#this may change drastically before i post it to ao3 but i kind of like it so maybe it won't

[tommarvoloriddlesdiary]

Dust and debris spread like a fine mist through the air.

Visibility was unsurprisingly low, given how thick the smoke clouds were. Rushing bodies, wicked spellfire, and large chunks of rubble were the only things that disrupted it. And the chunks, Harry realised, weren’t coming from nearby buildings like he had first blindly thought. He watched, brows raised, at the sight of cracking stone tearing straight from the ground, shooting out and away at harrowing speeds, their mass used as projectiles.

Impressive, Harry thought. The magical strength required to do that must have been great, but it lacked any refinement or skill. The wavering, rotating masses that flung wildly and in any direction they could reach spoke of desperation and fear. Well, Harry couldn’t blame them.

He was feeling pretty desperate and… maybe not fearful… but definitely confused, too.

Waking up in the middle of an ongoing fight was what Harry had been expecting; what he hadn’t been expecting was waking up in the middle of what looked like Diagon Alley if he squinted a bit and turned his head to the left.

He dusted himself off rather pointlessly and gave his Auror robes a quick pat down. He was working with no wand and just his wits. He supposed things could have been worse. Thankfully, he wasn’t very out of practice with his wandless spell work. It did, however, vastly limit what he could do to lend a hand.

And he’d have to lend a hand and get out of here as quickly as possible. He and Ron were still taking care of some rogue wizards reaping havoc on a small wizarding community in Alfriston, and Harry was definitely a long way from there. What had happened, anyway? What did that wizard throw at him?

Maybe he should be paying more attention to what wizards are currently throwing at him. One of those large pieces of rubble abruptly interrupted Harry’s train of thought and sightline. He gathered whatever magic he could and prepared to apparate away from its path but startled at the grating sensation of anti-apparition wards. His breath caught as it fully dawned on him that something was very wrong.

His eyes widened, and he ducked and rolled out of the way further into the street. Vertigo hit him all too suddenly, forcing him to catch his breath. Whatever means of travel he’d taken to get here did not agree with him at all. In fact, Harry had just realised he couldn’t hear anything. Only a low, high-pitched noise that echoed around in his head. He felt nearly delirious.

Mindlessly stepping back and out of the way of a nasty-looking violet spell, he took a moment to assess his body more carefully. He had all his fingers and toes, all his limbs, his head was on straight, his joints were bending the right way—he seemed perfectly fine. And even though he felt no injuries, he forced a despairingly weak healing charm from within - out. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t have too much wandless practice with those, so it didn’t quite ease the onslaught of nausea, but it did fix his hearing.

And the world was much louder than Harry had prepared for. Screams shouted out like banshee cries, and the sound of whizzing spells and explosions echoed all throughout. He cringed against the relentless noises, hands coming up to cover his ears until he could adjust. It took some time and a few more close calls with ugly spellfire, but when Harry finally got his bearings, he jumped into the fray.

He magicked away most of the debris in the air, and his head whipped back and forth, taking stock of the newly visible surroundings. Harry was unsure where to begin and whom to ask for an explanation of what was even happening. He couldn’t spot any familiar Aurors, but there were definitely people dressed in uniforms…

Harry nearly paused at that. Yes, there were definitely people dressed in uniforms. Ones that were dark and black and flowing like ink and looked eerily familiar, and others that looked strikingly like Sirius’s old Auror robes from—

“HELP!”

Harry’s eyes caught sight of a young woman clutching a child for dear life. Their backs were pinned up against the broken remains of a shop, and her body hid the kid to the best of her ability while a wizard in dark robes stood before them, wand raised and ready to cast. Harry caught the unmistakable glimmer of silver reflecting off the sunlight in the Alley from the side of the wizard’s face, but he refused to linger on the stomach-swooping horror of recognition its shine caused.

It’s a good thing Harry had always been fast on his feet, quick on the draw. It’s also a good thing his wandless stupefy was still in top form.

The body crumpled to the ground, and Harry’s assist went unnoticed in all the chaos. But the woman had seen him and quickly found Harry’s eyes. She peered up at him, relieved and overwhelmingly grateful, but stared for a beat too long, and Harry, being used to it, gave her no mind. He quickly came over to help escort her and the child somewhere safer. She muttered something as he lifted the kid in a secure grip, one arm by the bend of their knee and the other firmly on their back.

“What was that?” Harry asked, releasing his hold on the kid’s back after they had adjusted to the position, arms wrapped tightly around his neck. Harry tried to take a gentle but resolute hold on the clearly in shock woman to help guide her out of the direct fire. And when she repeated herself, it was with more confidence, even though she was shaking violently.

“I didn’t know you had become an Auror, James. Didn’t you only graduate this summer?”

For a moment, all of Harry’s battle-hardened instincts fell away. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. She didn’t look anywhere close to his parents’ age had they still been alive. Really, she looked much closer to Harry’s age, maybe a few years older. They had probably gone to Hogwarts together for a short while. So then, why—

Why did she think he was his father? His father, who had apparently only graduated this year?

Shock, Harry could excuse this as, and he sorely wanted to, but that feeling of wrongness was rearing its ugly head once again.

So Harry stayed quiet and focused. He stunned anyone suspicious they came across and brought them both to a mostly unharmed shop out of the way with a blessedly working floo connection. He watched them leave and exited the building, confident that from here, just around this corner, should be Twilit and Tattings. But when he arrived at the distinct shop front, still standing on what Harry could only guess was pure rich-pureblood spite, the store looked nothing like a clothing shop.

Unsettled but willing to take a gamble, Harry stuck to the edges of the alley and made his way further up Diagon, closer to Horizont. He avoided bouncing spells and crumpled bodies and cast when he could all the way until he saw the familiar sign of Ollivanders.

With all his hesitance and the churning in his stomach, Harry tried something with no small amount of hysteria. He held his hand up, right before the shattered glass of Ollivanders’ main window and said:

“Accio Harry Potter’s wand.”

For a breathtaking moment, nothing happened, and Harry was so viciously relieved that he couldn’t help the short laughter that fell out of him. Shock, he reminded himself, she was just in shock.

Shaking his head clear of whatever madness had temporarily held him, he readied to shoulder open the door and commandeer a temporary wand. Even something poorly matched would be better than nothing if he were to continue lending assistance to the Aurors on the scene.

But before he could even take a step, something was flying straight at his head.

“Whoa!” Harry ducked and turned to watch as a wand took an arching turn and bound straight towards him again. But this time, Harry was ready; he caught it with a smart thwack to the flat of his palm.

The warmth and pure magic from this wand that flooded his veins were unlike any other— but that was a lie. It was exactly like one other. One other wand from when he was eleven. His very first wand.

Looking at the fine holly wood in his hand, feeling the blazing heat of what was no doubt a phoenix feather core, and the familiar curves and juts of its crafted exterior, Harry felt no happiness at seeing an old friend. He felt dread take hold of his very being, leaving him cold and wrung dry.

“Tempus,” Harry muttered, and like delicate clockwork, the spell cast flawlessly and more naturally than any spell Harry had cast in ages. The time of day and month was troubling enough, but the year really caused its own upending.

1978.

Harry took a deep, steady breath in. He locked all the terrible and awful and horrible things he was feeling away in a small corner of his mind, shoving it all into a cupboard under the stairs. And released his breath. He nodded once to himself and held his wand in a proper grip. Logic and Auror instinct, but more prevalent, war instinct, sunk their familiar claws into the still-healing scars of his mind.

He left Ollivanders and made his way carefully up Diagon Alley once more, distantly acknowledging that he may not have done as good a job as he was hoping at concealing his anxieties. His casting was accurate and decidedly not as innocent as it had been. Stupefies traded for spells that might have leant a little darker than an Auror should really be using.

He couldn’t say he had the element of surprise on his side. Still, the terrorists attacking the alley weren’t exactly looking out for an Auror dressed like Harry was, so he had the first few moments of them treating him like a civilian before realising their grave error.

But by then, they were blasted halfway across the alley, laid face down on the cobblestones, or missing a limb or two. The ah-ha moment of ‘civilians don’t normally fight like that’ only echoed in the quiet of their unconscious minds.

And the closer Harry got to the heart of the battle, picking off black-robed wizards one by one and gathering appreciative and perplexed looks from Aurors, he should have realised that faces may start gaining an awful familiarity. He should have realised that he knew of an unfortunate amount of wizards and witches who fought in the First War. He had heard numerous stories of their bravery and seen photographs of their faces, after all, and Harry really should have realised that seeing them would be inevitable, even now— even when he wasn’t ready.

But he had never travelled this far back in time, so could anyone blame him for being caught by surprise?

Because there she was. Fresh out of Hogwarts. Classes must’ve only ended a month or so ago. And she was standing at the heart of the battle. The August sun lent an unfairly clear day to the gruesome attack and shinned on the brilliant auburn of her hair tied back and away from her face like a flaming whip.

Harry was shocked still at the sight of Lily Potter.

And he paid for it with a gnarly gash to the side of his ribs.

Quickly breaking from his trance and cursing his inability to stay focused, Harry fired back with his own cutting spell. Of course, the much nastier sectumsempra wouldn’t be nearly as easy to bounce back from, but Harry couldn’t find it in himself to give a fuck at the moment.

He created jagged spikes of transfigured rock from the ruined pathways all around them until the war zone that was once Diagon Alley had become impractical and claustrophobic. Startled cries came from every direction; no one was spared from his sudden attack and aggression. No one except for Lily Potter, who stood in a small circle of safety, the spikes around her lending shelter. Her arms were comically raised like Harry was a muggle robber, and this was all just a hold-up. And he felt the urge to laugh die as quickly as it came.

Not a soul moved, but Harry wasn’t one for inaction. He cast a sonorus and spoke, “If you are a follower of,” Harry mindfully avoided His name, unaware of when exactly the taboo had been enacted, “the Dark Lord, I believe you’ve caused well enough damage today. Leave.”

There was silence; then there was the sharp break of the anti-apparition wards shattering, and with it, the sounds of loud pop-pop-pops from Death Eaters tucking tails and running away. Harry was a little shocked that simply demanding they leave worked. Then again, turning all of Diagon Alley’s streets into some giant’s version of an Iron Maiden in the heat of his anger was probably something to be wary of. When all was quiet once more, Harry transfigured the cobblestone back, again marvelling at the easy control with his holly wand.

It dawned on Harry then that, now that the battle was cleared up as best he could manage, he had no way of returning to his time and nothing to immediately keep that thought from taking hold and consuming him whole. He stood paralysed and in deep thought through the multiple hesitant thanks, thank you so much, you saved us directed his way. And he could really do without the reminder of how irreparably fucked he’d just made the timeline, but, you’re welcome, he supposed.

Then two gentle hands on his arm pulled him out of the dark.

“Excuse me?” Harry looked up at green, sage and fresh like a vegetable garden, like summer’s grass on a quidditch field, like sprigs of thyme on holiday roasts with family; he looked up at the eyes of Lily Potter and startled at the sound of her voice.

“So young…” Harry had mindlessly replied. Lily Potter’s answering frown was enough to leave him sorry for the rest of his miserable life.

She turned her careful attention to Harry’s bleeding shoulder, and he realised she was trying to heal him, “Speak for yourself, firecracker. You look about my age and handled yourself better than any of these Aurors.”

Firecracker? Harry muttered soundlessly. Bewildered at the idea of his mother giving him a nickname like that. Something screaming and rotting and twisting in his soul mourned the loss of it until now.

“This doesn’t look as bad as I’d thought. Do you feel any extreme pain?” She asked.

Harry shook his head slowly and in a daze. She hummed, doubtful, “Well, even if it doesn’t hurt too badly, let’s get you to St Mungo’s and patch you up—“

Before she could finish, Harry stepped back out of her gentle hands, shaking his head with much more clarity. “No. No doctors. I can heal it myself well enough.”

Her eyes widened, and something about him must’ve given away that he was planning on making his great escape because she suddenly grabbed his wrist tight enough to bruise, “Wait! I’ll listen! I won’t force you to see a healer; but please,” she held on even tighter, “we haven’t had a- a victory like this- in a long, long time. Don’t go.”

And Harry could only stare, horrified, at his own mother standing before him, young and alive and begging him not to go.

They are interrupted by a loud shout, “LILS,” and a man full-on tackling Lily Potter with force strong enough to pull Harry with them. But, madly, all Harry could think was that his mother had quite the grip.

And with Harry’s much closer proximity, he quickly deduced who the new link to their growing chain was. James Potter.

Harry’s eyes blinked slowly; a bone-weary exhaustion took staunch hold of him as he listened to his father ask after his mother’s wellbeing. Finally, Lily spoke over him, firm and unyielding, “James. I am fine. Where on earth have you been?”

“I was dealing with some Death Eaters towards the mouth of Knockturn—but that doesn’t matter! What matters is that you promised to stay by me, and in less than two shakes of a fairy’s wings, you were nowhere to be seen.”

Lily scoffed, “I cannot believe you are blaming me right now when you are clearly the one who wandered off first! We agreed to stay near the centre, and, would you look at that—that’s exactly where you found me, isn’t it?”

Harry could not believe he was watching his parents have their first domestic argument, and he wasn’t even technically born yet. This seemed cruel and unusual.

“Okay, agree to disagree. We are both at fault,” James’ eyes strayed towards Harry. He looked long and hard at Harry’s face and landed on the tight grip of Lily’s hand. “Who’s tall, pale, and ready to be sick standing beside you here?”

“What?” Lily asked, and her eyes fell on Harry too. Her mouth fell open in a horror Harry felt immensely, “Oh my god! I’m so sorry; I promise I didn’t forget about you—it’s just James is so distracting—and oh my god, I haven’t even introduced myself—“

“Lily, take a deep breath, and maybe let the man go?”

“James, you have no idea what happened, but you would if you’d have been here.”

Harry cleared his throat, “Um,” James and Lily both turned and gave him their full attention. It was awful. “Um… I’m Harry.”

“Harry,” James and Lily said together. Lily’s eyes were wide, but her smile was wider, and James looked extremely confused and put out. His brows furrowed until they were almost touching, and he commented, “My grandfather’s name was Harry,” he frowned and corrected himself, “well, his name was Henry. But we all called him Harry.”

Maybe Harry should have given them a fake name.

“James…” Lily murmured. She wasn’t quiet enough for Harry not to catch her following words, “He looks a bit like he could be your brother, doesn’t he?” James just silently and slowly nodded his head.

“What did you say your surname was again, Harry?” James asked like he was trying to be slick.

And Harry, no stranger to risky bets, replied, “I didn’t. But it’s Potter. Harry Potter.”

The silence that followed was very loud.

Until, “Lily. You’ve got a good grip on him, yeah?”

“Of course,” she nodded like it was obvious.

James grinned, “Hold on tighter, then.”

And the sudden gathering of magic in the air had Harry’s hair standing on end. When he caught sight of James’ wand out, he knew it was too late.

They apparated out of Diagon Alley.

[caitylove]

20 questions for fic writers

I was tagged by @holy-ships-x-red-lips! Thank you so much for the tags. You have given me a lovely way to procrastinate right now. :)

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? Only 16, but there are also fics out there on LJ that I was too lazy (or were just too bad) to find on the group events I posted on and port over. There are also some other ff.net fics on another account that I forgot about, but were from when I was in high school so totally not bringing those over either.

2. What's your total Ao3 word count? 78,839. I expect that to drastically change once I start publishing my one long wip...

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently I mostly write Battlestar Galactica (spaceparents ftw) and some The Closer/Major Crimes (I'm a Brenda/Sharon heathen. ) But in the past I wrote for Rizzoli and Isles and Grey's Anatomy. There's also some X-files fic out there and a CSI one somewhere.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Caffeine (Rizzoli & Isles): What happens when Maura consumes an excessive amount of caffeine?

So major note this fic is literally like 12 years old. And super short. And honestly not good lol.

Break All The Rules For You (The Closer/Major Crimes): Sharon Raydor has a list of rules she lives her life by. But Brenda Leigh Johnson very might be the catalyst for her to break each and every one.

This is actually my current active posting WIP. I'm amused it got so many kudos so fast. Guess I'm not the only heathen out there. :)

Frak Me Red (Battlestar Galactica): Wanting Laura to feel good about herself, Bill finds her the perfect gift and they spend an exciting weekend away on shore leave aboard Cloud 9.

Part of my Cosmetics Series. This was a blast and like 70% pure smut.

Pain Management (Battlestar Galactica): Dealing with pain during her cancer treatments, Laura is suggested an unorthodox treatment plan.

This was actually my first fic back after a ten year writing hiatus... :) Never let anyone tell you that you can't return after a long time away.

Spray and Stay (Battlestar Galactica): Laura has a secret addiction that is slowly running out and she can't help but show off her addiction to Bill.

The first part of my Cosmetics Series. Also 50% smut. :)

5. Do you respond to comments? Absolutely. So, I work from home and like responding to them instead of working sometimes.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? So I don't have a ton of angst honestly. So I guess the ending of Auburn Sunsets, Starlit Nights (Battlestar Galactica) is the angstiest? (Or meanest?)

7. What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? So like 80% of my stuff is smut... so they all have HAPPY ENDINGS. *snicker*. But I guess I'll go with Frak Me Red ?

8. Do you get hate on fics? Not really. Probably did on some of my old FF.net stuff but don't care enough to go back and look.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes. Like thats half of what I write. :)

10. Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written? Not in a long time. But once upon a time I wrote a Grey's Anatomy Zombie fic that had a Doctor House appearance. Its somewhere on LJ. It was BAD, but I am so tempted to find it now for my own amusement.

11. Have you ever had a fic stolen? Not that I am aware of

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? Nope. Feel free to reach out if you want to tho.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? No, but definitely open to it.

14. What's your all time favorite ship? So probably Bill/Laura(Spaceparents) from BSG. But Also have a soft spot for Sharon/Brenda (The Closer), MSR (The X-Files), Swan Queen, Janeway/Chakotay, Femshep/Garrus, to name a few.

15. What's a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? Love Games. My 12 year old the Closer fic I never finished. May rewrite it one day but I will never just finish it as it exists today.

16. What are your writing strengths? I like to think I do a lot of emotional introspection well. And Smut. I can do smut.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? Honestly, I struggle with dialogue.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? As long as its translated or explained, I'm fine with it. Probs would never do it, cause my language skills suck, but wouldn't mind reading.

19. First fandom you wrote for? CSI! I wrote a Grissom/Sara fic back in the day. I was in like High School.

20. Favorite fic you've written?

Thats like asking me my favorite children! My favorite is one I am still writing and haven't published yet, The Symposium of the Stars. One day it'll make an appearance.

But for published? I really loved Auburn Sunsets, Starlit Nights. I have a soft spot for it.

Tagging: @lavenderknivess, @mimine666, @madelineusherspearls. @ofhouseusher, @cryscal, @fracktastic, and anyone else who feels like it :)

[crowtrinkets]

Liquid Courage

The Apprentice is alone after Asra leaves for a trip, they decide to have Julian over for a drink as friends. However, one bottle of wine later and some of their relationship with Julian before their death is revealed.

Takes place after the plot and after Asra's upright ending. Platonic relationship between Julian and Gender Neutral apprentice/reader I uploaded this to my AO3 and thought I would post it here as well. :)

Word count: 3,729

———

The air was warm and slightly muggy as Julian and I walked from the castle to my shop. Asra was away to aid the locals of Nopal with a small issue. He was adamant that I go with him but by the time we would return our rent would be due. I insisted on staying and running the shop so we avoid eviction. He was sad to leave on another journey without me but responsibility comes first, and besides, he would only be gone a week at most. By the fourth day, I started to grow antsy being in the shop all day and decided to pay Asra's parents and Nadia a visit. I baked some cookies and the four of us had tea together, Julian joined as well because the four of them are still working on the new clean water system for Vesuvia.

It was a little awkward when we had to explain to everyone my um... Predicament regarding my lost memories. Asra's parents were especially shocked when they learned their son made such a drastic deal with the Arcana. But in the end, we settled on the fact that they also made deals of their own in a sense, they still treat me as family and are kind but I can't shake the feeling that they're a little unnerved by my circumstances. Muriel, Nadia, and Julien did not seem especially surprised by the news, I mean they all attended the ritual as well. However Julian was especially quiet for that conversation but I never bothered to ask him about it. I figured any talk of the plague makes Julian uncomfortable.

After the masquerade we all started to hang out as friends, I especially became close with Portia and Julian. I would visit Portia on occasion so we could talk about magic and she could show me her progress, Julian would be there as well and sometimes we'd all have dinner together. Portia and I both loved to tease Julian with the fact that he finds magic weird. "A science man" is what he called himself, I protested with why can't one be both a science and magic person. He winced a little at that comment and changed the subject. I again did not make attempts to pry into why he reacted as he did. I would like to think Julian and I are close, I understand he and Asra had a past that I know nothing about, but it doesn't bother me. What they had was in the past and I have no say in the decisions they made back then. Especially because I was well.. Dead.

Julian hummed idly beside me as we walked through Center City. I wanted to invite everyone to my shop for drinks, mostly because I could not bear another night alone in the shop. However Julian convinced me to leave Portia and Nadia, something about "letting the lovers be." I took his suggestion and invited him alone. I would like to become closer with Julian. On occasion we have gone to the theater together, Asra staying behind claiming if he wanted to watch overdramatized actors wailing he would just pay Julian a visit. But I find enjoyment in the arts, Julian's critiques however always take the cake. Who knew he would be so critical of another actor's method. I chuckle to myself remembering how heated he could get sometimes.

"Something amusing, MC?" Julian leans forward to look me in the eyes. His hands in his pockets.

"Oh nothing, I was just remembering the time you heckled that poor actor," I stifle my laugh recalling the horror in the actor's face.

"Oh, he deserved it! His accent was terrible! And he took too many breathes between speaking it made the play much less enjoyable," Julian crosses his arms seeming visibly agitated. We finally approach the shop and I unbind the spell as well as unlock the front door, allowing Julian in first so I can lock up behind us. Julian looks about the shop with a cautious curiosity.

"Careful Julian, you may insult the spirits with all your staring. Julian freezes, his one eye going wide as dinner plates as his gaze shifts to the floor. I have to cover my mouth to stop my laugh from escaping.

"I'm only kidding, why don't we go upstairs," Julian gives a quick nod and is making his way upstairs after a few quick strides. I skip happily to the kitchenette and search the cupboards. There's a bottle of wine here somewhere I just know it. Asra and I don’t drink often but we always keep something handy. I find a nearly full bottle of white wine and grab two glasses.

"This is no salty bitters Julian but I think it will suffice," I turn towards Julian who is awkwardly positioning himself on the small table in the corner. Asra and I don’t need much room but Julian's long lanky figure looks awkward, he settles on resting his legs on the chair next to him. Taking up two of the mismatched chairs. I place the bottle and glasses down and go to prepare a snack for us to munch on. As I cut up some fruit, Julian sits silently occasionally adjusting his large frame in his seat. I speak without thinking.

"Does it make you uncomfortable to be back here?" I see Julian tense from the corner of my eye. Damn, I just wanted to fill the silence not pry into Julian's subconscious thoughts. I turn around knife still in hand, thinking of a quick way to remedy my comment. "Because the last time we both were here together I threw a bottle at you…. Sorry for that by the way," I wince at my own comment.

"Oh yes, no apology needed, a strange man breaks into your shop, I can understand the hostility," Julian gives a weak smile and looks down.

"Why don’t you pour our glasses while I continue with the snacks?" I suggest. With a nod from Julian, I turn back around cutting the fruit and opening a tin of crackers. Placing the platter on the table I sit on the only available chair while Julian hands me my drink. I take a sip and feel the drink go down my throat and its telltale burn following it. For a while we both sit in silence, taking sips and eating apple slices and crackers in between. I did not expect this evening to be so… so awkward. When Julian and I hang out it's usually not this quiet. Well maybe because we're either walking in the busy streets talking about the show we are about to see, sitting in the show, and then walking back talking about the show we just saw. I quickly think of a topic before we spend the whole night in silence.

"So Julian," he stops mid-sip, glancing at me. "Why don’t you tell me about the water reroute project," Water reroute?! We were just talking about that at the palace!

"Well considering we just talked about that with the Countess I do not have any new information for you," Julian states with a wave of his hand.

