn’t care. The song ends and he ends up staring at Kurt in awe.

“Merry Christmas,” Kurt says. Kurt, his boyfriend, who made him a character in his passion project.

“I hope you like it,” he adds. Kurt, whom Blaine is so in love with, who just wrote him a love song, essentially.

Blaine doesn’t even realize how wide he is smiling.

“I- I… I love you,” is what tumbles out of him eventually.

It’s harder than ever to not break the rules. Blaine’s heart is beating fast, itching to reach out and do… something, but he knows they can’t. Kurt’s equally awed expression tells him that at least he wants it, too, that they’re both in the same boat. Maybe that’s enough for now.

That is, until Kurt does break the rules.

He sighs in frustration and gets up from his chair, coming closer and grabbing Blaine’s collar.

“Kurt, what are you-”

Blaine’s silenced by Kurt’s lips on his. He’s rooted to the spot, his mind alarmed, though his body sags in relief.

It’s a soft pressure, a wonderfully satisfying feeling, and it’s gone in a flash, as Kurt retracts with wide eyes and an apologetic, wistful smile on his face.

“I love you, too,” he whispers. “So I had to do that just once.”

[blacknovelist]

The First Step (Pyre fic)

So I had this thought, for a whole bunch of fics for Pyre, and god I’m so in love with it, I want to do it. But the blackwagon is very, very important to this series and so, naturally, I needed a fic for the finding of the blackwagon. So it’s more or less better if I post this as-is and turn it into a series rather than a multi-chap as I first thought (which is a relief, because I’m still not ready after going through A Place to Be tbh)

Shoutout to @littlestmedic​, who wrote this super cute Pyre fic that gave me the idea to call Jodariel “Mama Jodi”. And who might’ve given me a little bit of inspiration to include some “i don’t want this to end” feelings, maybe (the rest of it is my own personal feelings anyway because i’m still in pain and want to keep enjoying my days with all of my friends happy and free don’t look at me) Also shoutout to the SGG discord, who helped me make the decision to add that one part with Tariq. You know what I’m talking about.

 Attempting to study Hedwyn’s vague-ass story about how he found the blackwagon for this fic was an experience and a half. My first draft of the first part is something that deserves to burn, but that’s what happens when you write on an airplane, I guess. *shrug*

[AO3]

Strange things can be heard among rumors in the Downside - the strangest are the ones that are true.

(before it learns how to be a home again, it must be found; and in the end, it is.)

It starts months before you are plunged down the river - not in the pearly streets of the Commonwealth, where the seeds of a plan are still being planted, but deep among the dung-boulder homes and pearly-white bone forests of Jomuer Valley. Beneath the light of the moon and stars, among the five exiles drinking and eating beside the sputtering fire, a trader swings their arms as they regale their audience with theatrical exaggeration.

“…and these folks, they’re rushing about fighting each other, wearing these bright eyesore dresses and freaky white masks for all the stars to see. Like the Commonwealth’ll see and take ‘em back somehow.” They gesture upwards as the group devolves into another round of laughter and snorting. “Tossing a glittering ball and lighting up the place with bonfires like they want the howlers ten leagues off to know what’s going on. Lunatics, they are!”

“There’ll always be idiots out there in the world,” a demon rumbles, tearing into their plate of roasted lizard.

“Aye, you said it, El,” One cur chortles, “and that’s somethin’ I’ll toast to!” She starts gulping down her drink by the mouthful, and the others cheer her on.

A brunet leans over to slug the arm of the man next to him, laughing. “Good thing we ain’t out there to catch whatever those guys’ve got. The things that happen in the Downside, eh?”

Hedwyn chuckles. “Indeed, my friend.” He glances at his temporary companions, but his eyes soon drift back to the smoldering logs. “The things that happen.”

.

.

The first rule to surviving the Downside is to never stop moving.

Even the bog-crones, who often stake their claims in the Flagging Hands as soon as they arrive, do what they can to keep busy and ensure they never have a chance to realize how desolate and cruel the Commonwealth’s merciful sentences really are. It’s important to keep moving forward and leave the world above behind (both physically and mentally) so the burdens of the Downside (also physical and mental in equal measure) don’t have the chance to catch up and kill you.