"Right right, silly me, well um…" I ponder for a moment. "why don't you tell me about some of the trips you've taken? Asra and I have traveled a little but definitely not as much as you," With that Julian gives me his usual toothy grin and starts off on a story about his time on a spice ship. Satisfied that the silence is being filled I sit comfortably and continue with my drink.

---

I don't know how many hours it's been since Julian and I first arrived back at my shop but the wine bottle is now empty, I feel warm and dizzy, but just the right amount that I can still walk and make rational decisions. Almost.

"Julian, we're friends right?" my words come out and I try my hardest not to slur. Julian, whose head is now laying on the table, gives me a nod. "Best friends?" It slips out. Julian sits up and gives me a confused stare.

"Well, I would imagine Asra has that honor?" He starts. I shake my hand in the air.

"No…. no, I mean yes, but Asra is my partner. I mean like…. In the way, Asra and Muriel are… or me and Portia? I would say you and I are as close as that?" Julian thinks for a second and nods with a smile.

"Then yes, I couldn't ask for a better friend who is just as appreciative of the arts as I am," Julian raises his glass so we can toast, although we have nothing to drink so we both take a bite of the leftover cheese on our platter.

"Then can I ask you something… personal?" I trace the wood grain of the table with my fingers, trying to distract myself from the conversation I started.

"Ask away my dear friend," Julian pops another slice of apple in his mouth.

"Were we friends before I died? I know you and Asra were-" I'm interrupted by the sound of Julian coughing on the apple he just ate. Spitting it into a napkin while I stumble to grab him some water. I hand him the water and he quickly drinks it. I grab myself some as well, maybe I drank a little too much. I sit back down taking sips of my own as Julian finishes off his glass. Putting it down with an exasperated gasp. "I'm sorry I guess that was a little too personal," I try to joke. But the concern in my voice is obvious.

"No no, I guess you have the right to know, I mean it is your past," Julian says with a shrug. His usual demeanor has dissipated as he stares forlornly out the window. Looking for something I can't see. After a minute Julian meets my eyes once again, with a nod he sits back in his chair, legs stretching out onto the other chair once again.

"Yes, we knew each other. You were my apprentice at my clinic, during the plague. Ah, I'll never forget that day, it was a long day at the clinic, well they were always long but this one especially. I was just about to head home until an unfamiliar magician stormed in." Julian lets out a chuckle as he recounts the memory. "Your demeanor was so strong and determined, but then you took one look at me and all that slipped away, you shyly approached me and said, 'Hello sir, I would like to apprentice under you and become a doctor, if you will have me?'" Julian lets out a barking laugh, throwing his head back after impersonating me. I roll my eyes but laugh with him. Unfamiliar with the memory, but it seems I haven’t changed much.

"Did I really ask you like that?" I give Julian a pointed look.

"Well maybe not as dramatized as I made it, but yes. You asked and I gladly agreed. You told me you wanted to cure the plague and you figured a magician doctor would be of great assistance," Julian's smile is warm but his eye evokes sadness.

"Wait, I thought you said someone couldn't be a magic and science person,"

"I said the same thing back then but you were so determined, I couldn't say no to that innocent face as well," he lets out a small chuckle but trails off. Mumbling something I can't fully hear, but I think I get the phrase "shouldn't have" at the end. I don't comment, allowing Julian to continue his story. The knit-in his brows growing tighter as he goes on.

"You worked very hard, studying as much as possible and aiding me in house calls, eventually you got good enough that you didn’t need me to help you anymore. Taking your own house calls. We both worked long hours and eventually we almost never saw each other. Only on occasion when you needed me to sign off on death certificates for patients who had no one to claim them. And even then there were so many bodies that they weren't required anymore," Julian stops for a second. The atmosphere of the room begins to grow heavy, the single candle on the table dances reflecting on Julian's solemn features. He lets out a sigh refusing to meet my eyes.

"Eventually I became so busy with my work, trying to find the cure that we stopped speaking. When we first started working together we would sometimes go to the Rowdy Raven to lift our spirits but even then I was too busy for you. It wasn't until you were sent to the Lazaret that I knew what happened." A shiver runs up my spine at the mention of the Lazaret. I remember the flashes of memories I experienced when I went there with Asra. I remember the pain and the sick aura that coated me when I was about to be cremated. Julian finally meets my gaze and reaches for my hand, I take it, gripping his leather-clad palm.

"I am so, so very sorry MC," Julian grips my palm with a squeeze, his eye grows misty as he looks into mine. "If I had never agreed to take you in as my apprentice this never would have happened or I would have at least been able to care for you as a patient," before Julian continues I rise from my seat approaching him and pulling him into a tight hug while he still sits in his chair. He lets out a quiet squawk but then relaxes in my arms, wrapping his around my back hugging me back.

"Don't you dare apologize, Julian, I may not remember what my life was like before but I know that I wanted to help. I wanted to help and you gave me that chance. But I chose my fate, I knew the risks of what could happen to me and I still chose that path. You are a dedicated and hard-working doctor, it wasn't your fault Julian," I hold Julian tightly, his head resting on my shoulder, he lets out a stifled cry. I feel tears run down my own face but I stay quiet allowing Julian to get his emotions out. For a while we just stay in place, crying and holding onto each other for dear life.

After a bit we pull apart, rubbing our eyes dry, I keep an arm on Julian's shoulder. For a second we glance at each other and chuckle at the other's red puffy appearance. I grab some tissues and refill our cups for the both of us and we each clean our faces and drink water to rehydrate. I sit back down finishing my glass and look back at Julian who is readjusting his patch after wiping his other eye dry.

"Besides, if I never became your apprentice, we never would have become friends," I give him a shy smile.

"Ah ah," Julian raises his glass to toast me again, to which I raise mine "Best friends," he says with a toast. I laugh at his joke to my comment earlier and clink our glasses together. We down our cups of water acting like its salty bitters and we're at the Rowdy Raven.

Once again the two of us fall into silence. It’s a comfortable silence but I can't help the question brewing in my mind.

“Did I have a bird mask? Like yours?” To that question, Julian cracks a smile. He lets out a sigh.

“Heh, you did actually, and I uh… I may have kept it,” a flush crawls up Julian’s face at that last comment. I sit up.

“You did?”

“I am always one for nostalgia. After you, well yknow, I was tasked with clearing your desk and sending them to your home. Your mask was left on your chair and I couldn’t let such good craftsmanship go to waste,” Julian stands placing his cup down, and extends a hand towards me. “Would you like to see it again?” his sly smile and waggling eyebrows are so hard to say no to. Not that I would though, it would be nice to see an item from my past. With a nod, I grab his hand and we make our way downstairs and out of the shop.

—-

The moon is high in the sky and Julian and I make our way in the south end. He says his belongings are all at a friend's house but won't tell me their name. It wouldn’t surprise me if he was keeping it a secret for dramatic effect or if they were a fugitive. I practically have to jog to keep up with Julian until we finally reach our destination. A comically small house with a fittingly small door. But Julian walks past the door and goes around to the side.

“Wait here, uh this may look suspicious but just trust me,” before I can say anything Julian starts climbing into the window of the home. Cursing as glass bottles get knocked over when he finally makes it inside. I wait for a few minutes, hearing rustling and Julian's constant commentary. I finally hear an ‘aha!’ before Julian pokes his head through the window again making his way back out. He approaches me, hands behind his back. “Now this is a treasure that belongs to a dear friend of mine, do handle it with care,” with a wink (I think) Julian pulls a bird mask from behind and puts it into my waiting hands. I nearly gasp when I see it. It looks almost exactly like Julian’s but rather than red glass covering the eyes, it's transparent, devoid of any color. I turn it in my hands stroking the long beak. It’s cold to the touch and definitely finely crafted as Julian stated. My fingers trace the circular eyes.

“You replaced the red with a less intimidating color, you said it scared the children and you wanted them to at least be able to see a friendly pair of eyes behind the scary bird mask,” Julian's voice is low but full of nostalgia. I turn the mask around and pull it onto my head, fixing it so it sits properly on my face. I can smell dried lavender and sage in the beak. I look up at Julian who looks at me slightly astonished, but it soon turns to a smile.

“My you look as good in it now as you did then,” with a laugh I remove the mask.

“Where’s yours?” I look up at him.

“Ah that, I uh,” he lets out a nervous chuckle “I threw it in the aqueduct,” I give him a surprised look to which he shrugs. “At the time I felt hopeless and like my life was meaningless, I thought I was going to be hanged. But looking back on it, I just wanted to put my past behind me, and be a better person,” I place my hand on Julian's arm, he looks at where I made contact and then meets my eyes.

“You are a good person Julian,” He gives me a smile, but frowns when he looks at the mask once again, it must be a reminder of the horrors he faced during the plague. An idea strikes in me. I look around the area, trying to find a good place. We’re near the edge of town so it shouldn’t be hard to find. I walk towards the waterway with Julian following. I crane my arm back, mask in hand, Julian tries to protest but before he can do anything I throw the mask in the aqueduct. It lands with a splash. He looks out into the water, shock plastered on his face.

“Looks like you’re not the only one for theatrics Dr. Devorak,” I nudge him with my elbow. Julian lets out a laugh and slings his arm around my shoulder.

“How about a pint at the Raven then, let these former plague doctors blow off some steam?” He says with a grin. I nod and we head over together.

—- I am awoken to someone gently shaking my shoulder and calling my name. I let out a grunt and realize I have a pounding headache. I slowly open my eyes and see Asra above me.

“Asra, you’re home early,” I whisper, shielding my eyes from the incoming sun.

“And you’re asleep on the floor, Ilya is also in our bed?” He gives me his usual mischievous smile. I slowly sit up massaging my temple, swaying slightly as I feel the alcohol looming in my system, I look over at Julian, who is in fact sleeping in our bed while I am on the floor with a single blanket and one of our many decorative pillows. I try to recount what happened last night. Julian and I went to the Raven, we drank quite a bit, dancing and singing till the late hours, and then we came back to the shop because Julian left his aqueduct plans here. But Julian was way too drunk to go back to the palace so I insisted he sleep here. He tried to take the floor but he was too drunk to resist as I pushed him into mine and Asra’s bed, taking the floor so my guest could sleep comfortably. I turn back to Asra.

"Salty Bitters," I grunt out, rubbing my head, my voice is hoarse, probably from the amount of singing I did last night. Asra gives me a knowing smile and kisses my forehead.

"How about I get you some tea to help with your head and throat?" I give him a nod as he helps me to the table, blanket wrapped around my shoulders. As Asra fills the pot with water he looks over his shoulder at me. "Did you two have fun?" I glance over at Julian who is a tangled mess of blankets, watching his chest rise and fall. I remember the moments we shared together and the laughs we had the night before. Looking back at Asra who is now facing me I give him a smile. My voice comes out rough and raspy but I don't mind.

"Yes, yes we did,"

[thewritershelpers]

Improving Your Writing when English Isn’t Your First Language (mega-ask)

As you can see above, we've gotten more than one question about writing, improving your writing, and even publishing in English when it's not your native language. First off: that's awesome. To anyone writing or even consuming in a language that's not your first, kudos to you.

You can google any variation of this question and get different articles with a ton of the same advice, and some with conflicting advice. Not only have I compiled the most commonly repeated information, but I've also reached out to people on our Discord server and others for their personal experiences.

I'll start off by listing concise versions of the advice and then expound on them further on in the article. Remember that we are not experts on your writing and that everyone learns in different ways and at different paces. These are in no particular order.

-be patient

-practice

-get feedback from native sources

-don't undermine yourself to your audience

-Grammarly

-research

-don't get discouraged

Be patient

That's first because, well, duh. Patience is so important for both yourself and your writing. Writing is hard enough of a passion without the added difficulty of doing it in a language that doesn't come naturally. In the world of literature, writing/publishing in your non-native language isn't just a matter of translating words. It requires translating of ideas, concepts, and even cultural norms, which is why just slapping it into Google translate won't work.

Part of the reason for the advice of having patience, too, is that writing in your native language needs to take time. It doesn't really matter how fast you can whip out 20 pages of a first draft--it'll still be a simple first draft. Writing is a craft that requires not just love and passion but time. So what if you need a little bit of extra time--or a lot of extra time--because you're accomplishing a feat most don't even think about attempting?

Next is to practice.

That goes hand in hand with what I said about being patient. Again, writing in and of itself is all about practice and doing it daily (not that I'm an expert on getting that done, but you know). But when it comes to practice another language, there are different ways you can do that. You can reach out to native speakers (for English, there are going to be so many people willing to help, even just in our community! you just need to ask) and practice having conversations or ask them to look over your work. Practice by turning on your favorite movie or TV show in English with subtitles in your native language. Watch videos on YouTube, find a Spotify playlist/podcast, in your target language. There's also plenty of people who have done what you're trying to do who have shared their experiences and what helped them on those same platforms.

Get feedback from native speakers

This is a bit of an expansion on what I mentioned in the previous paragraph. In my experience, and from what others have shared, writing in a non-native language can be pretty clinical. Writing with figurative language or in metaphors won't be as easy or come as naturally as it does in your own language. Things like idioms and even pop cultures reference aren't always going to translate even if you have the exact words. That's where native speakers come into play. If they're willing to look over your work, whether as a friend or in an editorial position, they can give you advice about whether the wording in one spot sounds clunky or if a phrase doesn't make sense or if there're synonyms for what you already used to help convey your message even stronger.

Don't undermine yourself

This is something that I personally am saying. It's not mentioned on any of the linked sites, and no one I talked to said it. But as someone who is a native English speaker (and even has a degree in it) I think this is super important. This point goes towards native English speakers/writers, too. Don't undersell yourself and undermine your work to the audience before they have even picked it up. Disclaimers are different, and it all comes down to the words you use and how you use them. Let your readers know, whether it's people on AO3 or a literary agent, that English isn't your first language. Let them know concisely that they may find some basic errors--but stop there. Don't grovel. You have nothing to apologize for, especially once you've given that warning (those is it really a warning? what's so dangerous or scary about a few mistakes?). You're writing is not going to be any less of an accomplishment for a few grammatical errors, or mistranslated phrases, or even typos. I've seen so many mistakes in published works that it's kind of ridiculous. But if you put something out there for someone to read and in the same breath say "I don't know that this is worth reading" I'm going to need extra convincing to pick it up. *kicks soapbox away*

Grammarly

*NOT sponsored*

Grammarly is a wonderful tool that you can use, for FREE. It not only (with the free version) helps correct spelling and grammar, but can also help point out the tone you're writing with. For example, right now, Grammarly is telling me that this writing sounds mostly informative--which it's meant to be--and a little appreciative and friendly. When sending emails I've had it tell me that it sounds formal (which I was going for), and I've also had it not say anything because the text was a different kind of writing (like when I'm proof-reading something being posting it on AO3...). I honestly don't know what else it helps with once you've paid because I've been happily using the free version for about 3 years now.

Research

Don't be afraid to pick up a book, or head to the library, or pull up Google. Research is paramount to writing anyway, let alone once you're doing it in another language. Your research options are limitless and can include your mutuals on social media as well as those dictionaries that translate from one language into another. Research can also include (in my humble opinion) binge-watching/reading your favorite things...in English. In four years of university, one of the most frequently said things was to improve your writing 1) write every day and 2) read every day. You're never going to learn from worrying or overthinking, and you're also never going to learn from just doing DuoLingo (that's more conversational than literary anyway).

Something a member of Discord specifically said in relation to research was to look at morphology, at the roots of words (and root words). Morphology is, in linguistics, looking at how words are formed. For example, let's look at "biology". There are parts to this word that each has a different meaning, that formed together created a new/elevated meaning. "ology" means the study of something, and bio means life. So biology is, simply, the study of life. Once you've got those basics of things like "ology" under your belt it'll become easier to not just translate words but the concepts (if this works with your learning style).

Last but not least, don't get discouraged.

Writers of all kinds get discouraged when writing in their native language. Even those of us who speak English as our first language make mistakes worth discouragement (you will never know how many typos were corrected by Grammarly as I wrote this all out the first time). English is not an easy language. It's not the hardest, but it's far from easy (learning another language isn't easy regardless of what languages are involved). This is a post from someone who is a non-native English speaker but you would never know unless they told us.

While researching for this, I found some articles/blog posts that said mostly the same thing, and are where I got some of the information

This one is from a native English speaker giving advice

This one is for writing for non-native English readers, but still has good advice

And finally this one is a blog post (I think) from someone who is a non-native English speaker!

In specific response to some of the asks:

English, like any other language, changes. It's a very dynamic language, actually, and from region to region, there will not only be different accents but different frames of reference. 1950 isn't so far back in time for the English to be drastically different from what is spoken today, but I'm in the USA and you're asking about Oxford. English in England has very different nuances, even more so than you would get between California and Texas and New York. This is a link to the Oxford English Dictionary list of words that became more common in the 50s. However, this is a generalized list, not specific to any English-speaking country let alone region or city. If you're wanting to look at how to convey the accent of people from/in Oxford, there are videos on YouTube of people speaking in different accents so that you can have an idea, a comparison, at least in your own mind. With the 50s it's going to be more just thinking really of what words and lifestyles and things weren't around yet; cell phones didn't exist yet. Here's another link to some stock images of Oxford in the 50s. Remember, this time was very close to WWII so there'll be lingering effects of that, especially in England.

About fight scenes and curses, there's a ton of resources on that. If you just search "fight" on our page, you'll get a ton of posts answering that question. Also, here's a link to a superb and excellent source on writing fight scenes. When it comes to curses...just watch Rage Quit on YouTube, or spend a while on TikTok. If you want to dive right in just Google "English curses" and there'll be YouTube videos, entries on Urban Dictionary, you name it.

When it comes to publishing, once you've gotten your manuscript is a perfect time to have a native-speaking friend look it over. Whether editing is their thing or not, they'll be able to help with the things that are really obvious. I don't have any experience publishing in a different language, though, so there might be other resources along the different stages to help you. Some general publishing advice I've gotten: when wanting to publish fiction, literature, start small. Start with short stories in literary journals, online and in print. You really can't make much headway with large publishing houses without a literary agent and it'll be easier to attract one if you have evidence that you can write, and write well enough people want to read it. When it comes to poetry, just start submitting. Get familiar with the process, and educate yourself on things like simultaneous submissions and a good rejection. Publishing is an ever-changing game that isn't cut and dry in any language or country. We can't tell you what's best, but my advice is to go with your gut and try your best. Don't be afraid to try again, too.

Everyone overthinks their writing. Or at least, everyone I know who writes does. Honestly, in my opinion, if you're not overthinking at least a little bit, you're not worried enough. You will never be able to fully know whether you've explained or described enough. A good chunk of the experience is up to the readers, so you have to leave them some wiggle room for imagination. But that doesn't mean you have to cheapen your story or short-change your characters. You mention specifically that you're POC, which I'm gonna guess also means that your characters will be POC. It's never too much to specify the race/ethnicity of your characters, even in a fantasy work. How you go about writing those descriptions might need to change but it's kind of like chocolate chips, in my mind: you decide those things with your soul.

So, there you have it. A ridiculously long way to say: you're awesome, you do you, practice, love yourself and your writing, and don't be afraid to put yourself out there (in any way).

(images read:

Anonymous said: Im writing a book based in Oxford in 1950s. how was the language different from now. I am not from an English speaking country at all. Never been outside my country either. And Im going to write a book based in England in English

Anonymous said: Hi there, I’m a writer for almost 3 years now but since English isn’t my first language I get discouraged easily if things I write come off strange to myself. Do you maybe have any advice for me, on how to motivate myself and not comparing myself with native English speakers? Thank you in advance!

Anonymous said: Hello! I starting to work on this shortfic but it’s been really hard. It’s like I’m trying to building a house alone and with my bare hands. Even though I’m already used to write in mother tongue. Any advice for non-english speaker trying to write their first story in English?

Yaelburstine said: Hi. Do you have any tips about how to write a good fight scene and curses that people speak English get cus’ it’s not my first language

gyger said: I am not a native english speaker, but most of the books I read are in english and I generally prefer writing in english as well. However, I am worried about making mistakes that I can’t recognize myself. I have no idea how good my english is to a native english speaker, plus some things are easier to write in my native tongue (such as dialogue). I’m also worried about publishing, since that definitely would be easier in my country than abroad. How do I decide what language to choose?

Anonymous said: As a POC writer and English as their second language, I overthink all the writing I do. I feel like I don’t describe my ideas thoroughly or my character descriptions are vague or not good enough. I’m currently working on a YA novel but I plan on writing a YA fantasy novel but I feel like my lack of vocabulary and grammar structure makes me give up on finishing my book. Is this normal for native English speaking authors or is this considered a language barrier thing? Thanks! Love your blog!

Thank you for your questions, and for your patience as we do our best to answer them.

-S

[seriouslyhooked]

When We Collide (Part 5)

Emma Swan has always known one thing: trust no one but yourself. Unfortunately she forgot her one rule and now she’s paying for it. One bad decision led her to the monstrous ‘Crocodile’ a mobster in New York who goes by the name Gold. Hope seems lost until she meets another person in this underworld, Killian Jones. Despite the place they find each other, a true love blossoms, and they manage to get away. But what will happen when Emma discovers who Killian really is? Will love prevail? Um, yeah, I’m writing this, so duh – it’s all love all the time. Fic features motorcycles, hot guys in leather cuts, and a bit of action/drama. Will end happily, and despite the first chapter, will be light on angst. Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4. Available on FanFiction Here and AO3 Here.

A/N: Hey everybody! First and foremost, just want to thank those of you still on this journey with me. My motivation to write has been so much lower than I thought it would be, but I haven’t lost sight of what I want from this fic and I am happy to finally share a new installment. This chapter brings a last burst of road trip fluff and the build up to a big moment  – Emma’s introduction to Killian’s life in the MC. It’s going to be fun to explore these dynamics in the next few chapters, but for now I hope you will enjoy, and I can’t wait to see what you all think. Thanks so much for reading!

In the quiet, tranquil calm of a woodland morning, Killian watched the cabin bedroom fill with sunlight, bringing the softest golden glow to the rustic room where he and Emma had spent the night. Birds chirped to greet the new day’s light, and the gentle breeze among these mountains brushed branches from a nearby oak against the windowpane. The whistle of the wind and the gentle swish of leaves on glass melded together into something deeply familiar, a symphony of sound, the song of sunrise.

Sadly, this song was the last of its kind that Emma and Killian would enjoy on this journey. The final portion of their cross-country trek would come today, and when they arrived back home, a new reality would set in. Things would change drastically, Killian would have to reengage with a life he’d long ago left behind, yet despite the challenges that awaited him, Killian was astounded at the peace he could feel in this moment. Holding Emma as she still lay sleeping, he was filled with contentment, choosing to anchor himself to something that would be forever constant: his love for this incredible woman.

“You’re doing it again,” Emma murmured, stirring from sleep and already entirely aware of him before she’d so much as opened her eyes.

Killian let the sultry sound of her sleep-laced voice wash over him. It sent a similar sensation coursing through him as the soft brush of her fingertips over his chest. Strumming an unknown melody, her hands on his skin lit him up inside, and though he’d just taken her a few hours ago, he was already ready to devour her again. Strewn out like this, in the glow of early morning, Emma was a vision with gold hair and sun kissed skin. She was stunning, and through the grace of God and all good things, she was miraculously his. The thought of that gave him great comfort and his own hold on her tightened ever so slightly. In truth, he was so distracted he nearly forgot to answer her sassy statement, but the smile that appeared at her lips as her green eyes opened for the day demanded that he ask for more.

“Doing what, love?”

“You’re loving me so much that I simply can’t sleep through it.”

Another man would deny such a cheesy proclamation, or deflect from the depth of his feelings, but not Killian. No, his Swan had called him to the floor, and she was right. He was up this morning thinking only of his love for her, and while other thoughts may threaten to encroach on their time together, he had pushed them all aside. She was the best way to stay grounded and centered, and he was selfish, needing to soak up every last drop of their moments together just to keep his peace of mind.

“I’d offer some condolences, Emma, but I think we both know how you feel about my loving you.”

He murmured the words against her skin, taking advantage of her lingering drowsiness to pepper kisses on her lips, her jaw, and then the hollow of her neck. He hummed out a sound of sheer delight when he felt her shiver beneath him, and when she let out that perfect moan of hers, the one that was part gasp and part plea for more, he was lost. All conversation was behind him, and he knew the only thing left was to show her how much he loved her. Luckily for Killian, nothing had ever come so naturally.