Unfortunately, that means making connections and finding people down here is a near miracle if you don’t know what you’re doing, and a difficult endeavor nonetheless even if you do. Hedwyn’s only saving grace, in the end, is the fact that there aren’t that many demons around. It isn’t hard to keep his ear to the ground and ask the right people the right questions until he’s pushing and stumbling his way past the crags splitting Jomuer Valley from the Prairie, coming across the campsite of Captain Jodariel herself.

Her low grunt as he steps (trips, really) into the light would’ve been intimidating, if the sound were any less familiar to his ears.

“Ah, hello, Jodi.” Hedwyn beams. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Hello, Hedwyn,” Jodariel says. “Should I be worried about the reason you’ve come trekking across the Downside without help to find me, or is this another one of your passing whims?”

“I’d like to think it’s neither-” His pack clangs to the ground as the pots and pans inside bang together- “but I have a feeling you would disagree with me. Besides, explanations can wait. We haven’t seen each other in some time. Have you eaten yet? I managed to pick up some things from the traders by the Spring that I think you’ll enjoy.”

“Did you now?” She pauses and sighs, before standing up. “Very well. I think I may have enough provisions left for both of us.”

.

.

Having lived in exile for so long, Jodariel knows exactly how things best work here in the Downside. The problem instead lies in the fact that she is a demon and doesn’t usually associate with any settlements in either of the most populous regions (Flagging Hands and its crones aside, as Jodi refused to discuss the place), and as a result cannot really help Hedwyn hunt down the info he’s looking for. She does, however, know someone who can.

Rukey Greentail is someone he’s only met briefly in the past, when the cur wrangled him good deals at the Slugmarket, shared a night and drinks, and extended his services to the nomad not long after his exile. “You ever need somethin’ done,” Rukey had said, “you just come right on over, chum! I’d be happy to help you out, and nobody’s got connections down here like I do.”

It doesn’t take long to find him either - the message runner down at Hollowroot costs them a dinner and some of Jodi’s scavenged herbs, but nothing they can’t easily replace, and within a week the trio is sitting together, lunch hanging from the sticks at the makeshift fire pit’s edge.

“So,” Rukey says, switching between looking at the duo and eyeing the spits, “what brings you two to good ol’ Greentail? Not that I ain’t happy to see you chums, but Jodariel isn’t usually one for making house calls so we can drink together.”

“That’s correct, Greentail,” Jodariel says. “We have our reasons for contacting you, but the nature of those reasons are less business-like in nature and somewhat more… personal.”

“Oh?” One ear shoots up.

“It’s a crazy plan. You’re the one who knows people, out of the three of us, and you have the best chances of finding what we need to make it work. It’s a shot in the dark, I’ll admit.” Hedwyn prods the fire, turns the logs. “But our reward, I think, is worth the trouble, at least. If it happens to be true.”

“And what, pray tell, is the reward to your so-called crazy plan?”

“Freedom.”

The crackle of wood fills the air for just a moment.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard him, Greentail,” Jodariel rumbles. “Outlandish as it sounds, I believe he’s onto something.”

“Well of course you do, isn’t there some rule about mums and their sons that has to do with always believing them?” Rukey falters for just a moment. “Did you guys forget that part where exile is a life sentence?! If there was some kind of secret path to leave this dump, don’t you think everyone’d be jumping all over it already?”

“Not unless the secret to freedom is so unbelievable that no one thinks it’s true,” Hedwyn says. “Look, Rukey. I know it’s a tall order, asking you to trust us and hunt something down without a guarantee to you, or to any of us. But if we don’t at least look into it, or try to figure it out, then there’s definitely no way out of here. We’d be giving up before we’ve even begun, and I don’t think I could forgive myself for something like that. If this whole thing turns out to be fake, I’ll repay you. Every piece of it by pocket, I promise. If it turns out to be true, though…. This just might be our ticket home.”

Rukey eyes him, expression unreadable.

“…alright, you got me, chum. I’ll bite.” He settles down, and reaches for his share of lunch. “Tell me more about what we’re doing, then.”

It’s small, but enough tension drains from his shoulders to fill a lake. Hedwyn smiles.

“We don’t have many leads, but it starts somewhere up north….”

.

.

“This better work,” Rukey grumbles for the umpteenth time as the messenger vanishes into the shrubbery. “You guys are lucky I already have a good idea of who to ask ‘bout this. It costs a lot to guarantee zipped lips, and even more to get a run to and from the middle of nowhere like this.”

“Discretion is necessary,” Jodariel says. “If word got out as to what we are searching for and for what reasons…”

“People calling us crazy would be the least of our problems,” Hedwyn says.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Rukey sighs. “I guess we’re camping out here for a while longer.”

.

.

The sun rests well above the horizon without a cloud to obscure it, leaving the Downside bright and warm in the surprisingly picturesque afternoon. Jodariel stalks the length of the clearing with a deliberate slowness, scanning the trees and skies for any less-than-friendly company. Rukey sits by the ashes of the fire, taking stock of what few materials and possessions he has on hand, calculating which ones can be sold or used or traded should he need to. There’s a rustle in the underbrush and they both pause, alert, until it fades back into silence.

“Hey, Jodi, uh…” Rukey fidgets with a glass bauble. “How long’d that messenger say they’d be talking to Hedwyn, again?”

“They didn’t.”

“….right.” He turns back to his belongings, sighs, and starts counting again.

It isn’t until shadows start stretching long and they’ve started preparing for the evening that Hedwyn finally returns, alone. He smiles in greeting.

“I’m back.”

“Took you guys a while!” Rukey grins, bounding over. Jodariel doesn’t stop tending the flames, but she dips her head towards him and there’s a quirk in her lips.

“How did your meeting go?” She asks.

“Just fine, I think. The messenger left to go inform their employer.” Hedwyn turns to his supplies and effortlessly heaves his cooking pot up - Rukey turns to finish clearing space. “They asked a few questions, answered some of mine, and left me with quite a bit to think about in the meantime. Said word would be back before the next moon passes, at the latest.”

“So….. it’s true, then?” Rukey asks. “This whole fighting under the stars thing, it’s real?”

“They kind of twisted out of a straight answer, but… I think it is. The fact that someone came at all says quite a lot.” Hedwyn pauses. “They also left me the name of the one your contact reached out to. Said he’d probably get in touch with me directly, after this.”

Jodariel looks up. “Who is it?”

“Someone by the name of Sandalwood.”

.

.

After the second messenger arrives to deliver word from Sandalwood, the three relocate their semi-permanent camp to the edge of the pass leading to Jomuer Valley. Partly because, as Jodariel tells them, the local fauna is often too wary of the monstrous form of the Ridge of Gol to come within sight of it, but also because the messenger informs them that they will come from the north, and this makes communications easier for both sides anyway.

For weeks, Hedwyn’s days consist of their small clearing and sputtering fires, of Rukey slipping off for days at a time to chat it up with his associates and Jodariel wandering off to patrol or in search for useful flora, of familiar strangers appearing like they’ve been there the whole time to ask more questions and deliver more news and bits of conversation from Sandalwood. It isn’t even until halfway through the second month of their communications, while Jodi and Rukey are away from camp, that the dozenth messenger comes with something new, in the form of a sheet of paper.

“In the Sandfolds,” She says to him, holding the paper up for him to see, “to the west and south, where the River Sclorian delivered us into the Downside.” The messenger traces a crude map in the corner, then taps at the next image, a black and white ink sketch of a wagon with a massive horn through its top section to serve as what seemed to be a lantern holder. “Find the blackwagon of the Nightwings, and take it with you. Bring your friends, the two of them.” Then she points to the third image - a circle with an intricate pattern traced in black, all curved lines connected and overlapping each other. “This will be set in its floor, and will be how you know you’ve found what you seek. You’ll find almost everything you need inside the cabin.”

“For the Rites, you mean?”

“Yes.” The messenger doesn’t so much as blink. “Nothing within will be unnecessary to your journey.. Once you’ve found the wagon, there’s one more thing you need to do. I trust you know what this symbol is.” Her finger moves to the fourth picture; one that sends an unconscious thrill through his heart, even if it means nothing in exile. “Find a Reader, take them with you. How doesn’t matter, as long as they are willing to read for you until you no longer require their services - you could buy their loyalty, for all the Scribes may care. The Book of Rites is the key to unlocking the Rites themselves, and there’s more than enough copies for you all - you’ll need to wear the robes, as well. There will be a set for each of you, and then some. Sandalwood has requested you try and find someone for each mask and set you have.” The paper is flipped to reveal a series of diagrams - instructions of some kind, Hedwyn realizes. “These are directions he gave me, for you. Follow them as best you can.”