The choice he must make this morning was between a fast and hard claiming, or a slow, steady savoring of two souls becoming one. The payoff for either was bound for greatness, but Killian was keenly aware of how everything would soon be different. Once they arrived back with his brothers, the solitude they’d cultivated would be encroached on, and though Killian had his own house, which could provide ample space and privacy, he also had a sneaking suspicion that his brother and fellow club members would be highly invested in him and his woman. After weeks of it being just the two of them, Killian knew he’d have to share Emma’s attentions, and that he too would have to interact with people other than his Swan. It would all be good in the end, but he wanted to make the most of these last truly secluded moments that they had together.

The teasing slowness of his ministrations became a torturous affair not just for Emma, but for him as well. He began by tasting her everywhere, tracing every line and curve of her, with extra attention paid to the places that made her blood sing. He hung on every breath she released, and every charged call of his name that whispered past her lips. When she came apart from his touch alone, his sense of pride surged dramatically, but the most beautiful sight was when she relaxed back into that post-climax moment, gazing at him with love in her eyes and nothing but a soul-deep contentment in her heart. It made a man feel worthy to know he had put that look on his woman’s face, and for Killian it was the closest he would ever feel to absolution. He’d done wrong in this life, made choices that veered well off the path of what was good or moral, but somehow, she still loved him, and Killian was better for that love.

By the time she was ready to be taken, Killian was so riled, his senses were frayed in all directions. Knowing that he was already worked up, Emma decided to push him further, murmuring that she loved him and asking him to make her his. The searing heat of his need for her was constant, but the feeling when he thrust inside and claimed her was the most agonizingly incredible feeling in the world. Nothing should feel this right, or this perfect, but with Emma it always did. Their rhythm was synced to perfection, their love palpable in the air around them, and though Killian did his best to savor every bit of it he could, it always felt like it was over far too soon. All it took was Emma arching her back, crying out in ecstasy, giving over to bliss, and he was right there with her, spent but saved and feeling like despite the uneasiness of this next moment, he and Emma could handle anything.

“Whatever happens today, it won’t change anything,” Emma said, her fingers running through his hair that was growing longer than he normally allowed it. She pushed it out of his face, before looking into his eyes and smiling in a way that melted his heart. “I love you, and I always will.”

“It’s the same for me, love, but rest assured, if you feel even the slightest discomfort, we will move on. We’re bound to nothing but each other.”

“Killian, this is your home -,” she began. He quieted her thought with a kiss before clarifying the truth to her.

“You are my home, Emma. Wherever you wish to be is where we will be, and I will be the happiest man alive just for being by your side.”

Emma readily accepted this promise from him, whispering that she felt the same as they continued to laze for a while more together, enjoying their connection and soaking in this last bit of privacy. Eventually, they had to get up and check out from this retreat, and they moved through the morning with a practiced precision of two people who had done this for weeks. Travelling had become second nature to them both, and the six-hour ride standing between them and his brothers would be easily managed.

For Killian, the journey honestly felt too short, though he made sure to stop and keep a steady pace for Emma’s sake. He knew she had never been to California before, and there was something magical about this place compared with every other. It was easily the most beautiful of the terrain they’d been in for weeks as well, and in Big Sur specifically, there was a natural beauty totally unique to this corner of the world. Giant forests rose impossibly high into the sky, a cross between the woods of the pacific northwest and the jungles of South America. Trees stood so tall the tops could not be seen, and even in patches where fires had blazed in seasons past, life prevailed, with green vegetation growing from ash and soot and dust. When they reached the ocean, Killian felt Emma’s hold on him tighten, an indicator of her excitement, but he still drove quite a few miles down the cliff-lined coastal highway before pulling off to stop.

“Now this is the kind of view I could get used to,” Emma murmured as he helped her off the bike, taking in the secluded patch of beach they’d driven towards where not a soul was nearby. With her hand in his, Killian immediately felt stronger, but the look on Emma’s face prompted a gentle, pleasant aching in his heart. She was happy to be here, in awe of this place, and to Killian that meant everything.

“We’re closing in on our destination now, love. We’ll be back well within the hour if we drive straight through, but there’s something I would very much like to show you, if you’re interested.”

“Lead the way, Captain.”

He led her down the pebbled path to the seaside, torn between watching her reactions and actually navigating their course. The best part of this was that Emma had no idea what was coming. They’d approached from the perfect angle, preserving a truly hidden gem from sight. Only when they rounded the corner would she see it, and as they made their move, he heard her gasp and felt her hand squeeze his tightly.

“Oh my God… I don’t even have words for how beautiful this is.”

Killian completely understood the feeling, though his own sensation of being struck speechless by something truly stunning often came directly from Emma. In this case, the beauty in question was an old, yet faithfully enduring shore house. It was painted white, weathered from storms, but still well-kept and largely preserved against the passage of time. The nearby community saw to it, since the owners of the home had long since gone. This shoreline was all public lands now, but the house remained, a testament to the man who once lived there, a gifted artist, and a natural born storyteller.

The remnants of his decades old art were painted, drawn, and constructed into the very foundation of this home and the mediums of expression were all treasures from the sea. Sea glass especially was plentiful here, drawing dizzying swirls of color along the house, the wood working and more. The glass had been cemented there for decades, but it shone with the same fervor and sparkle as ever. Shells of all shades, some whole and some not, were also used. Iridescent golden hued pieces, hewn from the mix of cold ocean water and warmer kelp garden pools were the stars of the show. They were each a small treasure uniquely found along these rocky coasts, often collected by the sea otters who called this sea shore home. This collection of the rare shells was astounding, and made all the more beautiful by being mixed in with others that were delicate shades of white and ivory and some that were a cooler oyster blue. They hung from wind chimes in the beach trees and off the lanterns, while some darker shells had been ground down to a painted stain that had been used in part to tattoo larger rocks that were too big for the sea to claim. Wherever the eye looked it was drawn to spiraling shapes and stories, never running out of objects to admire.

“How have I never heard of this? And how are we possibly the only ones here?” Emma asked, moving closer and looking at the intricate designs of shells and stones that had been added to the sands and earth more recently. A local commission of artists was in charge of these added displays of beauty, updating them occasionally, but usually waiting for nature to clear the slate. After a big storm where rainwater washed it all away, or higher tides than normal where the sea came just to the house’s front steps, new designs were created and enacted. But it was clear that there had only been sun for some time, and they were fresh on the heels of an exceptionally well-done redesign.

“Very few people know of this place, love. It’s a secret that is guarded by the people of this town so tightly you’ll find no books or blogs or trace of it anywhere. Liam and I are two very rare exceptions, outsiders with the good fortune to know it’s here.”

“How did that happen?” Emma asked, leaning into him and eager for the story from his past.

“My brother and I needed escape when we were here with our father, but we had little means of finding it,” he admitted, bracing himself for talk of that past life, and knowing he should get used to it now that they were nearly home. “The sea was the only thing of comfort for both of us, and we came to it as often as we could. We scoured every last bit of the coast, and I mean every bit. One day we landed here, and happened upon this house as we were searching the coastline for unknown coves. It was easily the best find we ever made. Of course, we nearly scared the life out of the woman who was crafting the shellscape that day, and once she alerted the other town’s people there was a big to do. We were sworn to secrecy and all the like. We never did tell a soul. It remained our secret – one idyllic hideaway from the world we lived in.”

“But now you’ve broken your oath,” Emma said, looking at him curiously, though she was clearly glad for his breach of that old promise.

“Some may believe that.”

“But you don’t?”

“No, love. I believe the promises I have made and will make to you supersede any others. Besides, I am fairly certain that the promise is null when it comes to my wife.”

“Funny, I don’t remember getting married,” Emma said, though her teasing was a front for the rush of emotions she was feeling. “In fact, I don’t even remember you proposing.”

Let’s change that, he thought to himself knowing he had the ring in his pocket right now, but reason won out in the end, and he remembered his plan. He wanted to get Emma totally settled into their new life first, and to make sure she was ready in all ways. He knew she loved him and that she would be his forever, but it was only right to ensure that he do things properly.

“Soon enough, love. You have my word on that.”

Emma grinned at his affirmation, pulling him down by the collar of his leather jacket and kissing him passionately. When they broke apart, she asked him to promise they’d come back here and he did, and after a bit more time in this private oasis, they headed back to the road, driving towards their destination once more.

The ride along the coast was quick, far quicker than he remembered, and when they pulled off the coastal highway and to the discrete exit leading to the town he’d once grown up in, Killian could sense Emma’s surprise. They didn’t need to share a conversation for him to gauge her apprehension and excitement. She was no doubt wondering if they were really going to be living amongst this dense and beautiful forest. It would be a big change from her life in the cities she’d always known.

Soon enough they made it to the town line, reading the hunter green placard that announced their arrival. Unsure of what he expected, Killian was surprised to see just how much improvement had been made in his time away. Their town had always been quaint, but it could easily be described as ‘down on its luck’ when he was a boy. He knew it was his brother’s hope to not only remove the stain of his father’s shady dealings, but to help revitalize this community in a way that had been lacking for decades. But when Killian departed to seek his revenge on Gold, those ideas were mere figments of a would-be dream.

Liam has truly made good, he thought to himself as they cruised down the main street. Here along the town’s center there were new businesses and old ones that had been repaired and shaped for competing in the world today. Things were still classic and beachy, but the energy around it all gave away two important facts: the first was that this town was being tended to and cared for by its tenants, the second was that it was also being protected, and that anything that may threaten this currently peaceful ecosystem would not be allowed.

In this stretch of the ride, Killian could see some familiar faces in the mix, people from his old life in this town who were going about their day to day none the wiser about his return. There were also quite a few new faces as well, but Killian could spot the tourists right away. Their biggest tell was their fixation on his bike. People who lived in this region regularly would be densensitized, and since Liam had imposed a safety parameter for the town from other gangs, they wouldn’t bat an eye, even at a biker without his cut.  

Not far beyond the center of town was the Den, the once large warehouse that had been reconfigured to fit the Land Pirate members and families when need be. When he was here last, the place was little more than a dump, with tell-tale signs of partying strewn about both outside and within. There was also a crappy, rusted gate around the perimeter that did the job of securing the place on some level, but had always been a huge eyesore. Gone was all of that, and in its stead was higher tech, better quality fencing. The Den was now fortified, and Killian could see the precautions put in place that passersby may not realize were installed. He also took note of the probie standing guard at the entrance.

Well this should be interesting, Killian thought as he drove up. He had no idea who this probationary member of the club was. Killian would have to explain who he was and that could get awkward. But before he had the chance the unknown man was speaking.

“Well I’ll be damned. Pres was right. Hook’s come home again.”

“Pres?” Emma whispered and Killian replied quietly.

“That’s Liam’s title here, love.”

“And Hook?”

“My road name.” Emma nodded, taking it all in stride as Killian turned his attention back to the probie. “So, he’s expecting me then?”

“Has been for weeks. You sure took your time getting out here, Hook.”

He looked at the probationary patch on the man’s Land Pirates leather cut and saw the stitched name ‘Mouse.’ Had to be a story behind that name. Didn’t exactly blend with the others who were patched in when Killian was here. “How do you even know who I am?”

“You kidding? You’re a legend, man, and so is she.”

For a minute Killian tensed up, thinking that Mouse was talking about Emma. He was feeling protective, and didn’t like the idea of other men looking her way unless they were going to show the proper respect. Only when Emma let out a laugh did he realize his mistake.

“Oh my God, you mean the bike! That’s classic. Please tell me it has a name.” Emma’s joking was incredibly apparent, and Killian was surprised at how nonplussed she was by their being on unknown turf.

“She,” Mouse stressed and Emma bit back her laugh, but her body still shook with it. “And yeah, bikes get names.”

“Wait don’t tell me. This will be way more fun if I can guess. Hmm, Harley? No that’s kind of obvious. Uh, I mean what do you call a gendered bike? Kind of a tall order… Oh I know, Lady. Kind of on the nose with the whole ‘it’s a she’ thing, but it works, right?”

Killian chuckled at the way Emma was enjoying herself, and he noticed the look of shock on the probie’s face. Clearly he didn’t understand the situation. This was no ordinary woman on the back of his ride giving him shit for having named his bike. This was the most important person in his world, and no one, club member or not, was going to question that.

“Look, kid, my woman and I have been on the road for awhile. We could use the rest, and it’s probably best not to keep my brother waiting anymore.” The overt use of the label for Emma created a total mood shift in Mouse. He had taken the hint.

“Absolutely, Hook. Ma’am.”

The change in tone as he nodded at them and buzzed them through to the compound was pronounced, so much so that Emma mentioned it when they parked and she stepped off the motorcycle.

“Is the somewhat caveman ‘me man, she my woman’ thing baked into this whole MC life?” Emma asked, her brow arched even as a smile teased at her lips. “I’m not complaining, per se. Just curious if I’ll have to announce my belonging to you everywhere I go.”

“Probies are probies for a reason, love, and the reason is they’ve got a whole lot to learn and more than one thing to prove. The men in this club with a patch, my brothers, they know better than to disrespect a woman, Old Lady or not.”

“Ah right, I forgot about that charming title. I don’t know who possibly came up with that one. ‘Old Lady.’ It’s so… unflattering. Had to be a man.”

“In this world, you can blame nearly everything on a man, love,” Killian quipped and Emma grinned at his assessment before continuing to lament the biker term for a man’s significant other.

“I honestly thought I’d have a few years before getting called ‘old lady’ and even then it would be by bratty neighborhood kids, not hot guys in leather who name their motorcycles.” Killian growled at the mention of men being hot and Emma teased him with a nip against his lips that was designed to have him wanting more but was only meant in jest. “But don’t worry, I’ll make up for all of this somehow. I’m gonna find you the perfect partner nickname that undercuts how irresistibly sexy I find you in all your leather. I just need a little time.”

“You can call me any damn thing you want, Emma. As long as you call me yours.”

The words were honest and immediately shifted the sass of Emma’s commentary to something softer. Instinctively, she placed a gentle and loving kiss on his lips before they both turned to the warehouse. Together they walked hand in hand towards the door, and when they entered, Killian held his breath. Would this place look like the nightmare of his youth? The place he’d have fought through anything to get away from? It took only the briefest moment to see those worries were unfounded.

Killian was utterly relieved at how normal the Den looked, and how the relic of old had been completely rehabilitated. The general concept was the same, starting with a vastness in the entrance that made it seem like this place went on forever. The entryway blended into a great room where club members and guests spent a lot of time, and in the back there’d surely be more changes to go along with these ones. Killian knew the kitchen and living quarters, the war room and Liam’s office all would have been revamped if this part of the warehouse was. But this communal space in particular held a lot of painful memories. The ghosts of this place had haunted him for some time, but they were nearly all cast away by the warmth and modern makings of this renovation. It made Killian want to see more, something he never truly believed was possible, but as curious as Killian was, there simply wasn’t time. Soon the renovation was forgotten, and instead he was faced with the all important figure standing there, waiting for him after years of no contact. 

“Liam.” 

…

Post-Note: So I know I have stopped it right at the start of a hugely important reunion, but I fully intend to make up for it in the next chapter. Introducing the actual MC is going to be such fun for me, but, as with this chapter, it may take some time before I have a next installment out. My muse has been tricky, but I am hoping to get a bigger chunk of my story, ‘Feels Like This’ written by the end of the year so I can hopefully finish it up. Anyway, I would love to hear what you all thought of this chapter, and as always, I really appreciate you all reading and thank you so much for the support! Until next time!

[wherevermyway]

bittersweet lullabies // binchan // oneshot // 16+

❄ part of yuki’s favourites! ❄

pairing: bang chan x seo changbin rating: mature! 16+ warnings/tags: angst, friends-to-enemies, enemies-to-lovers, symphony AU, implied sexual content (seriously, it’s barely even there and probably very easily missable), alcohol, referenced underage drinking, past seo changbin x jung wooyoung (ateez). word count: 15,000 also on AO3

originally posted: 07 february 2021

Several years ago, Bang Chan and Seo Changbin were best friends in middle school. They quickly became rivals in high school, starting not long after Changbin got the lead first chair for the viola section, something Chan had also been vying for. When Changbin became valedictorian, they got into a heated argument and Changbin swore he would never talk to Chan again.

After university, they both received offers to work in the same symphonic orchestra. When they run into each other for the first time in four years, conflicting emotions bloom, tensions arise, and it all comes to an apex when Changbin storms off into the Seattle rain, and Chan can’t let him go, not after the guilt he had after all of these years.

disclaimer: this is a work of fiction! any reference to persons in this work of fiction are purely coincidental. the characters referenced from Stray Kids are  interpretations loosely based on their personalities in the group and do  not represent the real people behind the personas. if this, or any of  the content included in the warnings above make you uncomfortable,  please stop reading now.

“I earned this, Chan!” A voice shouted in a cold, empty hallway. “Do you understand how many sleepless nights I pulled to get here? The sacrifices I’ve made?” There was a loud clattering against metal lockers that echoed against the linoleum flooring and the bland drywall. Papers fell, scattering about the floor as the overhead lighting flickered, illuminating two young men dangerously close to one another.

A scoff came from the slightly taller, blonde man. “Do you think I didn’t work hard?” He slapped his hand against the metal locker behind the brunette man leaning up against them. “I tried so hard, had the same grades as you, the same SAT score, and yet you somehow got valedictorian? What’s your secret, Changbin?”

“Can you leave me alone, dude?” The smaller man gave the blonde a shove, and attempted to storm away, before he was tugged back by the wrist. “Come on, man, they could only pick one person for valedictorian. You still get a speech, now let me leave. I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

Chan, the blonde, shook his head, looking down to the floor. “You really think I only want a stupid fucking speech? I didn’t want to be salutatorian; I don’t want to play second fiddle to you for one more goddamned thing.” He looked back up to the brunette, Changbin, and his eyes were glistening and tinted red. “I just wanted this one thing, to be better than you at something for once. You got lead first chair for orchestra. You got lead tenor for All-State. You’ve always been better than me, and this just proves it and it hurts.”

The two of them exchanged a painful glance, but said nothing. Changbin tugged his arm away, glaring at the other man, pity hidden behind his stare. If this were some sort of coming-of-age, poorly-written Hollywood dramedy, this would be the part where they would make out against the lockers. He would ruffle his hands through Chan’s hair, tell him some cheesy line, like “fuck what everyone else thinks, I may be valedictorian, but you’re the top of the class in my heart”.

However, this was real life. Nothing worked like the movies.

“What’s done is done, Chan,” the brunette sighed, rubbing his wrist. “Grow up and get over it. I’m tired of doing this shit with you every time I earn something and you throw a fucking fit and get jealous.” Changbin turned away, stepping on some of the discarded papers as he quickly walked away, down the corridor. “Don’t ever talk to me again,” he shouted, his voice firm and bouncing against the hard surfaces, echoing loudly in the emptiness.

Chan shook his head and let a tear slide down his face. “I miss the old us.” He remorsefully whispered to himself, dropping to his knees and collecting up the papers he dropped when he shoved the younger man into the lockers. He missed his former best friend, lamenting over how much he let his competitive nature ruin their friendship, the only friendship that really mattered to him.

Four years after Chan and Changbin graduated high school, they still found themselves thinking about each other as they graduated from university. Changbin had somehow completed a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree in four years during his time at Yale, and Chan finally got his coveted valedictorian title at Dartmouth. They may have hated each other, not speaking at all in four years, but they were polite enough to give each other half-hearted congratulatory messages on social media for university graduation.

Everyone did it, right? It was the thing to do for birthdays and graduations, like some unspoken rule. Perhaps it would bring them closer, start the path of building up the bridge back to friendship that they had burned years ago. It was unlikely, but he’d never know if he never tried.

Chan wondered how much Changbin had changed in the previous four years. He had typed up an apology that spanned several pages of text, had it saved in his message drafts for weeks, but never built up the courage to send it. The overwhelming guilt and shame for treating his former best friend so poorly would never allow him to send that message.

Changbin appeared to be happy for once, losing himself in his studies and performances, happy and in love with his fiancé Jung Wooyoung, a classmate of theirs that also ended up at Yale. Everything seemed to be going well for him; Changbin had just accepted a job with some renowned symphonic orchestra that he was moving cross-country for.

Perhaps they would never mend, and this was fate telling Chan to move on.

Changbin saw Chan’s polite “congrats, man” timeline post, and couldn’t help but scoff at how insincere it came off to him. He had stalked Chan’s profile for the entire four years they didn’t speak to each other, seeing some bad drunken frat party photos, reading interesting concepts he proposed about the transformational theories in music, and watched a couple of short-lived relationships bloom and subsequently fizzle out within only a couple of months. Chan was always chaotic, and Changbin kind of missed that unpredictable nature about him. Someday he’d reach out, he figured, but that day wasn’t today.

It had been a couple of months since graduation. Changbin had a stressful time planning a move cross-country that his now former fiancé didn’t support. Fuck it, he figured, a career with the symphonic orchestra in Seattle was worth it. It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, something that was incredibly selective, that he was invited to be a part of, and he deserved it. Wooyoung was halfway out of the door, anyway. They were always picture-perfect online, but Wooyoung stopped putting in any effort into the relationship well over a year ago, something about “focusing” on some technical project that he’d likely never complete.

Wooyoung never completed anything, and when Changbin broke off their engagement, the younger man simply shrugged it off.

It didn’t matter. Out with the old, in with the new. Whatever it took to convince Changbin to stay sane, to feel like he hadn’t wasted three years on someone not worth his time. He didn’t resent Wooyoung, but their relationship felt like it was lacking from beginning to end. Maybe he would find someone that would light a spark within him on the other side of the continent.

From the week he spent in Seattle during his interview and audition, Changbin deemed that Seattle was far superior to Connecticut, anyways: something about its dreamy, rainy, “chronically sipping lukewarm earl grey tea while listening to chill synthwave” vibe excited him. It was something completely different than what he was used to, and it was going to be drastically different than the uptight nature that the east coast gave off.

Connecticut was vivacissimo. Seattle was andante . It was time for something calming and slow paced for once in his life.

It only took Changbin an hour to bring in everything from his car and settle into his new apartment. The human resources team was kind enough to help him find a cozy, furnished apartment that was a short walk away from work. It was nestled in the bustling Capitol Hill neighbourhood, and he knew he was going to love sitting inside and watching people scurry about from his third-floor balcony. He had a few days to settle in before he would show up for orientation, and he couldn’t wait to explore the area.

For now, though, he would unpack a bit, then sleep. A week and a half of driving cross-country, while beautiful, was exhausting. Three thousand miles. Constant playlist shuffling. Talk radio while driving through Illinois and Wisconsin to hear asinine political commentary. Getting carsick and vomiting where I-90 met I-35 in Minnesota. Nearly breaking down close to Mount Rushmore in South Dakota. Almost hitting a coyote in Montana. Seeing the sunrise as he drove over a mountain pass as he approached the Idaho state border. The thrill of finally approaching Seattle and getting lost as he made a wrong turn, somehow ending up in Tacoma. It was an adventurous trip, but it sapped the life from him.

There was one thing, however, he could rely upon to restore his drained energy: his viola.

He took his prized, cherished viola out of its well-maintained case, running his thumb over the chip under his chin rest, and Changbin felt like he could finally breathe a sigh of relief. This viola got him through so many hard times in life, keeping him grounded and sane regardless of how hectic his schedule was from the last half of high school and all throughout university. If he was stressed, he would simply take the viola out of its case and let something flow from him.

As he brought the viola up to his chin, strategically placing his fingers at the end of his bow, he looked out the window taking in the view of the sunset, and aimlessly started playing something. It somehow slowly blended into his part from Lament, which was a duet that he and Chan had performed their junior year of high school.

Perhaps it was because Chan had been invading his thoughts lately, but his improvised practices always turned into Lament . It was a beautiful duet; they had won first place at the state competition for it, earning a perfect score, which was something that was incredibly rare; it helped them pad their resumes to get into Ivy League universities. They practiced for months, starting the summer before their junior year, because they wanted to actually take home an award for it. “We’ll show them,” Chan arrogantly smirked as he puffed out his chest. “We’re better than just some deeper violins stuck in the middle of the orchestra. That’ll teach them all for making fun of us.”