She meets his gaze, sheet held between them, and smiles. It’s the first time he’s seen any of Sandalwood’s people show emotion. “'I will eagerly await the day we may meet, face to face. May the Scribes watch over you and see you find the true freedom you seek, young man.’”

The messenger disappears back into the Downside from whence she appeared, leaving him there, the guide clutched in his hand the only sign she’d been here at all.

.

.

“You are certain this is the right place?”

“As much as I can be, Jodi.”

Hedwyn examines the map on the corner one last time, before folding the sheet and tucking it into the bag on his belt. In front of them the wreckage of exile cages twist out of the sands around the mouth of the River like the silver bones of some long-dead titan, ripped apart and in various states of rust and decay. A few are more intact than others and some are still trapped in the rocks and currents, but all of them are devoid of the lives they once held.

“And I thought I’d never have to see these things again,” Rukey sighs, knocking a bar of metal back into the river. “So you’re absolutely sure that wagon’s supposed to be somewhere near here, right?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Then we’d best start looking,” Jodariel says. “Before night falls and the howlers come.”

Rukey looks heavenwards. “Yeah, yeah…”

It’s only thanks to a flash of green and red among the browns and grays of the Sandfolds - from a potted plant sitting on the back step and a torn scrap from the hanging flags, no less - that they find the wagon, in the end. The greater half of the day is spent scooping the mounds of dirt and sand off the transport until they realize it’s trapped in a rut, and the other half of the day is spent attempting to lever and push it free until Jodariel gets impatient and heaves it out in one huge burst.

“Thanks, Jodi.” Hedwyn leans on his knees for a moment, heaving, before holding the canteen in her direction, She nods, and takes it.

Figuring out how to ready the blackwagon for the night after that is a trial and a half. Silently, they all give thanks to the Scribes that Sandalwood had the foresight to send them a *manual*.

.

.

“Hedwyn. I believe we have a problem.”

“What is it, Jodi?”

“There’s a man in here. Sitting in the corner. He doesn’t appear to be moving.”

“Huh. Whaddya know, there is.”

“…I don’t think I recall the messenger or Sandalwood saying anything about someone being in the wagon.”

“Maybe he’s a minstrel? He’s got an instrument and everything.”

“Greentail……”

“Is he alright?”

“Well, uh. I just tried waking him up and, he didn’t so much as twitch. Did get some really weird vibes from the guy, though. I don’t think he’s dead, at least. That’s something, right?“

“To you, perhaps, but it still leaves the matter of what to do about him. He is not dead, but he has not stirred, and there is no telling how long he has been here or if he is a threat.”

“Why don’t we just leave him here? Not like he’s hurting anything, or in the way. He’s even sitting in the corner.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Rukey might be right. We can’t just leave him in the Sandfolds when he’s unconscious, and if we can’t wake him, there isn’t much else we can do until he comes to on his own.”

“…….”

“If you want to try, be my guest, Jodi. But we aren’t thinking about kicking him out until he’s awake.”

“…Very well.”

“Great! Now that that debate is over, maybe we should figure out how we’re gonna look after the horde of drive-imps in the rafters?”

“The what.”

.

.

As it turns out, finding a Reader is something far easier said than done. While the blackwagon makes it much easier to get around so Rukey can send word out to his various contacts and associates through Hollowroot, given how long literacy has been banned in the Commonwealth, well. There just aren’t many Readers in the Downside to be found.

Or rather, as they learn from what they occasionally stumble upon among the torn cages by the river, there aren’t often Readers (or other exiles, for that matter) to be found alive.

“I’ll keep my ears open,” Rukey promises, sending another messenger out to yet another vague associate he knows. “But, maybe, we’ll have better odds if we just camp it out by the river and try to find some folks that actually make it down? At least that way we can ask ‘em straight off the bat instead of chasing a bunch of Downside cryptids that may or may not exist at all, let alone know how to read.”

“Incredible, Greentail,” Jodariel says. “That’s actually a fairly reasonable plan, aside from the abysmal rate of survival the River Sclorian tends to provide.”

“Thank you, Jodi,” Rukey drawls. “My plans are always impeccable, after all.” He would be angrier if it weren’t for the faint smile on her face and the fact that this is probably the first joke he’s ever heard her crack - as it is… he lets it slide, this once. “Besides, I’m sure we’ll find someone alive someday!”

“Perhaps.”

(It wasn’t funny. Really, he swears.)