Changbin remembered being nervous about it. The sweat beading on his palms as they waited in the wings of the stage prior to their performance, the pounding of his heart against his ribcage, the sound of the blood rushing between his ears. He was so nervous that he would trip, or he would drop his viola, maybe that everything would go impossibly wrong. However, the minute he and Chan looked at each other as they prepared to start their duet, a sense of calm overtook him, and he lost himself within the music.

Somehow, they managed to make it through the entire performance without faltering. As soon as they were hidden behind the black curtains of the stage, Chan gave Changbin the closest, warmest hug he had ever received in his life.

“I told you we’d do it, man!” Chan excitedly whispered into Changbin’s ear. “You fucking killed it!”

“You did really well, too,” Changbin had shyly whispered back, offering a couple of nervous pats in between Chan’s shoulder blades. He remembered feeling lucky that the backstage area was so dark, because it was very obviously apparent that he was blushing.

He pulled himself from the memory, unable to finish playing his part from the duet, the notes sounding correct, yet feeling dissonant in his heart as he played. His shoulders drooped as he stared off into the skyscrapers far off in the distance. Sure, the relationship he had with Wooyoung was tumultuous, but Changbin wasn’t entirely innocent, either, often daydreaming about Chan during the most inopportune times.

When Wooyoung would dance his fingers against Changbin’s bare flesh in the darkness of their room, he was guilty of letting his mind wander to the what-ifs: what if Chan were there? Would Chan nip at Changbin’s neck with the same passion? How warm would Chan’s breath feel against his earlobe as his teeth dug into the tender flesh? Would he take Changbin in his arms and pepper his skin with soft kisses and haphazard ‘I love you’s as they tangled themselves up in each other?

It was insufferably suffocating, being weighed down by the ghosts of his past as he tried to move forward with his life.

For a long time, Changbin was infatuated with Chan. Starting in seventh grade, he wanted to spend time with only Chan; they would spend their weekends and summer vacations together, text each other until they fell asleep, and they were a part of all of the same extracurricular activities. To most people, all the way up until their junior year, they were essentially brothers that weren’t related by blood.

Nobody could have been closer than them.

One night, not long after they received the results that they had gotten a perfect score on their duet, Chan invited Changbin to a party at their friend’s house. Changbin, being the shy introvert that he was, would have said no otherwise, but he couldn’t bring himself to say no to Chan. There was nothing special or memorable about the house party itself, not until they both drunkenly stumbled into an empty bed together.

They had slept next to each other several times, but this was different. Changbin wrapped his arm around Chan’s chest, tucking his head underneath the elder’s chin, letting himself get lost in the warmth of their embrace. The alcohol convinced him it was a great time to be honest — perhaps a bit too honest.

“Chan,” Changbin had slurred out in a near-whisper. “Can I, uh, tell you something?”

“What’s up, dude?” Chan responded, sleepily rubbing his eyes.

Changbin took in a deep breath, and sat up, staring down at Chan in the dark. “I think…” his voice trailed off and he swallowed audibly, “I think I kinda like you?”

Chan just laughed, patting Changbin’s thigh. “I like you too, dude. It’s why we’re friends.”

“Nah,” the brunette huffed, smelling the stale, cheap beer on his breath and shuddering as he shook his head. “Not like that.”

“What do you mean, then?”

“Like,” a moment passed and Changbin recoiled into himself. “I like you, dude. I wanna take this to the next level. I dunno, man, this shit’s awkward and hard to admit.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while, until Chan sat up and leaned in close to Changbin. “Bin,” he sighed, firmly gripping his junior’s thigh, “I like you, too, but I don’t know. We could, like, seriously fuck up our friendship. I mean, you saw what Seonghwa did to Hongjoong when they went from friends to boyfriends.” He hiccupped and awkwardly chuckled to ease the tension blooming between them. “I don’t wanna ruin what we’ve got, since we’re basically brothers and shit.”

Changbin shook his head. It really was stupid, after all. The alcohol, however, gave him confidence that he didn’t ask for and didn’t need right now. He batted his eyelashes and brought his face in, up close to Chan. “Can I at least kiss you to see how it feels?”

Chan giggled, likely out of nervousness and drunkenness. “I mean, I don’t see why not. But neither you nor I have kissed anyone, ’s probably gonna be weird.”

“I don’t care.” The words left Changbin’s lips as he boldly reached up to Chan’s neck, pulling them closer to each other. It was awkward, painfully obvious that they really didn’t know what they were doing. Their lips were a little too dry for it to feel as magical as Changbin expected. Still, they continued; a tiny spark igniting between the two of them. It may have been awkward, but it didn’t feel wrong.

Chan brought his hand up to Changbin’s soft, brown hair, letting his fingers grip the strands gently. He brought his other hand up to the small of the brunette’s back, pulling him in. They couldn’t quite figure out which side their noses should be on, and when they opened their mouths to let their tongues adventure around, they clashed their teeth together one too many times, causing pain to echo throughout their heads.

Regardless of the awkward nature of their kiss, it was perfect for them. It felt like they kissed each other for hours, eventually rolling around the sheets, fingers skirting around on warm, flushed skin. Changbin didn’t even remember falling asleep, just the comfort of losing himself in Chan’s touch.

The next morning, however, was far from perfect. They were both grossly hungover, and Chan was oddly distant. “I dunno, dude,” he had sleepily grumbled, avoiding looking at Changbin at all, “I still don’t know if this is right.”

Chan was going to say more, but Changbin waved him off in a panic with feigned confidence. “Nah, dude, it was just us being drunk.” He let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry for being weird, I guess I was just a little too curious to have a kiss. Shame our first kisses were while we were drunk, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chan awkwardly smiled, “little weird, but whatever.”

Unsurprisingly, they started having problems not long after that. Chan had started getting irritated with Changbin putting more and more focus into his studies, starting to surpass him academically. Then, Changbin got first chair for the violas in orchestra. He beat out two seniors, and Chan was right behind him. Chan was always right behind him in everything. They were so close, they were like minor seconds in a chord: just two notes right next to each other that sounded uncomfortably dissonant when played together.

When Changbin got stressed, he focused. Conversely, when Chan stressed, he brooded.

“Come on, man,” Chan had whined right after practice one day, “you and I both got that perfect score on our duet. How’d you get lead first chair over me?”

The annoyance of Chan’s constant negative behaviour was draining on Changbin, causing the younger man to grow more and more irritated by the second. “I don’t fucking know, okay?” He snapped while opening his viola’s case. “Someone had to get it, and it was me. Stop taking out your shit on me, man, it’s exhausting.”

Chan frowned in response. “I’m not taking it out on you,” he huffed, “you’re just getting a lot of good shit lately, and it’s not fair.”

“You should have fucking tried harder, then!” Changbin shouted, taking a step towards Chan, clutching the neck of his viola tightly. “You know what’s not fair? What’s not fair is the fact that you’re being a broody sack of shit at me because you’re just not practicing as hard or studying as hard and that’s not my goddamned fault! You need to grow the fuck up, dude.”

Chan scowled and shoved Changbin back in anger, harder than he anticipated. He didn’t expect it to be such a rough shove, but Changbin didn’t always have a good sense of balance. The younger man tumbled backwards, and his viola hit the ground with a thud, a discordant twang coming from the delicate instrument and echoing throughout the room.

The silence that followed the scuffle was deafening. Chan tried to apologize, knowing just how important Changbin’s viola was to him, but he just incoherently sputtered and panicked. Changbin stared up at Chan in horror, blinking away tears that were budding up in his eyelids.

“How could you?”

It was the last thing that Changbin said to Chan for months.

The memories flooding up in Changbin’s head caused a gnawing pain to bloom within his stomach as he stared out the window, the sky now a deep shade of indigo. He sighed, then put his viola back into its case. He thought playing it would make him happy, more comfortable in his new apartment in a new town, but it just made him feel cold and alone. It felt like there was nothing but dissonant chords reverberating inside of him.

Changbin stared down at his viola, hesitating to close the case. The chip from the day it collided against the ground was still there, glaringly obvious as the memory burned itself into his head. He recalled that the musician that repaired his viola offered to fix it up, even though it was just a surface blemish and wouldn’t cause any musical problems. “No,” Changbin had told the man, “it’s right under the chin rest, so I’ll see it every time I go to play it. It’ll remind me to be more cautious.”

Cautious of his instrument, that’s probably what it sounded like to the musician. What Changbin really meant, however, was how he’d be cautious of letting anyone close to him in the future, no matter who it was.

Uncertainty rushed over him, but Changbin was certain of one thing: he needed to get Chan out of his head. Sooner, rather than later. He couldn’t afford to be distracted when he started with the symphony.

Maybe he’d be alone forever.

Monday came quickly, and Changbin was running early. He had left far too early, showing up nearly an hour before he needed to be at the practice hall. He shrugged the nervousness from his shoulders as he made his way to a nearby cafe to grab something caffeinated to help perk him up. Seven in the morning was far too early for his schedule after all of this time off from university.

It was a brief walk, maybe only a couple of minutes to the cafe down the street. Changbin opened the door, inanely scrolling through his emails as he walked through the front door and got in line. There was one email from the conductor, Lee Minho, sent out to everyone earlier that morning, welcoming the new members of the orchestra. Names, ages, instruments, and where they were from.

“What can I get for you?” The barista at the counter politely asked, causing Changbin to look up from his phone, his face flushing in embarrassment.

“Oh, sorry,” he whispered, locking his phone, sliding it into his pocket. “I’ll take a shot in the dark, medium, three shots, please.”

“Your name?”

“Changbin.” He was curious to see how terribly the barista would butcher his name as he tapped his card against the payment terminal. A minute later, he stepped off to the side, grabbing his phone to scroll through the email again. Since he was early, he might as well try and learn who was who and where they sat, what they played.

The wind and brass instruments were first. A new French horn player, a new trombonist, a new bassoonist, a new flautist. He was about to scroll through the percussion and string players when the second barista mumbled something that sounded kind of like his name. He walked up and grabbed the paper cup that was placed on the countertop, eyeing the scribble on the cup that barely resembled his name, rolling his eyes at the attempt.

Changbin took a cautious sip of the hot liquid as he made his way towards the front of the cafe, taking a seat at the window bar, placing his viola case down on the ground and his cup on the table, looking through his email. He didn’t care about the percussion section, but when he got to the strings, he perked up a bit. Two new violinists, two new violists, and a new cellist.

There was another new violist along with him, and Changbin bit his lip in excitement. He wondered who they were, where they were from. Then he saw the name, right under his. He stopped tapping his toes in excitement and his jaw dropped. If he was holding his coffee cup, he would have dropped it in shock.

Viola: Changbin S., 22, Connecticut. B.A., M.M., Music: Yale University.

Viola: Chan B., 23, New Hampshire. B.A., Music Performance: Dartmouth University.

“Holy shit,” Changbin whispered as all of the colour drained from his face. He had to have been hallucinating. There was no way that Chan was actually in Seattle. There had to have been another Chan from Dartmouth that was coming all the way here, right? That it wasn't just some crazy fever dream that Changbin was having?

He sat and stared at the email on his phone until the screen automatically turned off from inactivity. If Chan was seriously going to be in the symphonic orchestra with him, right next to him, what was he going to do? The two of them hadn't said anything more than polite passing phrases over their birthdays or for their graduations over social media, for fuck's sake. What the hell was going to happen when — no, if, it had to stay as an if — the two of them met?

The soft bell of the front door opening made Changbin shake his head, crashing back to reality. He turned his phone over, putting it down on the counter so he didn't have to look at it, and brought his cup back up to his lips. The coffee in the cup was nice, a bit more mellow and mild compared to the coffee he was used to on the east coast, like this was brewed with care and love, not in a hurry for someone just trying to get their fix.

“That's the third symphony,” a quiet voice came up behind Changbin, his ears twitching a bit as he heard something related to music. Perhaps this person was another musician, part of the orchestra? Letting his curiosity get the better of him, he turned his head over his shoulder and actually dropped his cup, spilling the warm liquid all over the table and into his lap. In a rush, he grabbed his phone as he stood and let out a crisp, sharp interjection.

As the coffee cooled in his lap and the barista from earlier approached him with a towel, his brain caught up to the realization that his former best friend-turned-rival, Chan, was right behind him. Before he could fully process what that meant, Changbin found himself madly dashing back to his apartment, phone in one hand, viola case in the other. Reality hit him in the face and burned as much as his scorched legs as he collided into the door of his apartment.

This wasn't a dream.

Changbin was thankful that he was always early to things. After rushing to apply some burn cream to his legs and change into a fresh outfit, he had somehow made it back to the concert hall with fifteen minutes to spare. He gripped the handle to his viola's case tightly, palms sweating as he tried so hard not to panic. Beyond the doors of the practice hall, he knew that Chan was going to be there. Nothing he did could prepare him for that, and he knew it.

He took in a deep breath, and let off a quick exhale as he pushed the door open. The crowd of other players was massive — there had to be nearly a hundred people crowded up in small circles. The newer people were very obvious, awkwardly off to the side in their respective sections. Some people were off in random seats, tuning their instruments. Then, in the middle of the room, he saw someone seated, alone, anxiously scrolling through his phone. It was the same brassy blonde that was in the cafe.

Chan.

Almost as if the energy in the room cooled as Changbin entered, Chan shifted in his seat and aimlessly scanned the room, looking at the other members, until his eyes landed on Changbin, and his lips parted. They stared at each other, seemingly like they were frozen in space and time, that there was no one else around. A conflicting rush of warmth, excitement, and terror washed over Changbin all at once as he stared at his former best friend.

Changbin shook his head, letting his eyes fall to the floor for a moment. “This is going to be fine,” he quietly reassured himself as he walked towards the middle of the room. “You two don't have to look at each other, speak to each other, just be civil. If you're lucky, you won't even have to interact much. Hopefully.”

That was a boldfaced lie, but it helped reassure Changbin in the slightest way possible.

“Hi,” Chan awkwardly whispered as Changbin got close. “Long time, no see, huh?”

He simply couldn't resist looking up at Chan and somehow wrinkling his face up into an uncomfortable grin. “Hi, Chan.” His tone was a bit cold, but what else could he do? They left each other on horrible terms, not even speaking to each other during their high school graduation ceremony. Changbin had given his valedictorian speech, and remembered Chan walking up to the podium, giving him a pitiful expression as they crossed paths.

“Looks like your assigned seat is right next to me.” There's a tapping noise as Chan's fingernail repeatedly strikes the plastic seat next to him. A large, black binder sat atop the chair, with "Changbin S., Viola’ emblazoned on the top of it in silver, serif lettering.

Fate was a cruel bastard.

Changbin stifled a sigh under his breath, placing his viola's case underneath the chair as he grabbed the binder. He sat down in his seat, pretending to rifle through the paperwork. There was simply no way that he could focus, knowing that Chan was right next to him. It was completely awkward and uncomfortable. Changbin could practically feel the warmth of the blonde sitting next to him, even though they were about a foot away from each other.

“We're gonna pretend like all that time together never happened, huh?” Chan's voice was cold, and he tsked as he brought his phone back up to his face. “I really thought four years would've changed you, Bin.”

Changbin slammed the binder shut and leaned into Chan's face. His eyes darted around, knowing that he was getting some strange glances from people that weren't preoccupied, but it didn't matter. “You're the one that refused to grow up and handle things responsibly like an adult. I don't want to hear another fucking passive aggressive word about this from you.” His tone was hushed, but venomous and seething. “You had all this time to apologize, but you never did. I sincerely hope we don't have to interact much, because this two year contract is going to be hell on me if you're here.”

Chan scoffed. “Whatever, dude,” he shook his head and looked back to his phone. “I just wanted to try and be civil, but if you wanna play that game, then you can. Go right ahead.”

This was outrageous. Changbin opened his mouth to say something, but a man with a calm demeanour walked into the room, his presence demanding attention from everyone as they scattered to their seats.

“Good morning, everyone,” his voice boomed throughout the corridor. It was soft, inviting. “Welcome to your first day of the season. If you would kindly find your seats, we'll get started in a few moments.”

Changbin awkwardly fumbled with his binder, resting it on the music stand in front of him, then bent down to pick up his viola's case. He undid the latches, and pulled out the instrument, his eyes fixated on that damned chip under the chin rest. Naturally, after he stared at the chip for longer than necessary, he lifted his eyes up to Chan, who was rubbing his bow against the brick of resin in his hand.

Chan was always delicate with his instrument. He put in so much love when he polished his viola prior to competitions and performances, always lovingly eyed the hairs of his bow as he carefully watched the resin coat each strand. Typically, he would hum some inane melody to himself as he got lost in the process, in the care of what he did.

Today, Chan wasn't humming.

It felt like the energy around him had gone from its usual bright cheerfulness, and turned into a dark, gloomy cloud.

“Please,” the instructor spoke yet again, looking up from his stack of paperwork on the podium, “if you haven't done so, begin tuning your instruments. Hopefully they're all tuned up, but I'm sure some of you have been slacking since we last practiced together, hmm?”

Changbin didn't need to tune his viola, since he tuned it last night in anticipation, but he went along and pretended to tune it with his plastic electric tuner. The light shone green as he kept strumming against the C string. Changbin tried to stare at the light, but he couldn't take his eyes off of Chan. While he wasn't humming, the elder still put in so much tender energy while he cared for his viola.

It had been all this time, but Changbin still felt his abdomen and chest light up with fire when he saw Chan, no matter how much it hurt. It was apparent that Changbin was still so madly in love with him, even after all of these years and all of the emotional torment they had put each other through.

This man was going to be the death of him.

The beginning of the first day with the symphony wasn't eventful. There were some warm-ups and some scales practice, but that was simply to get everyone prepared for the performance season. After all of that, the conductor, Minho, went through each section and asked the new members to introduce themselves. Percussion went first, then woodwinds, brass, strings. Second-to-last was the viola group, and Chan went first.

“Chan,” he said with a smile, his dimple prominently on display, “I'm 23, originally from New York, but I've been in New Hampshire for the past four years thanks to university. I recently graduated, with honours, top of my class, from the music performance faculty at Dartmouth. I hope we all get along well and you'll treat me kindly. Let's have a great season!” He sat down, and his smile faded as Changbin rose.

“Yeah, uh, hello,” Changbin awkwardly stuttered, folding his hands together behind his back. “I'm Changbin, 22, also originally from New York, but I've been in Connecticut for the last four years where I matriculated at Yale. I have a bachelor's and master's in music, specifically: music performance for viola and piano. I've been playing the viola for most of my life, and I hope I will serve everyone well here. Uh,” he paused, awkwardly scratching the back of his head. “Thanks.”

There were a couple of polite chuckles as Changbin sat down. Despite having a penchant for giving well-manicured speeches, he hated giving unprepared introductions. He felt tense enough already, knowing that Chan was right next to him, making him all the more uncomfortable.

The new violinists introduced themselves, and Minho clapped once. “Excellent,” he praised. “Now that introductions are out of the way, please split off into your respective subsections until I'm able to get to each individual group and assess your skills for placements. Those of you that have finished by your lunch break are welcome to leave, unless your principal seat deems otherwise.”

A couple of musicians groaned.

“It's nearly autumn,” Minho said with a soft smile as he adjusted his necktie, “you all know that placement seats, other than principal seats, aren't guaranteed.”

Changbin nervously swallowed. He knew that placements were, yet again, going to be a source of contention for both of them. Chan was top of his class at Dartmouth; Changbin was top of his class at Yale. Both of them were going to be a force to be reckoned with, especially up against other top-class talent.

This orchestra recorded for multiple high-budget films and would perform in the pits of renowned theatrical performances. There were just over a hundred seats in the orchestra, but thousands applied for open spots after contracts ended and spots opened up. It was nerve-wracking, and Changbin wasn't confident that he, for the first time since high school, would be placed in one of the first viola chairs.

“Hey,” a voice perked up as everyone started to shift around and break off into their own groups. “I'm Seungmin,” a young man stood in front of Chan and Changbin, probably about the same age as them. “I'm the principal chair for the viola section. Changbin and Chan, right?” Both of them silently nodded once in affirmation. “Nice, Ivy Leaguers like me. Cornell, graduated last year. Anyway, don't worry too much about placements. Not much you can do until you actually have to perform, and Minho is pretty great about making you feel comfortable if you're nervous. Why not come meet everyone in the section?”

There were polite greetings and less-formal introductions shared, a couple of people made jokes to ease the tension, as to be expected. Seungmin discussed the projected schedule for the season, going over some of the pieces that they would need to practice together and individually. They went over all of the general housekeeping, discussed the placement procedures, and that they were free to go after they were done, since there was no real point in sticking around for the rest of the day.

“Alright, well,” Seungmin stood up as his alarm went off, “lunch starts now, so I'm gonna head off. See ya in an hour; just meet up here and don't be late. For strings, the violin section goes first, then us.”

Changbin looked down to the floor, an uneasy pit growing in his stomach. Part of him knew he should stay and practice, just to get his mind in the right order, but he couldn't pull himself away from the fact that Chan was still there, right next to him.

“Get up,” Chan muttered, lightly tapping Changbin's chair with his foot, startling the brunette to attention. “Look, dude,” he tucked his hands into his pockets and huffed with discontent, “I know we haven't spoken in years, but there's some things I wanna talk to you about before we go in and compete against each other for yet another stupid thing. Come grab lunch with me, alright?”

“I'm not hungry.” Changbin's eyes darted to the side, furrowing his brows in frustration. He just wanted to focus on practicing his piece for placements; there was no time to worry about eating at a time like this.

“No,” an exasperated sigh came from Chan as he folded his arms and rolled his eyes. “You're just nervous and you don't wanna talk to me. Unless you've drastically changed, you do this shit before performances, too. Just come on, it's not gonna be that bad, I promise.”

Changbin wasn't sure why he agreed to this. The two of them sat at a table in the hipster pho shop next to the cafe, awkwardly poking at their warm bowls of noodles and broth as they sat in silence for at least a good five minutes. “So,” the younger man sighed, “what did you want to talk about?”

The blonde sucked his lips in between his teeth and chewed on them for a second before he set his chopsticks down into the bowl and looked up, meeting Changbin's gaze with a hint of nervousness behind his eyes. “Changbin,” he huffed, tilting his head to the side, “all those years ago, I was horrible to you.”

“I know.” The brunette abruptly cut him off, seething through his teeth while he sat back in his chair.

“Bin,” the older man shook his head, his eyes wincing with pain, “dude, I had this big ass draft saved in my messages that I wanted to send to you after we graduated.” He brought an elbow to the table and nestled his head into his palm. “For some reason, I couldn't bring myself to ever send it. I don't know why; it was probably out of embarrassment and cowardice. The way I treated you all that time, over some stupid competitive shit, I'm sorry, Changbin. Honestly, I'm so sorry.”

A tsk left Changbin's lips as he rolled his eyes away, looking at the wall to his side, just for a moment. He leaned in, pressing his arm into the table, mere inches away from Chan. “Yeah, you did a lot of shit, and yeah, I know you���re sorry or whatever. But you know what hurts me the most, Chan?”

Chan nervously swallowed and bit his lip.

“You did all of this shit to me after I kissed you. None of this started until then.” Changbin shook his head in disappointment. “I'm not upset about the way you reacted, not really, at least, but I am upset over the fact that you kissed me back so hard, like you actually wanted me as more than a friend. After all that, you started treating me so horribly, like you had to prove that you were better than me. Like our years of friendship suddenly didn’t matter anymore.”

“Changbin, I just couldn’t—” Chan started, but Changbin sat back and shook his head, speaking up and cutting off the blonde.

“You hurt me.” There were tears budding up in the brunette's eyes. “It's taken you four and a half years to apologize. Chan, I’ve waited for fucking years for this. I wish you would have sent me some bullshit, half-assed stupid text message apology that summer. It would have hurt less than this. All of this time, I thought you hated me. That my best friend wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing else hurts more than that, to have your favourite person in the entire world suddenly hate you, and it’s all because you thought he had feelings for you, too, but he just threw them back in your face and laughed at your pain.”

Changbin stood up and grabbed his phone from off of the table. “I'm not ready to forgive you, Chan. Not after all of this shit. So, please,” a couple of tears rolled down his face as he bit his bottom lip, “just respect me enough to leave me alone for a little while. I need to think about this, about us.”

He stormed off before Chan could attempt to stop him. An overwhelming fear of nervousness took over: partially due to the unsteady ground their relationship was on, and partially due to the fact that his placement exam was going to take place soon, and Changbin was nowhere near the right mental capacity for that.

“Shouldn’t have done this,” Changbin whispered to himself as he wiped the tears from his face, his footsteps hard and heavy against the concrete sidewalk. “Fuck you, Chan.”

“Capriccio,” Minho smiled, his face relaxed and expression warm. He held his clipboard in hand as Changbin eyed the sheets of music in front of him. “Composed by Vieuxtemps. I picked this as the sight reading for today’s placement exams.” The conductor was welcoming enough, but his calm demeanour didn’t ease the nervousness vibrating throughout Changbin’s body.

All those years ago, I was horrible to you. Chan’s apology still sounded so clear in his head, Changbin constantly replaying the memory unwillingly as the notes on the sheet music danced around, tangling itself up into an unintelligible mess.

“Changbin?”

I’m so sorry, Changbin. He was so angry: at Chan, at himself, at the fact that he ran away, that he couldn’t concentrate on the important task at hand in front of him.

“Hey,” Minho’s voice was layered with concern as it pulled Changbin from his thoughts. “Are you feeling alright? It’s just a standard placement exam, nothing to be too nervous over.”

Changbin stood in the empty office, viola carefully cradled in his hands as he blinked his way back into focus, the sheet music suddenly becoming clear and normal. “Sorry,” he shook his head, trying to rid Chan’s voice from the depths of his ears, “I guess I’m just nervous.” Capriccio. It was a piece Changbin had heard, but he had never played it before, as to be expected for sight reading, but the anxiousness in his stomach blossomed like a large black lily of doubt, poking its petals at his ribcage. “How long do I have to look at this?”

“I’ll give you two minutes to look over it,” Minho leaned against the back of his chair and rubbed his chin with his thumb. “Once you’re ready to start playing, I’ll take notes. We’ll do the scales exercise before that, as well as a piece of your choosing. Are you sure you’re ready, Changbin?”

“I’ll be fine,” Changbin huffed, trying to calm the nerves inside of him as he readied his viola. He had to be fine, he had to beat out Chan with this. “Let’s do the scales, then.”

Changbin kept telling himself that had to beat Chan, but he didn’t know exactly why.

“Hey, man!” Seungmin said with excitement as he patted Changbin on the back, right outside of the practice room. “How'd it go?”

Changbin groaned and rolled his eyes, gripping the neck of his viola a bit tighter. “It was alright,” he grumbled, walking to where his case laid on his chair. Chan had gone before him, and was deliberately looking away from Changbin as he approached. As soon as he started shuffling with his case, Chan got up with an exasperated sigh and walked away.

“Are you two,” Seungmin pressed, lowering his voice as he approached Changbin, “do you know each other or something? I'm getting some weird vibes from you both.”

The brunette gritted his teeth as his bottom eyelid twitched. “We were classmates, yeah,” he admits, “back in high school.”

“Oh! That's exciting!”

“No,” Changbin sighed, “I wish it was more interesting than that, but we stopped talking after we both got into different universities”. It wasn't a complete lie, yet it wasn't a complete truth, either. Changbin quickly weighed the options of being honest with Seungmin about how strained their relationship was, and chose to just fake it for the greater morale of the group. They were both too new to start something so petty so early on in the season.

Seungmin grinned as Changbin turned around. “Well, hey,” he bopped his head back and forth to the side, humming a bit, “it's kinda cool when you've got people that know each other and work well together in the same group. Maybe the violas will be a bit stronger this year.”

“We'll see,” Changbin said with a fake smile. Whether he was talking about the group or about his relationship with Chan was uncertain.

It was nearly a full day until placement results were revealed. Both Changbin and Chan got first chair, but they were at the bottom of five. What stung the most, however, was that Chan had beaten Changbin, likely due to nerves.

Changbin was at the bottom of something for the first time in his life, and he didn't know how to handle the whirlwind of emotions raging inside of him.

“Sorry,” Chan whispered as they both stared at the sheet. “At least we're both first chairs, not second, though, yeah?”

He shouldn't have been upset, because these were some of the best performers in the entire country, but Changbin was seething. Fists clenched, teeth gritting, and he was sweating with how infuriated he was at being in the bottom for the first time. Ever. Seos were never anything but first, and this was going to eat at him from the inside out for a long time, especially since he was beaten out by Chan of all people.

“Hey, guys,” Seungmin leaned up against the wall, causing them both to break their gaze at the sheet of paper for a moment. “Congratulations on getting first chairs during your first contract year. Not many people get that.”

Changbin didn't care if “many people” got first chair or not, he was still fixated on the fact that he got beaten out by Chan. He wanted the assistant principal seat, but wasn’t even remotely close to it. So, he determined he’d have to work harder, to set his eyes on the principal seat when placements opened. This step backwards could cost him that opportunity when it came up in the spring, and he hated it.

Chan elbowed Changbin in the side, causing the brunette to snap back to reality.

“What?” The younger man bit back, viscerally reacting as his eyes widened and he bared his teeth. He wanted so desperately to throw Chan up against the wall and yell at him for distracting him right before his placement exam, when he knew he should have just stayed back and practiced. Chan broke his routine and all Changbin could think about during the exam was how angry he was at his former best friend.

“Chill out,” Chan sighed, eyes widening for a brief moment in shock. “Seungmin just asked if the two of us had any plans after practice.”

Seungmin shook his head. “It's cool if you do,” he smiled awkwardly, sensing the tension blooming around them, “a bunch of us, including most of the newbies, are all going out to Vivace. It’s that little bar down the street. Could be a good chance for everyone to get to know each other a bit better. Seems like you two have a head start on that, but now it's time for us to get to know you.”

His voice was sickeningly optimistic. Changbin gritted his teeth together under pursed lips and was about to decline, until Chan spoke up for both of them. “Yeah,” he said in a fake pleasant voice, “Changbin and I are down for that.”

“Don't speak for me,” Changbin said through his teeth, but Chan turned to look at him and frowned.

“Team morale. Be a good player, dude.”

Brooding. Failure. Fucking failure.

Changbin never was one to brood, but he was never one to fail, either. Today was a day of firsts, none of them good. He frowned as he leaned over his glass of warmed cognac, staring down into it in disgust at his reflection. The entire group was bonding with each other, smiling and laughing without a care in the world, and he was being the awkward loner in the corner again, silent and reserved.

“That didn't seriously happen,” a young man with short platinum blonde hair drunkenly giggled. Felix, probably. That's the name that Changbin thought he heard him mention when they all introduced themselves. He was the new French horn player. “Hyunjin, dude, you've gotta stop it with picking up random people in clubs.”

“It's Cap Hill, baby,” the man with long, black hair half-heartedly whined, martini against his lips. Hyunjin. Second chair cellist. “Sometimes you see someone hot, and you just gotta take them home, y’know? Of course you don’t, you’re too prudish to get fucking laid.”

A laugh bubbled up from the group, but both Chan and Changbin were staying relatively quiet. “Hey,” Chan said in a low voice, leaning against the table that Changbin was resting his elbows on. “You should come participate with everyone.”

“Why?” Changbin rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Nobody here really cares about each other. It's all polite bullshit anyways.”

“Seriously, would you just fucking stop with this mopey shit, dude?” Chan tried to keep his voice down, setting his pint of stout on the table. “Come on, you're not a kid anymore.”

Changbin tilted his head back and sighed. “I never lose, man,” he brought his head back upright, staring down Chan as the alcohol loosened his lips. “You know I've never come in second, much less last, for anything. Let me just be down for once.”

As Chan opened his mouth to retort, another short, young man came up to the table. Jisung, the lead second chair violinist slammed his lager on the table with a wide grin. “What’s up, newbies? We're doing shots. Team bonding, yeah?”

Changbin's lip curled up in disgust, already annoyed by how chipper the other man was. “I don't do shots,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jisung dismissively waved his hand in the air and scoffed. “We get it, you’re pretentious and better than us or whatever. You're doing a shot with us anyways, a'ight? If you're drinking, it ain't optional.”

Seungmin, Felix, and a quiet brunette carried a few small glasses of amber liquid, setting the tiny shot glasses down on the table. “I don't know why you recommended Fireball for this, dude,” Hyunjin grumbled as he shook his head, taking a shot glass from the table and stepping right behind Jisung.

“It's good!” The smaller black-haired man shouted with a wide smile. “I've met nobody that doesn't like this stuff.”

“I hate it,” Changbin grumbled in protest, vaguely recalling memories of getting hammered on the foul liquid during a house party his sophomore year of college. A layer of regret gripped at his ribcage, thinking of the way Wooyoung’s boozy breath lingered on his lips as they made out on the patio of some stranger’s house. The regret clawed at him while he recalled how he looked up at the stars and wished that it was Chan there instead of Wooyoung. “I hate it a lot,” he repeated, unsure if he was still talking about the liquor or if he was talking about the memory creeping into his head.

His quip earned him a finger in the face from the loud young man, pulling him from his lamenting. “Not tonight, you don't. You can hate it after our fifth shot of it. Hate it tomorrow morning. Yeah?”

Everyone grabbed a shot glass, several reaching out in reluctance, and Seungmin puffed his chest out. “Alright,” he proudly said with a triumphant grin, holding his glass in the air, “we're gonna have a great year. Newbies and violists may be outcasts, but we're all a family. Yeah?”

The group let out an affirmative, albeit jumbled, noise.

“On three,” Jisung said with a smirk, then counted to three. All of the men lifted their glasses to their lips and chugged down the cloyingly sweet and uncomfortably spicy cinnamon-flavoured liquor.

“Oh, that's horrid,” Changbin shuddered, nearly dropping the shot glass as he recoiled. Chan nodded his head as he hissed, while Seungmin and Felix scrunched their faces in discomfort.

“You're disgusting, Ji. Let's get more!” The brunette from earlier perked up, the first time Changbin caught him speaking during the gathering. “It's not a good night unless someone pukes before we leave, yeah?”

Jisung slapped his hand on the table and collected the empty glasses from everyone. “Hell yeah, Jeongin, that's my dude!”

It wasn’t until the cool, late summer breeze hit Changbin as he stumbled outside that he realized that that fifth shot of Fireball that Jisung convinced everyone to take was, in fact, not a good idea. He groaned to himself as the cool air gradually revitalized him. “That shit was horrible.”

“Yeah,” Chan's aching voice slurred up from behind him. “You gonna be good getting home, Bin?”

Changbin wouldn't have responded if he was sober. He would have, and should have, just walked away, waved Chan off with an insincerely polite farewell, but the alcohol gave him a slight boost of confidence. He shrugged and sighed. “Probably. I live just down the street, uh,” he brought one hand to his temple as he blinked, eyeing his surroundings, eventually slinging his right arm up and pointed lazily towards the right, “that way. Somewhere.”

“You've never been a good drunk, have you?” Chan sighed, walking up to Changbin and interlocking his arm with the younger man’s, gently pulling him towards the direction he pointed in.

The brunette shook his head a few times and whined. “What're you doing?”

“Making sure you get home in one piece.”

“You dunno where I live, man.”

Chan tugged Changbin’s arm a bit and sighed. “You said this way, so I'm making sure you go that way. Besides, I live over here, too. It's on the way.”

“The Bushnell Apartments.”

The blonde stopped in his tracks and stared down at his drunken compatriot in shock. “How'd you know?”

“What?” The younger man lazily lifted his head up and knitted his brows together in confusion.

“That's where I live, dude.”

“No,” Changbin scoffed, “you big dummy, that's where I live.”

“Wait a minute,” Chan chuckled inwardly, “you live in the same complex as me?”

“Sounds like it, yeah,” Changbin nodded once, bringing his free arm up to rub the back of his neck, “third floor, room 325.”

“Holy shit. I'm in 324. I wondered who was playing music a few weeks ago when I was moving my stuff in.”

Changbin laughed nervously as the realization that Chan lived so close to him, not only in the same apartment complex, but right next door to him, slapped him in the face. “Fate's a real bastard, innit?”

“What?”

As much as Changbin wanted to say something, a look of discomfort quickly washed over his face. “Oh shit,” came out instead of the quip he was planning on, and he quickly, awkwardly dashed to the curb of the sidewalk, violently emptying the contents of his stomach all over the pavement instead.

A drunken laugh came up from behind him as Chan cackled maniacally. “I knew you were a lightweight.”

The next morning, Changbin woke up and even the most ambient of sounds were painfully louder, every light was uncomfortably brighter. He let out a weak whimper, and curled into himself as the world spun around him. “Goddammit,” he grumbled. “Fuck Jisung and fuck last night. I'm never drinking again.”

As if fate was teasing him, taunting him with how unfair it truly was, there was a knock against the door, the faint rapping pulling him out of his daze. He sighed heavily, rolling over onto his back, coming to terms with the fact that he was going to have to get up in a moment. “Be there in a sec,” he attempted to shout in the most decent, cognizant way possible.

It took Changbin a few moments to reorient himself as the walls spun around him. He stumbled his way through his bedroom, out to the front door, not bothering to look through the peephole. Changbin fumbled with his deadbolt for a moment, scolding himself as he realized he forgot to do the chain-link before he passed out at some point earlier that morning. He pulled the door open, instantly regretting leaving his bed as he saw the man at his door.

“Chan?” He rubbed his eyes and grumbled. “How'd you find out where I live?”

“You told me last night, dude.” The taller man offered a plastic bag around his finger, almost as if it were some sort of physical apology. “Figured you could use some of this, especially since you don't remember all of last night, do you?”

Changbin stepped back, opening his door wide. There was no way he had the energy to yell at Chan, not when the man had brought him food as a peace offering. “I'm still upset with you, you know.”

“You told me last night,” Chan shook his head, tutting in feigned irritation as he took a couple of steps into Changbin’s apartment. “Several times, actually.”

The two of them sat on the couch in awkward silence as they ate their lukewarm, greasy diner takeout. Changbin curled up into a ball, clutching his sports drink to his chest as he rolled his face into the couch cushion. “God, I feel like shit,” he whined. “How are you so okay after all of that? You ended up drinking more than me.”

Chan chuckled. “I was part of a frat, dude,” he took a sip of water from his glass, then set it back down on the table. “Beer was an acceptable substitute for water in Sig Ep. Practically its own food group. Ah,” he stuck a finger in the air and his face turned stoic, “unofficially, of course.”

In all honesty, Changbin never realized that Chan had become such a different person after he went to university. He was still caring and kind, but to picture him as a typical frat boy was jarring. “You still got honours and valedictorian after all that shit?”

“Yep,” the older man clasped his hands together, bringing them behind his head as he leaned back into the couch. “Don't know how I did it, though. Talent probably got me far enough.”

“You were always really good at playing the viola, dude.” The compliment was sincere, Changbin rolling his eyes up to catch the profile of his best friend, staring longer than he should’ve.

Chan turned slightly, sucking in some air through his teeth as he looked at Changbin. “Never as good as you.” His voice was low, like there was something hidden deep under his words.

The two of them were quiet again. Changbin couldn’t help but ruminate on Chan’s words, memories of their constant rivalries and the night of their drunken kiss violently replaying over and over in his head. Chan always wanted to beat Changbin out on one thing, and Changbin was afraid it would cause Chan to look down on him as somehow lesser than.

Oh.

A sour, queasy feeling rolled up the back of Changbin’s neck as he realized he had probably treated Chan poorly in everything they competed for when he beat him out. How could he have treated his childhood friend so terribly for something so petty and trivial? Changbin had no other friends, not since he and Wooyoung split up, and the loneliness he felt bubbled up in his chest, commingling with how horrible he felt for the way he had treated Chan after all this time.

He should have apologized, too.

“Hey, Bin,” Chan leaned further into the back of the couch, drawing his arm out against the frame and he stared down at his sickly junior. “If I had reached out to you and apologized, do you think you would’ve forgiven me? We said some horrible shit to each other and, honestly, I never thought we’d see each other again. I’m glad we got to see each other after all this time, but I can’t help but think we’d never talk to each other otherwise.”

Changbin couldn’t help but look away, staring off into the tiny chip on his wall next to his calendar. He chewed on his teeth, unable to resist thinking about all of the stupid, petulant rage he felt over their trivial fights. He brought his thumbnail to his teeth and anxiously nibbled at it, honestly unsure if he would’ve forgiven Chan if they didn’t end up in Seattle together after all this time. “I dunno,” he muttered, words coming out with a slight lisp against his nail. “I think you’re probably right. I mean, we hadn’t talked in four years, why start now? What’s the point of resurfacing old wounds just to tear into them?”

A heavy sigh came from Chan as he looked up towards the ceiling. “I guess you’re right. I figured you had everything going perfectly for you. You graduated with a bachelor’s and a master’s degree, were happily engaged, and had just accepted some prestigious job somewhere. You were succeeding and surpassing me in so many ways yet again, and I couldn’t even come to terms with the fact that I—” Chan quickly cut himself off.

Changbin lifted one of his eyebrows at the sudden silence, turning to look at Chan in confusion. “The fact that you what?”

The blonde shook his head, quickly standing up and brushing his shirt off. “I-it’s nothing.”

“Wait,” Changbin reached out to grab Chan’s arm without thinking, loosely grasping at his thin wrist. “Chan, I know it’s been years, but you can tell me anything.”

“No,” Chan shook his head, refusing to look at Changbin. “I promise, it’s not that important right now.” Almost as if he could sense Changbin opening his mouth to protest, Chan spoke up again. “Look, eat the rest of your food and drink a lot of fluids. We can talk about this all later, I just,” Chan offered a quick smile over his shoulder before he tugged his wrist free of Changbin’s grasp and made his way towards the door, “I can’t talk about it right now. Sorry, man.”

Changbin cursed himself for drinking so much the night prior, his hangover preventing him from chasing after Chan. As much as he wanted to know what Chan was about to say, he figured he would just drop it for now, then press for more information later.

Chan’s ‘talk about all of this later’ turned into a lot longer than Changbin expected.

It should have been days, weeks at the most. However, the end of summer resigned itself to Seattle’s torrential autumn rains, the symphony’s first performance of the season came and went, they all worked through their planned Thanksgiving break to finish recording a score for a film with an unbelievably large budget. All of that came and went, and there was still no conversation broader than casual discussion between the two of them.

Every time they passed each other, Changbin’s eyes lingered on the blonde. What was Chan thinking? What was he going to say that caused the energy between them to shift so drastically?

There were polite conversations in passing between Chan and Changbin off and on. Occasionally, they would walk to the practice hall together, but it was by sheer accident, only because they had left their apartments at the same time. Every interaction between them seemed accidental, too pleasantly sterile for what had to have been harbouring beneath the surface.

Autumn bled into winter. Rain turned to sleet, which morphed into snow a few times during January and February. February blended into March. March blossomed into April. More performances, more anxiety, more productions, more nervousness, more expectations, more, more, more. More from the symphony, and less, less, less from Chan.

The sleepless nights brought on by extensive late-night practices were tolerable; tired mornings after these were easily remedied with a few cups of coffee. Conversely, the few times Changbin had gone to bed at a reasonable hour, he found himself tossing and turning, restlessly thinking about Chan, unable to sleep. His heart pounded with nervousness, Changbin swearing he could hear his heartbeat echoing against the beige drywall of his bedroom. He reached his fingertips up and brushed them against the wall behind him, where he assumed Chan was laying on the opposite side, peacefully slumbering away.

So close. So far away. Chan was always right there, but so far out of reach.

I couldn’t even come to terms with the fact that I—

What exactly was Chan going to say on that day? Months had passed, but Changbin could still hear every syllable that came from Chan’s lips, the way that his tongue punctuated each hard consonant with a staccato against his teeth, haunting his dreams. He could picture the moment that Chan’s expression changed, shifted from ease to uncertainty, how his eyelashes twitched when his eyes went wide with fear.

Late one sleepless April night, Changbin had found himself staring upwards yet again, lost in the grooves and valleys of stucco against his ceiling. His nervousness of the upcoming principal seat exam weighed him down, forcing him to sink further and further into his mattress, heavy with doubt. Earlier that day, Chan stepped back, saying he wasn’t interested in fighting for the position, which Changbin read as neither truth nor fiction.

“I just want you to have the best chance possible,” Chan had told him with a seemingly fake smile. “You’re so incredibly talented, Bin. You’ve got the leadership skills, and I support you all the way.”

No. Something about that wasn’t right.

Changbin frowned, knitting his eyebrows together as he bit down on his lips. He tried to recall exactly what the expression was on Chan’s face while he said those words with a layer of insincerity. The insincerity was juxtaposed with honesty and pain, so many conflicting and contrasting things said without words.

Then, it hit him.

You’re so incredibly talented. It sounded so familiar, the layered pain and genuine jealousy.

Never as good as you.

It had been months since Chan told him that, when they were sitting on the couch nursing their hangovers at the beginning of the season. Months had passed, but the words were suddenly so crisp and clear, as if Changbin was right in that moment again.

It wasn’t jealousy. No, it was never jealousy.

In a near panic, Changbin reached out for his phone on his nightstand, bringing it up to his face. The bright light burned his retinas, but it didn’t matter. He started scrolling through Chan’s social media page, down countless months and years, endless photos that started with him in various spots in Seattle, then to his graduation, followed by various frat gatherings and university happenings.

It was like Changbin was travelling backwards in time, seeing several familiar names and faces pop up, partially reliving the moments he had spent over the years angrily scrolling through his timeline on the nights he where Wooyoung was sleeping soundly next to him. Names that caused Changbin’s stomach to tense with varying degrees of jealousy started popping up with each season he travelled through.

Senior year: Son Chaeyoung, five months.

Junior year: Minatozaki Sana, seven months.

Sophomore year: Im Naeyon, three months. Hirai Momo, two months.

Freshman year: Park Jihyo, two months. Yoo Jeongyeon, two months.

Changbin recalled all of the people — all of them women — that Chan had dated, how none of them really seemed like they were serious relationships, that they were maybe friends with benefits at most. The photos Chan had taken with them were all stiff and felt rushed, like he was putting on a show that he was happy with them, when he clearly wasn’t genuinely happy.

It wasn’t jealousy. Of course it wasn’t jealousy.

Chan was hiding something, and Changbin’s heart sunk into his stomach as he found himself staring at the ceiling yet again. All he could find himself thinking about now was a single word ruminating, burning into his head.

Why?

Changbin made sure to leave well in advance prior to the start of the day. He didn’t want to risk running into Chan, not when the principal seat exam was today. He had spent too much time ruminating and worrying over Chan and the what-ifs the night prior, his lack of sleep apparent as his limbs ached with fatigue.

The walk to the practice hall was uneventful; drizzle had languidly fallen from the sky, embedding itself into Changbin’s jacket, temporarily turning the crimson fabric just a few shades darker. After several months, Changbin had gotten used to the nonstop Seattle rain, varying from drizzle to torrential downpours with occasional reprieves of sunshine peppered in throughout the year.

In a way, it was oddly calming. The rain kept people from lingering in the streets too long to chatter, but there was also a stubborn resiliency as people just accepted the downpours. Umbrellas and ponchos were only seen with tourists, people that seemed afraid that the slightest bit of drizzle would cause them to melt. There was an influx of tourists in March, when the cheap cruises up along the coast to Alaska started. With the influx of tourists, there were more and more performances that were crammed into Changbin’s schedule.

Honestly, the transition from March to April seemed so minute, like the drizzle turning to heavy droplets of rain, the rainstorm he constantly found himself in. It was a beautiful time of year, and Changbin hadn’t ever truly appreciated the fact that there were so many varying shades of grey along the spectrum of white to black.

The transition from August to April seemed to be so subtle, too. Within a few months, the barista at the cafe got better with his name, eventually able to speak it with confidence at about February. Changbin assumed she was flirting with him a few times when she passed his cup to him with various doodles and scribbles on them, but he shrugged it off.

Today’s cup holding his shot in the dark had a heart next nestled up to his name. Perhaps it would bring good luck for the principal seat exam.

Practice was uneventful, since the entire group was only together for the first half of the day. As the group disbanded into its respective sections for individualized practice, nerves bubbled up in Changbin’s veins as he steeled himself in preparation for the principal seat exam. Seungmin had wished him the most polite “good luck, man,” he could muster, even though they were both competing against each other.