The three of them settle into a new routine as they familiarize themselves with both the Nightwings’ blackwagon and living together in their surprisingly roomy new home. Some days are spent venturing the Downside Prairie, picking up rumors and word from Rukey’s people, selling what plants and trinkets they salvage from the land when they have the chance; others are spent wearing the raiments and masks they’d gotten along with the wagon, sweeping the Sandfolds and checking the River Sclorian for traces of new cages, new exiles, potential survivors of the treacherous trip downriver.

It’s difficult, sometimes. Hedwyn, having grown used to living alone, tends to leave his belongings in unusual and obscure places that make avoiding or finding them difficult for anyone that isn’t Hedwyn; Jodi tends to pace when she’s worried or in deep thought, which wouldn’t be a problem if it weren’t for the fact that her footsteps shake the wagon when she’s not careful and Rukey can only stand the squeak of the floorboards for so long; Rukey’s personality in general tends to get on Jodariel’s nerves, and vice versa. Occasionally, the hopelessness of finding nothing but scraps and remains starts to get at all of them, and they need to step back from watching the rushing waters and shifting sands for a while.

But some days, they make it work. Rukey finds ways to seem busy or occupied and helps Jodariel forage for supplies, and she works at not nagging him; Hedwyn starts restricting “his space” for his heavier possessions, so Rukey can stop running into them; Jodariel tries to restrict her contemplation for when they’re stopped or she’s off the blackwagon, and to avoid the noisiest of floorboards when she can’t. Some days it’s easy to gather around the fire and melt together into the comfortable aura, to become something that looks just a little bit more like a family with every hour that passes.

'I wouldn’t have had this in the Commonwealth,’ Hedwyn marvels some nights, when the stars glimmering above them seem just a bit brighter than they usually do. 'It would be close, maybe, but I’d still be on the Bloodborder, fighting the Harps. Fighting Fikani’s people.’

Once, the thought of fighting the age-old war had filled him with excitement (with awe, with a hope that maybe, someday, he could be like Mama Jodi, who always lifted him in her strong battle-scarred arms). Now, the idea leaves his head spinning.

If finding a Reader doesn’t work out for them, he knows, they will likely return to their lives before this. They will go back to wandering the Downside, surviving in the only ways they know how.

But is that all you want to do? Survive?

Silently, privately, he prays to the Scribes that their plan works. That he doesn’t have to watch his friends leave until nothing has changed and he doesn’t know when (or if) they might see each other again. He prays, for only a moment, that he can hold onto this just a little bit longer.

.

.

“So, what I’m thinking is, given how long we’ve gone without seeing anyone come out of that river, we’re long overdue to finding at least one person alive, y'know?” Rukey grins. “I’ve got a feeling. Today’s gonna be the day, I just know it!”

“That would be far more believable if you hadn’t said that last week as well,” Jodariel says. “What’s so different about today, Greentail?”

“Just a hunch.”

“If acting on a hunch means we might find something more than sand, I think I’ll take it,” Hedwyn jokes. Their cursory scan of the riverbank hadn’t provided any new leads, but as always, Rukey stays optimistic.

He turns back to the controls, veering around another splintered steel cage (it’s fresh, if the lack of rust and wear are any indication). Directing the drive-imps is surprisingly easy once one understand the basics of it, and as long as you keep the critters well-fed they seem content to follow orders.

Even if those orders consist of slamming on the brakes so hard you nearly fling yourself and everyone in the blackwagon right out the window.

“Ugh, not that I’m insulting your driving skills, chum, but WHAT WAS THAT FOR?!?”

“For once, I’m with Greentail. What’s going on, Hedwyn?”

The tips of his ears turn pink. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to slam on them like that. But outside, in front of the wagon - I think there’s someone there.”

The impostor members of the Nightwings pause. Then, Jodariel and Rukey are stepping towards the front window, towards the unfortunate and sad lump sitting in the distance.

“…So there is.”

Rukey beams. “Well, what are we waiting for? How’s about we go and say hello?”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

.

.

Out on the barren wastes, you sink low to the sands, your ragged cloak doing little to shield you from the blistering winds. The fear your arrival brought you has started to fade, replaced by the numbness exhaustion and starvation brings you. Your vision is starting to swim. You won’t last much longer, like this.

Off in the distance, you hear the rumble of a wagon.