Changbin had been in the middle of practicing his solo piece when a familiar voice pulled him from his concentration.

“Fantasia Cromatica?” The voice was layered with nervousness and anticipation.

The brunette sighed, trying to bite back his irritation at the loss of his focus. “Yeah,” he turned his head over his shoulder, eyeing the man that approached him. “Surprised you recognized it, Chan.”

Chan’s hand twitched as he lifted it for a brief second, like he was about to reach out to Changbin. “I’ve eyed that piece several times,” he brought his hand up to the back of his neck, awkwardly chuckling as he stood a respectable distance away from the brunette, “it’s intimidating, but it’s such a well-known viola solo. I guess I’m not surprised you picked something without accompaniment with how independent you are.”

It was supposed to be a compliment, but Chan’s words struck a sour chord within Changbin. The younger man shook his head once, eyeing the floor before he turned to look at the blonde. “I’m trying to practice,” his voice came off harsher than he had meant it to. Chan’s expression fell from nervously optimistic to slightly hurt, and Changbin rolled his eyes with a huff as he tried to pedal backwards. “Look,” he started, making awkward eye contact with Chan for a brief moment, “after I’m done with all of this, can we talk? I’ve got some stuff on my mind I wanna discuss with you.”

Chan looked excited for a moment as he nodded rapidly. “Sure,” he bit back a smile, “yeah, I’ll be here.”

“Thanks,” Changbin half-smiled as he turned back to his sheet music.

“Good luck, Changbin,” Chan brought his hand up to the brunette’s shoulder, offering a quick, warm squeeze that didn’t last nearly long enough. The slight touch caused Changbin’s breath to hitch in his throat, all of the air around him turning cool as Chan left.

Somehow, the younger man felt revitalized with the well wishes of his friend still lingering on his shoulder and dancing in his ears.

“So,” Minho greeted Changbin with a warm smile as the brunette entered the room. “You’ve decided to audition for the principal viola seat. After the initial chair placements, I didn’t think you would try, in all honesty.” The auburn-haired man smiled, tipping his wire-rimmed frames down his nose slightly, red pen in his hand.

Shit. Nerves lit up all over Changbin as he started to doubt himself, like he wasn’t supposed to be here.

“I’m glad you did.” Almost as if he could sense Changbin’s nervousness, Minho offered kind words in his usual soft, gentle voice. “Listen, I should be clear about something. I specifically sought out both you and Chan, as well as a few others, for this year’s contract placements. I don’t think you recognized me during the interview process, and I’m surprised you didn’t notice after the season started.”

“What?” The brunette cocked his head to the side, eyelids squinting upward in confusion.

Minho set the clipboard down on his desk, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on the table. He interlaced his fingers together and rested his chin on the backs of his hands. “I used to live on the east coast. I was in New Jersey for a while until I moved to Seattle a couple of years ago for this job. You and Chan performed Lament at the state competition in New York a few years ago. I believe you were both juniors back then, correct?”

Changbin’s throat went dry as he recognized Minho from so long ago, feeling somewhat dumb for not realizing it sooner. All those years ago, he was sitting in between two other judges, wearing the same wire-rimmed glasses as he wore today. “Y-yeah,” he stuttered. “That’s right.”

A smile crept up Minho’s face. “You both earned a perfect score, which was a rarity in and of itself, but what really captured me was how well both of you worked, the way you both blended together so naturally, beaming with raw, unadulterated talent. Such balance can’t be taught, only naturally weaved together by fate.”

Uneasiness came over Changbin in waves, like he was about to be judged far more critically than he anticipated.

“Anyway,” Minho brought his hands to his desk and sat back a bit. “The details of it all aren’t important. Just know that I’m happy that you’re both here. I’ll admit, however, that I was disappointed when Chan told me that he wasn’t interested in auditioning for the principal seat.”

A jolt surged up against the length of Changbin’s spine. “What?” He pressed, taken aback, unsure if what he just heard was accurate. “Chan told you he wasn’t interested?”

Minho nodded once. “He told me that, if given the opportunity, you deserved it more than he did, that he believed you were more talented and had the right leadership skills for the position.”

Changbin knitted his brows together. Nervousness had been replaced with a rush of anger. He initially found it odd that Chan wasn’t going to audition for the seat placement, sure, but the fact that he deliberately told Minho that Changbin was more talented and deserved it? That they didn’t even get to have a fair chance of competition between the two of them?

He felt strangely hurt, like Chan had somehow betrayed him. All for what, a seat placement? Something so trivial, after all these years?

His eyes looked down at his viola, eyeing that familiar chip one more time. The familiar word that echoed against Changbin’s head the night prior was so loud yet again.

Why?

Chan was pacing in the hallway when Changbin emerged from Minho’s office. “Hey!” He perked up with a smile on his face. “How’d it go, dude?”

Changbin shook his head, unable to look at Chan. A scowl curled up his lips as he bared his teeth, briskly walking to where his viola’s case rested. Practice was supposed to be for another hour, but he couldn’t bear another minute of being under the same roof as Chan, in the same claustrophobic space as him, not when he was seething with anger.

“Changbin?” Chan’s voice was closer, but quieter than before. “Was it that bad?”

The brunette’s fingers trembled as he shakily rested his viola in its case, eyeing the chip one last time before he slammed his case shut. He didn’t say anything as he made his way over to the instrument lockers, deciding to leave his viola in the practice hall overnight. Chan trailed behind him, his voice growing more and more concerned as Changbin paced away.

“Dude,” Chan pressed, reaching out to grab Changbin’s wrist as he slammed his locker door shut. “What the hell happened? Are you okay?”

“Why?” Changbin wanted to say so much more, but the single syllable was all he could muster.

Chan winced, shaking his head in confusion. “What are you talking—”

“Why didn’t you audition for the principal seat?” His voice was terse, yet was still draped in a layer of fragility. “No, why did you tell Minho you didn’t deserve it? We’re supposed to be rivals, right? Push each other and make ourselves better, like when we were kids. What the fuck happened?”

“Changbin,” the blonde’s composure dropped with his shoulders, a look of pity washing over his face. “I didn’t mean for it to be like that. I just… I didn’t want you to worry about it.”

“Tch, typical. You know, Chan,” the younger man scoffed, rolling his eyes before he stared down the blonde, “I don’t understand you. I’m not some fragile thing that needs to be protected, not by anyone, not by you. I deserved a fair shot at the principal seat placement, I deserved to compete against you, and you just insult me like I had no chance if you competed.”

Chan curled into himself slightly, hurt by Changbin’s words. “I didn’t realize—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Changbin shook his head and spun on his heel, padding off towards the exit in anger.

After a moment, Chan heard the downpour come through the door as Changbin ran off. He rushed to his locker, grabbing his jacket and his umbrella. “Changbin, wait!”

Seattle rain was never forgiving, especially during spring. The precipitation clattered against the ground at near-torrential speeds, the heavy noise only amplified as it reverberated against the concrete and the walls of nearby buildings.

“Changbin, please,” Chan shouted as the younger man stormed out of the practice hall and into the downpour that enveloped Capitol Hill in a dark haze. He took a few long strides as he chased after the seething brunette.

Changbin spun on his heel, shouting at the top of his lungs as he stared down Chan with wild eyes, his voice barely carrying along the heavy pattering of rain against concrete. “I don’t understand why you keep hiding, Chan! Why did you turn me down all those years ago?”

Chan shook his head, avoiding eye contact as he motioned for Changbin to come back. “Come here, Changbin, get under my umbrella before you get sick.”

“No!” Changbin shrieked in anger, tears streaming down his face as all of the emotions he had bottled up over the years suddenly erupted all at once. “Do you not understand how much I’ve loved you all these years? Ever since we were kids?”

“Bin, please, I—” The blonde’s shoulders sunk down as he recoiled into himself, eyes darting around as he was frozen in place.

“Everything! Everything I did was because of you, Chan!” The words burned as they came up from Changbin’s chest, the black lily of nervousness entangling its petals in between the empty spaces of his ribcage. “I put myself through hell to distract me from you, to get all of these thoughts out of my head, to stop fucking thinking about you for once!”

Chan was quiet, lips parted as he stared at Changbin in disbelief, tears unknowingly spilling from his eyelids.

The brunette refused to relent, shouting over the Seattle rain. “You were the only person that believed in me. You pushed us to do that duet, even though I thought it was stupid. You’re the reason we got the perfect score. You keep saying that I’m so much more talented than you, that you’d never be as good at me, but you’ve always been the one that’s naturally better at all of this.”

A beat passed between them before Changbin let out an anguished, angry shout. He was so tired of all of the pain and anguish he had felt over the years, and letting it all finally explode after so long, like a rubber band wound up too tightly, felt unnaturally liberating. Regardless of how Chan felt about Changbin after all of these years, he could finally let go of his agony, which was equal parts terrifying and relieving.

“Why? Why the fuck did you never apologize to your best friend, Chan? I have been in absolute fucking misery since you and I kissed so long ago and I don’t think you understand how much I wanted you to be there. How you kept creeping into my thoughts, even after all of these years, all I could think about was you.”

The blonde advanced, his face pulled into a downward scowl as his footsteps were heavy against the slick concrete. “It’s because I didn’t want to admit something,” Chan spoke in as low of a voice as he could while he pulled Changbin to his chest. “When you kissed me all those years ago, I was terrified about all of the what-ifs that started rushing around in my head. Like, what if I ruin my friendship? What if you’re not actually into me? What happens when I’m not good enough for you? What if I was actually straight and I was going to cause you nothing but pain after all this time?”

“Chan, stop.” Changbin shook his head, bringing his damp hands to Chan’s clammy face, rubbing away the tears that started spilled over, down his chilled cheeks. “You’re always good enough for me. You’re the only one that’s good enough for me; the only one I ever wanted.”

“What?”

“Listen,” the brunette sighed heavily, trying to ease the tension in his shoulders. “Don’t get me wrong, I loved Wooyoung, but, the thing is…”

Chan watched the expressions on Changbin’s face cross a spectrum from confusion, to anguish, to regret.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about you, as horrible as it sounds. Sure, we were drunk when we had that one kiss, but it was the best kiss of my life. Hell,” he hiccuped, trying to swallow back tears, “I thought I lost my chance with you forever after high school. So, I settled. Wooyoung was the only other friend I had, and he was interested in me. I took a shot with him and, yeah, we were fine, but it wasn’t anything spectacular. I was ready to settle for a life of mediocrity until he decided he didn’t want to come to Seattle with me. I was finally free of both of you when I got here. I could leave you both behind.”

Changbin brought his forehead down to Chan’s wet shoulder, the fabric squishing against his skin as he rolled around and sighed. “It’s horrible,” he dropped his hands and clutched at the lapels of the blonde’s jacket, pulling himself closer into the older man’s embrace. “I was so glad to be free of both Wooyoung and the ghost of you. So, when I saw you that day at the cafe, it was like all hell had broken loose; everything came rushing back and I was overwhelmed by the weight of my past. I was forced to reconcile with the one person I hurt the most, the one who hurt me the most, and the one I never thought I would be able to forgive.”

A soft chuckle echoed around Chan’s chest as he rested his cheekbone against Changbin’s sopping wet brown hair. “We can’t escape each other.”

“I guess not,” Changbin quietly relented, releasing Chan’s jacket from his grasp, his arms languidly falling to his side in exhaustion. He was tired of being angry for so long, for harbouring such a deep-seated resentment against his best friend, for being mad at himself for never forgiving Chan after all this time over something so minor. So fucking tired. “I’m sorry, Chan. For all of this shit.”

The tapping of Seattle rain against Chan’s umbrella seemed so muted as the men stood up against each other, lost in their little bubble as the world disappeared around them. Nothing else mattered but being warmed by each other. Chan dropped his hand from Changbin’s back for a moment, then brought his fingers up to the underside of Changbin’s chin.

“Changbin,” his voice was timid as he tilted the younger man’s chin upward, both of them making awkward eye contact for a moment. A few drops of rain fell from Changbin’s hair, mingling against the tears that were rolling down his face, the droplets joining to become something greater, a small river down the valley of his cheek. “Even if you don’t forgive me after all this time, I forgive you. We were both idiots back then. What matters is that we’re here now. We can leave everything behind and move forward — together.”

“Together.” Changbin repeated, his voice cracking in between the syllables. He hated feeling so weak, but he couldn’t help it. All of the emotions from the past few years coming up, burning in his chest as the realization that what he yearned for all this time settled. After all this time, he was finally where he felt comfortable, secure, happy, with no strings attached.

Chan.

His arms were warm, a shelter to protect him from the weakness he was feeling. The happiness in his eyes and the bright smile on his face was Changbin’s sunshine during the overcast, dreary Seattle days.

Chan was home. His home.

The pattering of rain against Chan’s umbrella was suddenly so quiet, a rush of warmth blossomed up from Changbin’s cheeks to the tips of his ears. The black lily of anxiety that rested in between the spaces of his ribcage blossomed from black, to crimson, to a vibrant pink. All of his feelings for Chan became crystal clear, and he couldn’t hold them back any longer.

There was nothing left to lose.

“I love you. Still, after all of this time. I love you so much, Chan.” The words left his lips before he crashed them against Chan’s, much less awkwardly than their kiss so many years ago. His hands reached up to Chan’s blonde locks with a sudden renewed, yearning energy, grasping at the strands and tugging at them as if he would sink into the ground if he let go.

Rain came pouring down all around them as Chan dropped his umbrella, bringing one of his hands down to the small of Changbin’s back, the other hand softly cupping the younger man’s face. “I love you too, Changbin,” he whispered breathlessly as he pulled back for just a split second. Chan brought the brunette closer into his grasp, droplets of rain falling between them, rolling down their faces and in between their lips.

Like Connecticut, Changbin was vivacissimo, as wild as the hustle and bustle of the east coast. Like Seattle, Chan was andante, languid and calming.

Chan was his home, where Changbin belonged all along.

[maybeeatspaghetti]

1) I'm not sure if this has been asked before, but do you have fics that you haven't posted, or don't plan on posting? If so, and if comfortable with sharing, are there any particular reasons, be it the content, how it's written, etc?

2) Somewhat generic question, but as someone who is interested in writing, be it fanfiction/smut (possibly?) or otherwise, do you have any tips? I know that reading more is the big one, but y'know.. still.

Have a great day/night! ♡

1) I have three fics that I haven’t posted and don’t plan to post. Two are short fics that are so similar to fics I’ve already posted that it would be redundant if I did post them. The third one is a 150k novel that was a Whizzvin fic, but the characters changed so drastically as I wrote the book that I changed the names and developed them into different characters. Maybe it’s a little bit selfish, but I wanted to keep that one for myself and not share it. And I actually cut down the sex scenes, to make it less about sex and more about the story—so instead of four or five sex scenes, I cut it down to two and rewrote it to sound more like Warm Baths, where there are no typical erotica words (like “cock” or “thrust” or “hard”) it’s more about feelings than anything else. 

2) Write, write, write. That’s the biggest tip, and I know it gets thrown around a lot to the point of “I’ve heard this so many times already,” but it’s because it’s true. If you’re starting out writing and you look at it and think, “this is terrible” and you stop writing forever, then you’ve prevented yourself from ever getting better. The more you write, the better you’ll be. I’ve been writing for 15 years, and I can tell you, the writing I did when I was in middle school is horrific. It’s really bad. And I got marginally better in high school, and a lot better in college, and even better now, beyond college, when I’ve really been able to develop my voice without being encouraged to write a specific way by my teachers and professors. So allow yourself to write badly.

Write and get feedback. It’s not as easy to improve if you’re writing into a vacuum and you’re the only one seeing your work. As hard as it may be, share your work with other people; let them tell you what works and what doesn’t. If you’re uncomfortable sharing your writing with people you know, look for beta readers on the Internet. Feedback is key to helping you grow as a writer.

Yes, reading is important, but I’d rank it lower than writing. Reading helps get a sense for how authors structure their sentences, pace their stories, weave in subplots, and split their chapters, but ultimately, I personally lean much more heavily on the writing than I do on the reading, though I do read, just not as much as some authors. Some authors say to be a good writer you must 1) read x number of books a year, 2) read with a pen in your hand, and 3) read “good” works of literature only. I disagree with all of those: 1) There’s no certain number of books you have to read a year that makes you a reader or a writer. Go at your own pace and read how much you want to. I know some people good-naturedly compete to see who can read more books, but if that’s not the way you work, then don’t feel bad about not reading as much as other people. 2) Taking notes while you read doesn’t necessarily make you a better writer. If you like marking up texts and it works for you, go for it! And I do it sometimes (my Falsettos script... there’s hardly any white space left), but it can make you feel like you’re at school when you do mark in the books or take notes, and that might kill your interest in reading it. Just by reading (without taking notes or writing in the text), you’ll unconsciously absorb a lot of information about what makes a story work. 3) “Good” is subjective. What’s considered “good” by the people who say things like this is usually confined to the literary canon. And while I agree that some knowledge of the literary canon is valuable, there are so many wonderful works beyond it that are just as good. So when people talk about “good literature,” they’re usually deliberately denigrating and stepping on everything beyond the literary canon (which excludes a huge range of diverse works/voices). So don’t listen to them. There’s plenty of good literature outside the literary canon, and who’s to say something they personally didn’t like isn’t good? It’s all about personal taste. So read what you want, be it novels or nonfiction or comics or manga or fanfiction—whatever it is, it can be valuable to you as a writer.

Going back to writing—sometimes, you just have to write something bad to get it out and then take it out and start afresh, and I know that takes extra time and effort, but sometimes you need to do it. For example, I was writing a serious story about depression and I just couldn’t keep from writing a specific scene in a humorous way. So I wrote the scene that way, with a completely different feel and tone and pacing to the rest of the story, and then copied and pasted it somewhere else and went back to the beginning of the scene. Once I had gotten that awkward funny stuff out of the way, I could write it seriously. 

I’ve never been particularly good at plot, as I’m a much more character-driven writer, so I’m afraid I can’t offer too many tips about that. I usually let my characters lead the story, no matter whether it’s a short piece like what I mostly post on AO3 or it’s a longer, more involved piece like What a Wonder You Are.

In terms of writing smut... let me tell you—my first attempts at writing smut about five years ago were dreadful, and I actually gave up until this summer, when I jumped right off the deep end into my Shameless Whizzvin Smut series. And I’d grown a lot since the last time I tried to write it, and I did my research and tried to focus on the language and the emotions over the actual acts themselves (though some fics require a level of detachment, like Pretty Little Thing, where the fic is about the acts rather than the emotions), and I thought I did alright. And in the last four months, I’ve gotten better.

If you want to learn how to write good smut, turn to fanfiction authors. I have rarely read a good sex scene in a published, literary, mainstream novel (but for god’s sake, don’t read Fifty Shades of Grey; I know that was fanfiction, but it really doesn’t depict healthy or safe sex in any way—The Atlantic article “Consent Isn’t Enough” is great at explaining why). A lot of novels do the “fade to black” type scene where they cut away just as the characters are falling into bed together (Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin is a “fade to black,” but it’s done really masterfully). But if you want to learn how to write good smut, read fanfiction and remember that you can write smut that’s sexy without foregoing safety, communication, and consent. 

There’s kind of a fine line between what’s sexy and what’s absurd, and it’s all too easy to step over the line into the absurd, and this is sometimes as basic as word choice—if you say “his cock was flushed and quivering,” it sounds much better than “his flushed and quivering manhood” or “his flushed member was quivering.” If you’re going for the absurd, then use all the ridiculous words you want (manhood, member, manmeat, prick, rod, love muscle, meat stick, loins, etc. etc. etc.)! Just know it’ll be more amusing than sexy and people will probably make fun of it. But if that’s what you’re going for, then go all out! 

If you’re wanting some more specific advice about writing in general or smut writing, you’re welcome to send an ask or message; this response would get entirely too long if I were to go into more detail here. 💕

[super-cerulean]

3. You Get Used to the Loneliness, It's Just a Matter of Time

❄️Master Post: All Parts

❄️Pairings: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Reader

❄️Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death, Language, Mentions of Mental Illness, Mentions of Depression and Dissociation, Angst, Slow burn

❄️Summary: Following the events of One and Only, Jason Todd's life is spiralling out of control. His best friend is dead, his family thinks he's on the verge of a meltdown, and the one person who might understand is locked up in Arkham and hates his guts. Knowing he's getting to a point where things are going to overwhelm him, he can either let himself react the way he reacts, or he can do something drastic to try and prevent the next Arkham Knight situation. Which one do you think he goes with?

❄️Notes: I included some references to Gotham the TV series, but watching it isn't needed to follow along.

❄️Links: Available on AO3

There was a lot going on in your head the day Jason Todd decided to show up and spring you out of Arkham Asylum. The rage had long since dissipated, leaving you bewildered and afraid the moment you realized he was the one behind your spontaneous release. 

You’d been content with the idea that you’d stay in that dingy ass building for as long as they kept you, acting as some kind of penance for all of the horrible things you’d done. A part of you had held out some hope that they may actually be able to help you figure out why the Hell you’d done any of it. That maybe mandatory therapy sessions and free medication could help with some of the darker aspects of your personality, namely the affinity for torment and obsessive behaviors. It wasn’t until you actually got there that you realized you were definitely asking too much of a place that routinely housed the Riddler and every other eccentric Gotham supervillain.

Most would have had a change of heart the moment they were dragged past a massive Crocodile-Human hybrid on their way to processing, but by then you were beginning to feel numb to it all. The feeling was frighteningly familiar, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as you went through the motions of life as an asylum patient. There had been a time where feeling that empty haze of emotionless complacency again would be a fate worse than death, but your experience with Jason had taught you a lot about yourself; A lot that could be avoided if you just grew to accept the fact that feeling nothing was better than whatever the fuck had gone wrong the moment Jason had walked into your life. 

 The asylum was bad, but not something you thought you couldn’t handle. There were much more interesting patients running amok, so none of the doctors paid you any mind. It seemed everyone was either stuck working there due to lack of opportunity, or had specifically chosen Arkham hoping for a chance to work with their more infamous patients. No one had cared much for a D-tier loon from the Narrows who was borderline catatonic most of the time. Well, most didn’t. For some reason, there was one inmate who had tried relentlessly to befriend you even with the lack of personality you’d shown since you’d gotten there. Despite her bubbly interactions, even she had become background noise to your bleak existence at the asylum. It became routine. Floating through the days and weeks while trying to forget the feelings that had brought you there in the first place. 

But then, in a whirlwind of movement that you were too detached to really process, you were looking at him again. Jason Todd standing in all his glory in the city’s heavy snow and looking like Lucifer himself. Beautiful. The Gotham City signature mix of smog and flurries behind him had looked like a heavenly background for the embodiment of every awful thought you’d ever had standing before you. Even knowing how bad things had gotten, how far you’d fallen in your attempts to get his attention, there was a quiet acknowledgement in the back of your mind that as much as you tried to convince yourself that numbness was preferred, this still felt better. The confusing mix of fear and wanting was a welcome alternative to the dull existence you’d been punishing yourself with.

Maybe that was the root of your issues. 

You were so quick to just give up, and let yourself drift along feeling nothing for so long that when you felt something, you really felt it. And that feeling that came with seeing Jason, the delusional sense of affection, was the worst kind of addiction when it directly preceded that freezing numbness. But if there had been a way to fix it, you certainly weren’t finding it in that asylum.

And, per usual, Jason was convincing. He’d been desperate in ways you couldn’t even comprehend and it had made your heart race with sympathy and intrigue. Why did he want you around him at all, let alone badly enough to look so crestfallen when you didn’t agree? Since when did he care at all about what happened to you? The questions multiplied exponentially. So much so, that almost as soon as he’d left with Duke, you were hurrying out of his cold little home and back into the snow storm in search of answers. Maybe you couldn’t decode what was going on in Jason’s head, but you had to at least try and understand some of what you were feeling yourself. While Arkham’s staff had been entirely unhelpful in their meak endeavor to unravel the tangled strings in your mind, the asylum had at least introduced you to someone who may actually have some insight. That same patient who had spent so much time trying to talk to you: Harleen Quinzel. 

“In my expert opinion, I would say there seems to be an unhealthy attachment with more than a few erotomanic delusions present.” 

“Harley.”

“Yes?” 

“Are you talking about me, or about you and that stupid doll again?” 

“...he’s not stupid, he’s a very talented pop singer. And I can do two things at once.”

Right. Harleen Quinzel, despite having a PHD in psychology and being a licensed psychiatrist, was still legally insane. Seeking her expert opinion was certainly a gamble, but she was also still extremely brilliant even with her tendency to make little sense. That, paired with the fact that she was one of the only people in the city who you knew had gone through something similar to your own experience with Jason, made her the perfect person to talk to. That fact was probably the reason she’d tried so hard to befriend you when you’d both been in Arkham. She’d gotten out long before you, but had still leapt at your invitation to get lunch somewhere. A few hours later, you were sitting in her apartment, doing your best not to sit on any plants that were overtaking over the small space. 

“Okay, well can you go more in detail about my situation? You can therapize yourself whenever you want, so it’s only fair.”

“You know, I’m starting to think you’re using me for my big beautiful brain. As a friend, you should be a little more sympathetic to my situation, especially considering my girlfriend left me.”

“For a week. You’re not even broken up, she’s just out of town,” you scowled, sinking into a small space between a large fern-looking plant and something that might have had teeth. 

“My point still stands,” Harley persisted. She’d set herself up on the island counter between the living room and the kitchen, posing and playing with a little ken doll dressed in green. “I gotta carry this little guy around all the time now, just to fight the crushing loneliness of an absent lover. I even got the one with the red hair, so he looks like my Red.”

“See, you already know why you’re obsessed with that doll. I have no idea what the Hell’s wrong with me, and I doubt a voodoo doll’s gonna help me out. I have to actually figure out how to get over this shit for good.” 

Harley didn’t know the entire story of course, because Jason’s identity was still his to keep. The situation with Red Hood, however, was unfortunately public knowledge, and entirely unavoidable with someone who had clearly done their research before they’d even met you. You hadn’t bothered to look into just how much news coverage your little stunt had garnered, but threatening to bomb the city definitely carried more weight than the average “robbery in Somerset” article for the city’s news outlets. 

Harley’s expression sobered a bit, smile falling at your words. She set the doll down on the counter beside her, folding his little hands onto his lap politely, before mimicking the position herself. It was entirely ridiculous, but ominous considering how light-hearted she’d been before. 

“I hate to break it to you, but there is no puttin’ an end to it for good,” she explained, blonde pigtails tilting with her head. “This kinda thing doesn’t just go away. Especially not when it’s got a pattern like it does here.”

“It’s never happened to me before, though. Yeah, I had a couple boyband crushes and what not, but I feel like everyone has. This...this was something new. And maybe something I can deal with, but not about him. I just need to know how to forget about him.”

“Like I said, those kinda feelings don’t just go away.” 

“But they did for you! You got over the Joker, and now you’re happy with Ivy. You guys have this cute little apartment and you’re dressing Ken dolls to look like her. How do I forget about him, and get to where you are?”

“It’s not that simple for me either,” Harley said, sighing. She picked the doll back up, busying herself with posing his arms a few different ways as she spoke. “The Joker an’ I didn’t just go away. It got smaller, and I figured out how to push it away, but it’s still there. I know he was an abusive piece of shit, and I know I should want to jump at the chance to beat the shit out of him for a change, but…if he was still alive, I don’t know if I would. I still get sad about him sometimes.” 

“Fuck,” you groaned. That was not what you wanted to hear. If Harley was still on the hook for someone who was dead and in the ground, the Joker no less, what the fuck chance did you stand in being around Jason? “So, what am I supposed to do?”

“You gotta address the root of the problem. From what you’ve been tellin’ me, it doesn’t seem like you actually knew your Little Red. He saved you from muggers and you fell for him on the spot, right? And you said you have a habit of just...disconnecting? Tuning out the world and shit?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” The mugging part had been a blatant lie, but the rest was true. The numbness at least, was something you had been honest in describing.

“Sounds like you’ve got a problem with dissociating, to me. And maybe it’s been happening for so long, that you started to think you’d be stuck like that forever and you got desperate.”

“That’s believable,” you muttered, growing uncomfortable under her gaze. She could become eerily serious when she was focused. 

 “So you gotta figure out ways to find yourself again on your own. Instead of latchin’ onto the first feeling you get and sinkin’ your claws in, you gotta be able to trust yourself to break out of that feeling. A part of that is this thing I like to call ‘healthy coping mechanisms.’”

“...I think most people call it that.”

“Yeah, but I came up with it.” Harley waved her hand, dismissing the contradiction on the tip of your tongue as if she knew you were trying to deflect away from her uncomfortable diagnosis. Dissociating? Yeah, that wasn’t surprising. But naming it and being told you’ve got to deal with it? Brutal. 

Harley hopped off of the counter with a flourish, pushing the doll into a little carrier she seemed to have made at her hip, and dragging you up by your hands. “C’mon grumpy, I know just the way to cheer you up.”

A part of you wanted to protest that you hadn’t really done anything to fix your problem, but the rest of you was too relieved to be rescued from the microscope Harley had had you under. The words she’d said were bouncing around in your head enough to cause a headache, so diving into the reason you even had those issues in the first place might have been too much. 

“What do you have in mind?” you asked finally as she seemed to be gathering her things to leave again. 

“I’m gonna introduce you to some friends, and we’re gonna get into some trouble.”

“I don’t know…I just got out of Arkham.”

“Oh c’mon, it’s nothin’ too illegal. Plus, we get to fuck with your least favorite bird-man.”

Eyes narrowing, you resented the fact that Harley still thought you had a vendetta against Penguin. Even worse, you resented the fact that she was right, and that the opportunity to fuck with Oswald Cobblepot was too good to pass up. Maybe you weren’t entirely over the fact that he’d tried to set you up to be gunned down by Jason himself after months of being his favorite employee. Some things just stuck around no matter how predictable they should have been. 

“...alright, fine. But I’m not gonna’ kill anyone.”

Edward Nygma and Selina Kyle. In Gotham’s vast criminal underground, neither were very worrisome to find yourself working with. Ed was pretty chill from what you knew, having enlisted his help in your plan to get back at Jason all those months ago. Seeing him again had been kind of surreal, but he seemed more annoyed that you’d backed out of your plan than anything else. 

“It really was a decent plan for someone of your aptitude,” was what he’d said after a cordial greeting. Decent enough for him to be okay with adding you to his revenge plot against Oswald, it seemed. Or he also could have simply known you were the expert among them on Penguin’s operations and had deemed that worthy of use in his own plans. 

Selina Kyle on the other hand, was another story entirely. She hadn’t known who you were at first, and that had made her wary. Out of costume and among friends, she had watched you with lazy vigilance until Ed explained to Harley that the two of you had already met. Then after hearing of your history with Red Hood, as uncomfortable as that was to sit through, her sharp gaze only worsened in your direction. Like she was cataloging your every move and forging a mental case file with what she noticed. 

“My request is simple; Oswald sold out my last plan for Batman in one of his tantrums, so I’m going to get back at him somehow,” Ed explained. “While normally I detest enlisting the help of peons-er…lesser intellects, I’ve got my hands full rearranging my plans for Batman to stay on schedule.”

“What’d you do, Eddie?” Selina asked, sounding somehow equal parts amused and bored as she kicked her leg in lazy circles from her perch on Nygma’s table. He’d set up so many documents and diagrams for whatever he’d been working on that the surface had little space for anything, yet Selina had simply pushed things out of the way as needed and settled down. The movement had seemed to annoy him at the time, but he’d gotten over it quickly in favor of splitting his attention between his work and explaining what he wanted them to do. Selina’s accusation however, earned his full attention as he slammed a hand onto the table in anger.

“Why must you always assume Oswald’s temperament is my fault?”

“Because you adore toying with him, and this little back and forth has been going on for years. If I’m getting involved, I’d like to know what started it this time around.”

“Well if you’re implying it’s my fault, then you’re mistaken.”

"What ever happened with that thing you were doin' at the lounge?" Harley asked, and Ed seemed to seeth at her mention of the event. 

"Oswald took it personally, and here we are. Any more questions, or are you all done wasting my time?"

"Where exactly are we going?" Was your main concern at the moment. Bits and pieces of the long-standing rivalry had reached your peripheral in the time you'd worked for Cobblepot, and even that had been too much information on their creepy little relationship. 

"Finally, something relevant. That's exactly where I'll need your input. You know where Oswald keeps his most valuable possessions, right? Preferably something expensive or of personal value." 

"He probably moved things around since I've been gone," you replied uneasily. Oswald was wily enough to know that with as many people as he had fucked over, he needed to keep his operations fluid. But, there was one place you doubted he'd have moved around, as he had been overly proud of the ‘hidden in plain sight’ cleverness at the time he'd drunkenly mentioned it in your presence. "I may just have the perfect place, though…"

Edward's petulant attitude towards Harley and Selina's prodding quickly dissolved when you outlined your knowledge of Penguin's favorite safehouse. The fact that he probably didn't even remember mentioning it to you, or was aware you were out of Arkham at all meant it was likely still a viable option. As you explained, an evil little grin overtook Ed's frown and you were reminded quite abruptly that you were surrounded by some of Gotham's most notorious criminals. 

Yet…somehow, it didn't really feel like you were out of place at all. 

Especially not when your plan was accepted quickly enough and some light gear was thrown your way as Harley shuffled through Nygma's arsenal. Among them, there was a dark green face mask for the bottom half of your face, thankfully void of the usual question mark pattern he seemed so attached to. Ed was cool and all, but you really didn’t want to look like a member of his gang. 

"You wanna drive this time?" Harley asked once everyone was suited up and heading for the garage. Nygma’s current base of operations was a dank storage unit near the Miagani Channel. It was pretty small, but had an attached garage space where Harley had parked her decaled and spray painted motorcycle beside Selina’s plain black one. 

“I’ve never done it before,” you replied, though your eyes had locked onto the bike with want. It had seemed so fun watching Harley drive that you’d felt a subtle desire to try it yourself ever since you’d stepped away from it. 

“Can you ride a regular bike?”

“Yeah?”

“Good, then you’ve got balance. That’s the main part; I’ll teach you the rest.”

“Oh good. How about I lead the way, then?” Selina offered. There was a wary look in her keen eyes that followed the statement with ‘because I’m almost certain you’ll crash, and I don’t want to get caught in it’. Honestly, the look was a welcome break from her quiet analysis and you were a little desperate to stick to that instead. 

“Yeah, sure. I’m a pretty fast learner,” you replied, smiling a little when Selina purposefully took off early as Harley instructed you on the basics. She went pretty slow, but it was clear she wanted a wide gap between the two bikes. 

Admittedly, it was a bit of a rocky start. Your balance was alright, but Harley had saved some vital pieces of information until you were actually on the road and had to ask. But, as you’d said before you were quick to pick things up. By the time you’d made it to Gotham Zoo, you felt at least decently comfortable driving the thing without fearing for your life. Though it would certainly be a while before you started listening when she urged you to ‘pop a wheelie’. 

“He seriously keeps his valuables in the penguin exhibit?” Selina asked once you’d dismounted and settled your helmet onto the seat. Her Catwoman suit looked even more sleek and impressive in person, and distantly you were a little jealous. At the moment, you were down to wearing something basic you’d picked up from your back-up condo on the way to Harley’s and a junky looking toolbelt from Nygma. That, combined with the ill-fitted mask screamed ‘amateur’ and you were hoping you’d been past that point for a while now. Though…you hadn’t really known you were hoping for any kind of respect in the criminal underworld until Harley had dragged you to Nygma and he’d seemed to acknowledge you had at least a modicum of sense.

“Yeah. There’s a safe inside one of the icebergs in the back. It’s supposed to be top secret, but he always did get mouthy after a couple drinks.”

“Drunk Oswald is my favorite Oswald,” Harley mused, wistfully twisting the red hair of the doll at her hip. You’d forgotten about the little thing, belatedly wishing you’d managed to shake it off when you’d been driving the bike. Something about the little plastic bastard made it feel like he was mocking you; laughing at the fact that Harley’s relationship with it was probably better than anything you could ever have with anyone, including Jason. Thus, as Harley skipped off into the zoo, you were left thinking ‘Stupid fucking knock-off Poison Ivy’.

The penguin habitat didn’t take long to find, situated at the center of the subterranean ‘Arctic World’ exhibit and lit with ice-themed lights and infographics. The thick glass separating the deep blue water and the empty room was cool to the touch as you passed it, eerily still without the activities of the penguins disturbing it. It made for a sort of nice, quiet atmosphere that brought a sort of introspective feeling to mind. At least it did until Harley ran past with what looked like a small explosive in her hands. 

“What-Hey! Are you gonna’ blow the door up?” You asked, rushing towards the ‘employee’s only’ sign where Harley seemed to be arming a very menacing looking machine. Humming in affirmation, she seemed intent to continue until Selina came around and quickly snipped a wire with a flash of metal at her fingertip. 

“Let’s save the explosives for when we’re not in a fish tank.”

“Oh please, as if this little thing would even go that far,” Harley responded, pouting at the severed wire as Selina set to picking the lock with another talon. 

“Knowing Eddie? It’d probably take out a city block,” Selina said. It certainly helped to have another voice of reason around when Harley was involved. 

After a moment or so, the lock was picked and Harley was rushing past the two of you and into the bitter cold of the exhibit. Considering her costume was essentially a corset and skin-tight leggings, you were shocked she’d run so quickly inside. Just as you moved to follow, Selina pressed a clawed hand to your shoulder. The studded metal remained clear of your neck and clothes, but there was an obvious threat in the way she turned her sharp gaze your way. 

“It looks like Eddie and Harley like you well enough to not ask questions, but I never really subscribed to the ‘curiosity killed the cat’ mentality. What’s your end-game here?”

“You mean like…with the penguins?”

“No, in general. You’re not motivated by riddles, or a very endearing love of chaos and violence. Or money, it seems. So what is it?”

“Oh,” you responded, feeling as though you were being psychoanalyzed rather than interrogated. At first, getting involved in Gotham’s criminal underground had been about Jason. Wanting to impress him, and to greedily take every ounce of his attention you could manage. Now? In the short-term you’d just wanted to fuck with Oswald. But long term, you weren’t sure where your head was at, or if you even wanted to stay relevant in their world. Considering Harley Quinn was probably your only friend at the moment, it wasn’t very likely you’d get out of it any time soon. 

“I think I’m still figuring that out,” you said after a while of thinking. “I’m not really built for the nine-to-five life, and this is something I’m pretty good at, so…”

Selina seemed discontent with your response, but it was the only one you’d had. Still, she released your shoulder, flicking a dismissive hand over her own and gesturing for you to follow along. 

“In this city, a nine-to-five’s enough to drive anyone insane,” she replied finally, and though you laughed there was a bit of awkwardness to it because her words rang a little too close to the truth. “Harley seems convinced you’re going to be her new side-kick protege or whatever, so if you’re sticking around you’d better figure out why you’re doing it in the first place.”

“What about you? Why’re you Catwoman?” Selina smiled over her shoulder, black outfit suddenly alight with the exhibit’s cool blue lighting as Harley turned the power on somewhere out of sight. 

“Me? Well it’s hard for a girl to make it in a city like this one on her own with no one looking out for her. I got sick of surviving and decided I wanted to thrive.” 

Her response was simple, but honest in a way that was wholly relatable. Gotham was the kind of city that pushed you to your breaking point, and you could either endure, or you could adapt. Survive or thrive, as Selina had put it. Maybe reaching that breaking point had been what’d thrown you off the deep end, after all. 

“Is this the one with the safe an-” Harley’s voice cut out somewhere over a massive mound of fake ice, rising to a shrill gasp that drew both your and Selina’s attention back to the task at hand. Suddenly a set of blonde pigtails came bouncing around the iceberg and Harley was standing in front of you again, holding a tiny black and white body in her arms. 

“No, you can’t keep it,” Selina stated immediately, voice taking a stern tone. 

“But why? Oswald got a couple for his lounge, didn't he?”

“Yes, and I’m sure PETA has started a petition about it every year since.”

“He’s a small little guy, though! I could fit him in my place and catch fresh fish for him from the river.”

“From Gotham river? You might as well drop him in a chemical vat at that point,” you responded incredulously, and surprisingly Selina’s stern expression cracked a bit as she chuckled. “And your hyenas would eat him.”

“Oh…they might, actually,” Harley responded, quietly looking at the terrified Adelie and coming to the same conclusion. 

“C’mon, let’s find some other souvenirs to grab,” Selina said as Harley let the little body touch the ground and waddle quickly towards the water to escape. 

True to what you’d heard, the safe was hidden behind a discolored panel on a fake glacier near the back of the exhibit. Once it was exposed, Selina set to cracking the old, outdated safe lock with an ear to tall the metal door. Why in the hell Oswald had chosen to use such an obsolete locking mechanism was beyond you, but it did admittedly take longer than some of the electronic locks you’d seen cracked before. Regardless of its efficiency, Selina was able to open it in a minute or so, pushing metal door open and cringing at the high-pitched squeal of metal on metal. 

“You gotta’ teach me that one day,” Harley grinned, earning a wink from Selina as they led the way into the safe. Harley pulled out a phone as soon as she was inside, dialing Ed’s number and showing him the safe through a video call. 

“Ugh, it looks like a bunch of old junk,” he complained. A part of you worried you’d made a mistake in your direction for the mission, wondering what the value of a bunch of old furniture and paintings could be compared to some of the high-tech weaponry Oswald had his hands on. Then you noticed the missing set of cat ears and noticed Selina had disappeared further inside the safe. 

“Anything good,” Harley called, too busy pointing her phone at the walls of junk to go with you to check. By the time you reached Selina, she was covered from her ears to her wrists in expensive looking jewelry. Gaudy and chunky, but with what had to have been authentic diamonds and jewels. 

“There sure is. Looks like they’re family heirlooms, too.”

“Are they? Let me see!”

Nygma clicked his tongue when Selina strutted into the camera’s view, disinterested with the artifacts. Following Selina’s path towards the back, you sorted through some of the remaining jewelry pieces, settling a ruby necklace over your own neck. There was a folder that looked to have been recently messed with, void of any dust and settled a bit oddly atop a painting of an older man with a hook nose. Inside, there were a lot of older deeds and documents, but a newer one settled neatly atop the rest of them stating the ownership of a million dollar mansion in Bristol. Something about the paper’s pristine appearance in comparison to the rest prompted you to bring it along towards where Harley was trying on a chunky set of earrings while Nygma complained that they were slacking off. 

“What about this? Looks like he’s dabbling in real estate.”

 Ed leaned forward, pushing his glasses up closer as he crowded into the phone screen to get a better look. Then, slowly he began to grin. 

“Real estate? Oh no, no. Looks like our friend’s found himself a new spot to settle down. And it looks like he wanted to keep it a secret.”

“So you know where he lives now, big whoop. You gonna egg his house?” Harley asked, looking bored. 

“Of course not. But he has a dog. He named it ‘Edward’, like the petty child he is.”

Frowning, you lowered the deed and narrowed your eyes at the camera. 

“And what are you gonna do to ‘Edward’?”

“Eddie,” Selina said, tone warning. “You’d better not be planning to hurt that dog.”

“What? Of course not! Who do you think I am? I’m just going to steal him, and make Oswald solve a series of puzzles to get him back. I’m not Cruella Deville, for god’s sake.”

“Well how are we supposed to know when you get to grinnin’ and schemin’ like that?” Harley protested, visibly relieved. 

“I would never-Ugh! Nevermind that. Just take whatever it is that you three want as payment and get the hell out, before someone catches you. I don’t need Oswald catching wind of my plans again.”

“Yeah, yeah. Later,” Harley said, hanging up and dropping the phone back into her pocket. “Sheesh, he almost gave me a heart attack.”

“I nearly had to do the right thing,” Selina said, sounding horrified. Then, glancing at her collection of jewels she smiled. “I’ve got what I want. I’ll meet the two of you outside.”

As Selina turned to head for the exit, another form appeared over the towering mound of furniture, and he was certainly too tall to be another penguin.

“Aw, am I too late to the party?”

If it had been Jason, you may have rolled your eyes; maybe even thrown a lamp at his head to keep up appearances. But, leaning oh so casually against an ornate bookcase, was a different one of Gotham’s elite vigilante’s entirely and his suit was blue. 

[sennextheassasinkingoflight]

The Bard and The Witcher

So, here’s that soulmate song based fix it fic I wrote last night. I hope you all enjoy it. Can be read as platonic or romantic Geraskier Rated T for mild swearing as per AO3 guidelines, probably could have gone with General but ehh. 

This story was highly inspired by "Welly Boots" by The Amazing Devil. If it looks like a line came from the song it probably did! There is one or two direct quotes, and a lot of pulls. So if it even looks like it came from the song it did and give full credit and praise to Joey Batey and the rest of The Amazing Devil for creating it!Also this I realize is a song-fic turned soulmate au, fix-it- fic gone wild. I reference A few other soulmate tropes early on, and I don't remember where they all came from. If you recognize them and know where they came from will you pretty please drop me a comment so I can give proper respects to the authors and make sure to cite/source/ recommend them properly??? Shout out to Thatrandomace who wrote "And The Sky Was Finally Blue" I make mention of the trope from this story in mine. It's an excellent story go read it. :) Thank you all so much! I hope you like this one. Cross posted on AO3 at SennexTheAssasinKingOfLight.

The Bard and The Witcher Everyone has a soulmate, this isn’t something that is debated. It is a fact. Everyone thinks that you know your soulmate by words written like ink on skin, by a symbol that represents them, by seeing color or the color of your soulmates eyes, by the way they smell, or any number of other methods. The truth is, when you meet your soulmate your souls become tied. Most people do not notice this event.There is no outward change, you may not be romantically inclined or involved with your soulmate. Some live their entire lives either never meeting their partner or they are in close enough proximity with them that they never feel the negative effects that lead to knowing one’s soulmate. When you leave your soulmate your soul stays behind with them (See the final note). Likewise theirs remains with you. Should you and your soulmate become separated by great distances and time it is likely that both parties will die unless they are reunited. This near death experience is often the only way to know your soulmate.

Sometimes if one partner is recorded as being especially strong or especially emotionless then they often survive the separation. Witchers, for instance, always survive this separation while their partners do not. It is thought this is because of their mutinigans or perhaps because of their training. Whatever the reason, it is unknown. You may be wondering if there is any other way than this near death experience for soulmates to know if they’ve met. There is not, save perhaps the whispering of children. Usually one does not know about their soul tie until they’ve begun to die, after they have seperated. However, there is time to be reunited before death occurs.

Separated, soulmates often state that they noticed changes in their behaviors. Those that were reunited noted that they believe the changes in themselves were those that their partner records as having lost. It starts as a little thing, with their souls not near, they begin to lose parts of themselves. It may be as simple as a desire that is usually very strong, such as the desire to watch the sunrise, and then it will grow until parts of their very beings fade. By then it is often too late to find one's soulmate. For most, they have but two months when they’ve begun to lose their essence, their main personality traits, their desire and will to live. It is of note that some scholars believe that the soul left behind often manifests as a ghost, a spirit or spectre, that cannot be killed by a Witcher or otherwise.

Should members of the soul tie find one another all damage is repairable over time. In one another's company they often grow stronger and healthier. Note, that the length of time recorded for members of a soul tie to die is veritable and has been reported to change depending on three major aspects of the partners relationship. The first is the length and duration of time the soulmates have known one another, the intimacy of their relationship regardless of its nature (Romantic or otherwise), and the way by which they depart from one another’s company.

Should soulmates meet briefly and in passing they are likely to live a near normal duration of life. This is believed to be because the souls have become tangled but do not know the others as more than a stranger passing by. These often go unnoticed, and undocumented. As such there is little more to be said on the matter. Also note, because soulmate relationships are not always intimate, that this may play a part in strangers meetings. How can one be tied to one they do not know?

Should soulmates know one another for a long time and depart on loving and mutual terms it takes a much longer duration of time for the soulmates to pass. They often are not burdened by personality changes or the other effects of the separation, especially if the intent to reunite is strong between both parties.

Should they know one another for a long period of time and depart in anger, and non mutual desire, death is likely to arrive much quicker for both parties.