[glorfindel-of-imladris]

@goldfish-tea Because I am a technologically-challenged frog, I am sorry for answering your ask this way. T_____T BUT! What a wonderful thing to leave in my ask box! I do so love hearing from people who have read my stories, so thank you so much for leaving this. ♥

Arda Marred – Er, this series… actually has a third installment? Because OF COURSE I love Gil-galad and I can’t just leave him alone, so I’m totally with you that the story calls for a happy ending. It is still a (very) rough draft though, barely just an outline and some dialogue. Crossing my fingers I get the opportunity to continue it given the mountain of WIPs I actually have… er, lying around in like, a mess of… uh, “notes”. (Hush, I am channeling my inner Tolkien.)

Re. Erestor – I realise my Erestor does have a wider room for character variation compared to Glorfindel, and you are correct in that it is mostly me exploring possibilities. We have more or less enough material for Glorfindel for me to form a more substantial headcanon for his character. We know his history, his accomplishments, his being favoured by his king and even by the Valar themselves, to the point that he was reimbodied and returned to ME. I know angst and the horrors of death is a common theme for Glorfindel, but he was supposedly cleansed and renewed in Mandos, truly reborn and as pure as the Eldar who never left Valinor. I have therefore pictured an Elf who is steadfast and wise, inspiring, strong, generous and noble – really, an Elf with not much drama. Not to mention, true wisdom to me brings a wealth of other great traits, not least of which is humility, openness to love and the beauty of life and the simple things – these ideas are now inseparable from Glorfindel in my mind. This is why he hardly changes much for me from story to story.

Erestor, on the other hand, is a character limited to a few dialogues in FotR and a line in RotK. Really, the only substantial thing we have for him is his title and role in Rivendell, and it is even a title that, while impressive, really has no canon job description other than he sits beside Elrond. There is therefore a wealth of things one can do with Erestor. He is like a blank slate, but better – he is an accomplished, high-status blank slate, and Glorfindel’s peer. One need not establish him in terms of ability and status; he already has them. I probably spend an unhealthy amount of time just thinking about what I can do with Erestor, how to stretch his character further and fit someone like him in the vast, rich world of Arda. Was he Calaquendi? Was he from Fëanor’s host? Where was he when Gondolin stood? When did he meet Elrond? While I generally picture him as a serious and reserved sort of fellow, variations in his personality can either be plot-driven or based on what history was given to him in the story. Fëanorian!Erestor, for instance, would be harsher, while Erestor who followed Finrod and dwelt in Nargothrond and then maybe Lindon would be more on the softer side. I find that I remember more details in the legendarium when I make stories out of them, so finding places in the timeline where these characters can fit has sort of become a hobby. ;)

When it comes to Erestor’s “true” qualities when I write him though, I stand by the following:

1. He is loyal to Elrond and his household.

2. He is intelligent. One does not just become chief counsellor, and beside an Elf like Elrond, one would think a person would have to earn that title.

3. Erestor is a reflection of most Elves in the Third Age – old, tired, has seen much of how Eru’s music has unfolded in ME, and likely has grown used to things and only watches its seemingly fleeting moments from the sidelines. Let us not forget that Erestor’s most memorable act was to suggest giving away the One Ring to someone who could hide it away from Rivendell. He also may have more baggage than one as blessed by the Valar as Glorfindel.

4. Specifically for writing Glorfindel/Erestor stories, no matter what their history (even if they start off as rivals or are constantly bickering), Erestor would soon enough find that he and Glorfindel are similar/compatible in ways that matter. This one is a bit more difficult to define and touches on shared principles and values, even if outwardly they can be very different people. The best I can describe it is like how we find that person that we can sit quietly with, or how we find that person whom we just instinctively know can be a very good friend. At the very least, I think such wise and senior members of Elrond’s household would respect one another, but I just love the idea of companionship and deep friendship, even if not in a romantic sense, and it makes me feel better to think that there is a constant or an anchor in the life of every Elf. Glorfindel is my favourite character and I want to see him happy, so admittedly I may have created this ideal companion for him in my head to keep him company in… what, the 5,000+ years he was returned to ME? Erestor was just the closest to a peer or an equal that Glorfindel might have in Rivendell, and anyway they already live together and are seen together. Very little actual support for a grand romance, I know, but what is fandom but one’s creative playground? ;)

Er, so in that vein, lastly re. Witch-King’s Curse (interesting that I am now getting more feedback for this story these days) – Erestor’s personality here is an element to the story, so please stay tuned? ^^;