It is often recorded that in such cases where the soulmates have known one another for long periods of time that as they die and their desires fade, they take on and exchange traits with their soulmate. We speculate that this is the way by which the gods may attempt to draw soulmates back to one another. It is usually subtle and unless soulmates recognize these traits they may never be reunited with their partners. However, if they do recognize the traits, and ‘hauntings’ of the others spirit, they may yet have time to reunite.

One final note on soulmates, it is believed strongly that children, newborns to slightly older children , 0-7 can see your soulmate's spirit as it follows you. Consistent reports from children is what leads to the belief that the hauntings that soulmates report in their partners absence is in fact their soulmates soul. Some rare adults have also reported this phenomenon. Often these adults are free spirits that are not bound by the laws of normalcy and maintain a love for the beauty of the world around them.

Adults like me, dear reader.

This is the story of a bard named Jaskier and his witcher Geralt of Rivia.

The Bard and The Witcher.

At the time of their deplorable and heart wrenching separation neither knew they were so bonded. They had traveled apart at times, sometimes for long increments, but at those times they always intended to reunite even if they were unaware of their own desires. Eventually the days turned to weeks and both remained largely unfazed.

The poet anguished and from his pain brought forth into this world such well-known and beloved songs as “Her Sweet Kiss” among others. He continued to play for courts and taverns, inns, and any who would listen. He played until his voice broke and his fingers ached, he danced until his legs gave way beneath him. Eventually the bard regained himself, though his identity would be forever tied to his witcher.  After all, twenty two years of companionship is not so easily forgotten. For a while he returned to teach at oxenfurt as an alumni and one day decided to leave. He would go to the coast. I believe this decision was made when he began to notice the small changes becoming greater, when the soul following him was more attentive.

Alternatively the witcher's anger eventually ebbed away and guilt took its place. He often brooded and sulked as was his custom and habit before the viscount turned bard had begun traveling with him. Often he found himself listening for news of the bard sometimes this made him feel – he would not admit it to anyone – at these times he would find a beast of one kind or another and expand his energy by dispatching it with reckless abandon and unbridled restraint. The result was new scars on an already marred flash.

T’was narry six months past their departure that the Bard and the Witcher began to notice changes in their case, unlike previous recorded cases, the symptoms (shall we call them dear reader?) are more prominent and drastic from the start. We may attribute this to the very passionate nature of the lover bard and the overprotective silent fondness the witcher most definitely harbors for him. The bard found that he often wanted to speak less and the witcher more. The Bard enjoyed company less, the witcher more. These were not subtle changes. The bard knowing and putting stock in the romanticized records that detail most accurately the tales of soulmates drew but one conclusion: That he had known his soulmate intimately and was now separate from them. It would be a little over a year before the full effects began to wear on either.

Even as he descended the mountain the bard felt as though he was being watched. When he looked there was never anything there. It was like there was something in the corner of his eye but when he turned to see it, it would jump out of his line of sight. It was fast. But it was there. He didn’t know what it was, only that there was a presence with him at all times. Whenever he looked in the mirror he’d catch the briefest flash of a shadow. It didn’t frighten him. Sometimes he could swear he could feel the coolest touch against his skin. This touch did not occur often so when it did it often elicited a reaction from the bard. Often the distraction saved him from some kind of dangerous circumstance. When he began to notice the shifts in his personality, he set out for the coast. He knew he hadn’t much time left for the world.

He arrived at the coast very near sunset. The horizon was painted in golds and reds. He hated it. It made him angry the way gold and red reflected on the water. And yet, there was something haunting and beautiful about it. It reminds him of the day he thinks he left his soulmate behind. He isn’t a fool. He settles in near a village. He doesn’t stay in it. This is easier with his sudden aversion to people. He still composes and he still sings, and plays with all the fervor he ever had. This he hasn’t lost yet. So he knows that while his life is fading and the colors are muting around him, he has time still.

One night while playing for a gathering in the city square the bard nearly has a heart attack. He’s playing something for the people to dance to. They’ve started asking him to play at event’s like tonight's wedding. So of course he agrees. He’s coming to the end of the song and he fumbles a note, regains his composure and continues. A fellow musician gives him a look but he just shrugs and looks back at the corner of the square occupied by 3 young children and what looks like Geralt, only it can’t be. He’d know if the witcher was here. He can’t hear anything from this distance. So he watches, and then as Geralt turns his back on them to go wherever he intends to go one of them tries to catch him by his leg, the child falls through. Geralt smiles the kind of smile that is reserved for children and on occasion Jaskier. Gently he kneels down and says something. He swallows, his mouth suddenly very dry. He had thought, but now he knew. Geralt was his soulmate and his soul had saved his life, had put shivers down his spine, had walked beside him all these months. He turns back to the musicians. He has to focus. People are looking at him strangely so he smiles too large and sings louder.

The children approached him sometime later. One of them, a short boy with freckles hands him a light blue Forget Me Not with a Yellow dandelion.

“I was asked to please give these to you. But I can't tell you who told me Mister. He said it was a secret.” Jaskier kneels to be at eye level with them,

“Thank you. I think I know who they are from.” He smiles a bit sadly, eyes soft and understanding. Underneath it all is just a touch of anger. Anger that one man could steal his entire life. He had given it freely enough and then it was tossed aside like a chicken bone after supper. And now, that same man would be the reason for his death.

“ He also said to tell you,” the little girl chimes in putting her hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her bare feet, “that a storm is coming and you need to make sure you have your books in order.”

“He said somtin about the orners too.” The other boy, missing a few teeth, says happily.

“Really? Well I have a way of waterproofing my books when I’m done with a song. Maybe that's what he meant. And you little miss, if a storm is coming you ought to put your storm boots on.”

“I’ve lost em Mister.”

“Lost them? Well then you ought to put on a heavy cloak at least. Else you’ll be soaked right through.”

Then he stands and corrals them back to their parents. A glance at the horizon tells him that there is a physical storm coming, but the mess in his head and his heart tell him perhaps it’s an entirely different kind of storm. When he returns to his home, a sturdy little shack with a fire pit in the middle, a table and two chairs on one side and bed on the other, a small wardrobe beside it and a small shelf with kitchen supplies, he falls tiredly into his bed. Absently he sets his lute against the wardrobe from his perch atop his blankets. Eventually he sits up and removes his boots.

“I know you’re there. I saw you with the children earlier. I know you can hear me. I think you can anyways. There aren't many recordings of adults seeing their soulmates' souls. Can you talk to me? Oh come on. Seriously? Is there a rule that says you can’t let me see you? All these months knowing you were there, but never seeing you. Please just come out from wherever you're hiding.” Geralt’s spirit does. It stands before him with a cocked head and calculating gaze.

“So you can show yourself.” A stiff nod is all the response he gets. “Oh. Just as silent then. Or maybe I can’t hear you.” The spirit says something but he can’t hear it. “Well then, at least I can see you I suppose. Does he or, er, you know that we’re bonded?” A hesitation, a scowl, and finally a nod. “ Huh, I wonder if he’ll come looking after me. I mean Witchers don’t die from separation like the rest of us do. He probably doesn’t care enough to bother. Besides he doesn't put much stock in this kind of thing anyways.” The spirit frowns and shakes its head vigorously, but Jaskier only laughs. He is at peace. He won’t go seeking the other out.

He begins to change and the witcher's spirit turns his back. “Oh, really. Interesting. Your welcome to stay where I can see you, and you don’t have to, oh whatever. Do as you please.” Geralt's soul turns back to him and nods. He perches on the end of Jaskier’s bed that night, and as the days go by he takes to laying beside him with an arm around him. And though Jaskier can’t feel it it is oddly comforting.

He sees the way the spirit smiles at him when he plays. He can see the way he interacts with the children The little girl from before approaches him while he plays. He leans down to hear her speak. They’re out on the beach collecting shells, and he is just enjoying the day. The salt ruins his strings and he has to take great care in cleaning his instrument when he's done, but it’s worth it to watch the children dance in the sand.

“He,” she looks over her shoulder at the spectre, “Asked me to tell you he’s proud of you, the way you’ve grown up.” She says giggling and running away. He sputters fingers playing several wrong chords before he stops all together. The witcher's spirit openly laughs at him in silence. Jaskier can’t help but smile back.  

He can feel his desire to play begin to ebb. It won't be long now. This is the most important part of himself. That night he gets drunk and he plays louder and more energetically than he has in a very long time. Suddenly it’s like he is young all over again. He plays and sings with the energy he had when he first began, loud and long into the night. His voice rumbles through the room. Geralt's ghost smiles and watches him from the dark corners of the room.

Soon after his health begins to fail. He takes to sitting in the small garden he’s made and listening to the waves or remaining in bed. He still plays, gently to himself, but the music doesn’t come as easily as it once did. One of the villagers takes care of him. She asks if she can write anyone for him. If he knows who his soulmate is. He smiles softly, a bit sadly, and weeps. “ He sent me away long ago. I do not think he will come for me, even should a letter find him. Thank you though.” She frowns and leaves him for the day. When she has gone he has conversations with Geralt's ghost. The spirit is sad, and Jaskier understands why. It will remain in this world and he will not. He was very good at working out the other’s meanings. “Don’t look at me like that, you’ll have my soul won’t you? Will it stay here?” The Spirit nods with pursed lips. Unhappy.

I learned later, dear reader, that at about these same times, a similar occurrence happened with the witcher.

Geralt often heard one sided conversations around him since being seperated from Jaskier. They always came from children. Young children. Usually they were innocent enough conversations but they made him stop and wonder. Such as the one now. There was no one with these children. They were at their own table in the inn. They kept looking at him and smiling. He smiled back and promptly looked away; he didn’t need upset parents. So he turned his ear toward them instead and listened.

“What’s it like?” “Like snowfall?” “Oh. love. Like when momma puts us to bed at night, or kisses my skinned knee?” “I get it. That's so magical.” “What are you Mister?” “A soul?” “A musician?” “Why can’t anyone else see you?” ``A soulmate….. yeah I can tell him.”  

“Fuck.” It’s a muttered whisper against his ale. He can put it together easily enough. Jaskier was his soulmate. His soul was speaking to those children and now the oldest, a boy around seven, is stalking toward him. He stiffens. “Mister Witcher I was told to tell you, “ That I’ll be with you all along, as long as you are kind To those who are not strong and cannot find —”” A surprised mother grabs his shoulders. “My Apologies Witcher.” “ S’fine.” He mutters with a polite nod. The scent of fear was on her but it was offset by simple uncertainty. Unlike the boy. He’d been unafraid. The next morning he set off into the brisk autumn woods.

It's been a very long time since he craved interaction with others, but it is more intense these days. He wishes he didn’t know who his soulmate was. It would be so much easier. He knows as a witcher he will survive their separation, and if it were someone else he wouldn’t feel the need to go find them. But this is Jaskier. And though he doesn’t understand why this separation has been the one to make the nature of their relationship known, he knows he can’t let Jaskier die. So he tries to think of where the bard would have gone. He knows he’d been a fool on the mountain. The least he could do was apologize, and stay near enough that Jaskier gets to live his life out completely. He is near Oxenfurt he realizes as he looks at the signpost at this junction. He sets his jaw and decides to make a stop. Maybe they’ll know something at the college.

They don’t. He has been gone a month. He’d just up and left one day after the end of the last set of courses. One of the professors suggests he tries the coast, he vaguely remembers a comment about salt water being bad for lute strings. So he heads towards the coast. He keeps his ears out for anything, any sign that the bard had come this way.

It’s cold, even to him. He pushes onward. The snow is nearly knee deep anywhere off the road. He’ll be at the sea in another day or two. He sets his jaw in determination and freezes when it feels like a heaviness has settled upon his shoulders, around his neck. He looks down and can see nothing there. He looks around. Strange things like this had been happening since the boy had approached him. He feels foolish, but it does feel warmer where the weight is, like he is wearing a scarf.

“Thank you.” he whispers to the wind and continues on.

Two night’s later he’s looking out upon the sea. The winter moon reflects brightly in dark and turning depths. The stars are hidden behind clouds. He enters an inn and is given a room. As he lays there that night, he realizes he has no idea which direction to go, up or down. He growls into his pillow. Then he freezes, it feels like there is a hand on his face, more accurately like his face is being cradled.

He sighs,“ I know you've come to the coast. I know I sent you away so you left me behind. I feel like I’m still standing on that mountain. How do I find you bard? Can you see my ghost? Hear it? That would be just right for you. You’d just be one of those rare cases.” He growls again staring at the ceiling. The feeling on his face shifts gently, like it’s trying to comfort or say something. The heat moves and rests over his heart instead. “I don’t understand.” He gruffs. “ I don’t speak in metaphors and allegories. I wish you could speak plainly. If you're even there. I can’t believe I am having a conversation with...”

He sleeps fitfully that night. He dreams of blue and yellow flowers, and of a town with a statue in its square. When he wakes he asks the innkeeper about such a town. She says yes, a few weeks down the road there is a town with a statue like that, she doesn’t know about the flowers though. She wishes him well, “Good luck hunting witcher” and turns away. He pauses, when was the last time he thought of killing something, of actively seeking out a creature, a contract. Suddenly he wonders how much time Jaksier has. He rides fast, as fast as he can to the next town. He sleeps little and eats less.

The Bard doesn’t have any idea that the Witcher has been seeking him out.  

“There's a man in town, causing a ruckus.” She says gently, as she enters Jaskiers house. “That so?” He smiles from where he is sitting up in bed. “Leave the door open.” “Yes. He was just riding into town as I left. Kicked over some crates in a fit of rage after asking one of the men something. He seemed rather upset about something. Very strong too.” He looks at her and furrows his brow. “What did he look like? I'm sure he means no harm.” Geralt's spirit is nodding at him, encouraging, making gestures that seem to say “go to town”. He smiles to himself, defending the man even now. Even when he doesn’t know it. “White hair, it was long. He had a beard. He was wearing all black and had two-” “Go and get him. Tell him Dandelion wishes to see him. Go, quickly. He should be calm when you say that. Please. Go!” There is urgency in his voice despite it’s tiredness. She looks at him with shock. “Your soulmate.” “Please. His name is Geralt.” His voice breaks and she runs from the door.

He tries to fight it but his eyes grow tired. He leans back against the headboard. A little nap wouldn’t hurt. But he wants to see Geralt, the flesh and blood Geralt. The spirit beside him is trying to keep him engaged. A warmth on his leg where his hand rests, keeps Jaskier grounded. But he knows there isn’t much time left. He knows today is his last day. He wants to see the sun on the ocean. Slowly he forces himself to his feet with a blanket wrapped around him. He holds himself against the wall for support and makes his way to the door. He smiles, and sits in the chair in his garden. His legs give out as soon as he makes it to the chair. He looks across the horizon, the sun will set with red and gold tonight, he can see the tinges of color in the air. It’s early evening. He smiles, and closes his eyes. He can hear a horse whiney nearby. He is proud of the witcher. So very proud. He sleeps.

When the Witcher discovered the bard with closed eyes in the garden he panicked. He is loath to admit such, but he did.

“Dandelion?” He calls, hurriedly dismounting Roach. Geralt kneels beside the smaller man and exhales a shaky breath, the bard is still breathing. He smiles gently. He looks to the woman that had brought him here.

“Thank you.”  She nods. “I’ll watch over him now.” “Of course. Please let me know if you need anything. You should stay near him at all times. I mean no offense Mister Witcher sir, only I know soulmates can die even near one another if it's too late.” “I’ll stay close.” She nods and begins her trek back to the village. He brushes stray locks from Jaskiers face. “Stay with me. I’m here. Stay here with me.” He whispers gently against his head, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Wake up so I can apologize and then tell you off for coming to the coast alone.” He pulls away and lifts the bard, the wind is beginning to blow. The salt stings his nose some but he ignores it. He will ignore it forever for Jaskier.

To pass the time, he tells stories to the sleeping bard, to the souls he isn’t sure are still there. Do they remain outside their bodies when soulmates are reunited? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. He tells another story, recalls another memory and laughs at their past antics. He shivers despite himself when it feels like fingers have traced his spine.

“Damn it, Jaskier wake up. This isn’t fair. I won’t be alright if you don’t wake up. Jask. Please.” He stands and paces, keeping his back to the bard. He tries to focus on a different image and throw this one to the wind. “You’re light and I’ve let you become snuffed out. And I am selfish, how will I deal with people without you there to soften the blows, to fight for me?” He clenches his fists and his jaw. He’s very near crying, something he can’t remember having ever done. He never thought he would beg for someone to live and survive. He never thought he would need someone, but the thought of Jaskier dying, or it being his fault, it’s unbearably heavy.

“You’re strong enough to live on Geralt.” Jaskier whispers gently, half awake. A small smile tugging at his lips. Geralt smiles back. He holds Jaskiers hand until he falls asleep again. He has hope that the bard is getting better.

When the Bard finally awoke for good, it was to a very distraught witcher keeping vigil at his bedside.

“I’ll live, Geralt. Now please, water.” The witcher obeys and retrieves a glass for him. He drinks slowly.  Jaskier knows he will follow the witcher wherever he goes. But until he is well, he intends to make Geralt work for his spoken forgiveness. His heart has already forgiven the other.

A few years later, Jaskier walks barefoot through the sand with a smile on his face. Geralt has been specifically asked for a contract. They don’t separate often, usually Jaskier follows him, but this contract is particularly tricky and Geralt doesn’t want him in harm's way. When they do seperate, for any length of time, it goes like this.

“Will you miss me, like you did all those years ago? Like you did when you thought I was gone?” He asks looking up at Geralt who watches the sun set beside him.

“I'm terrified, you’ll be gone.” Geralt responds, glancing down at him. “You won’t leave me behind again? Won’t send me away and act like you don’t care?” “I won’t, Jaskier. Never again.” “You’ll come back?” “I will. I will come back.”

When the Witcher returned to their home on the coast after his contract he did so with apprehension in his chest. It had taken much longer than he thought to travel there, dispatch the creature and return. Every step closer to their home on the coast was taken with dread. “If you're not here, I can’t carry on.” He whispers to the night air. His hope is fading, there is no candle lit for his return, no noise from within the house. He’s about to enter the house when a soft sound catches his ear, he turns, and there is Jaskier strumming his lute at the gate on the far end of the garden. He smiles and the bard smiles back.

“Welcome home.”

The Bard and The Witcher, never leave the other without the intent to return. Both parties are properly afraid of what might happen should they leave one another on such deplorable terms as that time on the mountain. More often than not the Bard finds reasons to tag along even on those dangerous contracts. He wrote a ballad about this event in his life, and he continues to write ballads among other things now. He sees others' souls as he had his own and offers them warnings and advice if they will have it. The Witcher does not stop him.

The times have changed, and the world around them has shifted, but they still travel together, The Bard and The Witcher. They always come home to the coast when they can. For it is a special place for them, a place of survival and memory, of love and hope. I must leave you now, dear reader, for this tale has many more adventures to come. The night is growing late and my candle is burning low and my darling Witcher calls for me from the other room.

P.S. I write this with my witcher leaning over my shoulder, dear reader, but I thought I ought to tell you that when your soulmate is a witcher  you live as long as they do. What a pleasant surprise. I should leave you now, Geralt is being ne—

[bettsfic]

tying up loose ends/wip update

i have a little over a month until i start my phd, and i realize, sadly, something’s gotta give, and that’s probably going to be my fandom interaction/social media time. so i’m trying to finish/tie a few things up before my schedule explodes.

renovations

chapter 10 is complete, and i only need to revise 2 scenes of chapter 9. i’ll post them both at once since they ended up being a little shorter than the other chapters. hopefully they’ll be up in the next few days.

ace of spades

per @fraxinus and a few other anons maybe? i’ll be rereading ace of spades in the next week or so, parsing through my notes, and writing a detailed summary of how it would have ended. it’s been four years, so i have a vague memory of what i’d intended for it, and can only hope i made a diligent outline. i’m sincerely sorry i didn’t end up finishing this fic. i still love it, and it framed so much of what became my MFA thesis. i made the mistake of believing i could get it done in tandem with grad school, and i was wrong about that. by the time i graduated and had time to write fic again, my writing style and interests changed so drastically i couldn’t go back to it. 

fake-dating your step brother (and other terrible ideas)

i’ve gotten a lot of asks about this over the past year, and for the most part i don’t answer them because i don’t want to inadvertently launch a shit storm. the good news is, ao3 is adding a feature to turn off comments completely, so what happened with fdysb won’t happen again. 

i will not be completing this story or re-posting it to ao3. however, you can find the pdf of the existing chapters here, and read how it would have ended here. more info can be found in my fys tag.

other bellarke fics

i know i had a few unfinished km fills, but i don’t plan to go back to those, not because i’m not into bellarke (i am, but am just disgusted by the show rn) but because it’s gotten really difficult for me to write smut. i have no idea why. 

untitled coriojanus fic

i’ve begun fiddling with a bosas fixit (just a one-shot) that idk if i’ll manage to finish. i’m not in a huge hurry because bosas isn’t even a wrangled fandom tag yet on ao3, and the book publicity fell totally flat. i don’t think most people even know it’s out. at least, i didn’t.

untitled stucky fic for fth

hopefully i’ll be able to work on this in july. i’ll be writing a 10k stucky werewolf fairy tale fic for fandom trumps hate! i’d love to post it before i start school, but i may have to save it for winter break. either way, it’ll be up sometime in 2020. it may be the last fic i write for a long time :(

baby/patreon

baby will finish up in august, although i’m considering posting the last couple chapters at once in july so that no one gets charged an additional month, since i don’t have any other posts scheduled in august. if i come up with some posts, i’ll stay up an extra month. after that, i’ll probably be deactivating patreon until i have a new novel, or can commit to posting consistently. 

this means that if you were waiting until the end to become a patron so you could read baby all at once, you’ll want to do that in july, because by august it will be unavailable to read. i don’t have tiers, so you could read all of baby for $1. 

original projects

2019 and now 2020 are turning out to be shitty years for me in terms of publishing, as well as just being shitty in general. i’m getting really exhausted by rejection and disheartened. i don’t have a lot of hope for my short story collection, which didn’t even get a partial request from the agents i sent it to, and i’m afraid it doesn’t stand much of a chance in the contests and small presses i submitted to, either. i think it’s a good book, but it requires a certain kind of editor/contest judge to champion it, and i think it will be hard to place.

i have two literary novels i’m working on, one i feel pretty good about and another that needs a major structural overhaul. i’ve also finished the first (bare bones, extremely shitty) draft of a YA SFF novel set in a simulated reality, kind of the matrix meets breaking bad, but written like a douglas adams/terry pratchett book. 

all i can do is focus on the work -- writing, reading, teaching -- and have faith everything else will fall into place eventually.

as always, i’m extremely grateful for all the positivity and support i’ve received, and which motivates me to continue writing during the times i begin to lose hope. 

[archadianskies]

slivers and shards

→ on Ao3

@dbhrarepairs Wednesday Day 3: Soulmates / Glitch; post-revolution Connor/Daniel

When he’s brought back from the dead, there’s something wrong something off something not quite right; there’s a glitch in his system. There’s a critical oversight buried under the relief of waking up again and shoved to the furthest recesses of his mind.

His name is Connor, the Deviant Hunter turned deviant saviour who asked personally for his reactivation and release. The world has changed so drastically in the last three months and he is old news, forgotten dust left in the wake of a revolution and trodden underfoot.

The Sentient Life Act passed on December 1 means all crimes committed by and against androids are pardoned and society begins anew. By the grace of the Jericho Four he is granted a new life. Why and for what purpose he doesn’t know.

“That android you met on the rooftop, that wasn’t me.” Connor tells him on the morning of his reactivation, face earnest. “That was CyberLife. I would like a chance to start over with you, Daniel. You don’t even have to be Daniel if you don’t want. We can choose for ourselves now.”

“I want to be Daniel.” The words tumble out of his mouth and he clutches his name like a rope to a drowning man. “She gave me my name. I want to keep it.” It’s all he has of her now, and it’s all he knows.

>Add family?: Y/N

>>N

“Okay Daniel.” Connor’s smile is gentle and pitying and he hates it. He hates that he doesn’t really hate it. It’s just a glitch, that infuriating glitch in his head that makes him yearn to belong.

It must be some sick experiment run by CyberLife, sending their negotiator to greet him with smiles and encouragements and expecting him to yield. And yield he does, because the glitch in his system means he hangs onto every scrap of kindness, every tidbit of praise like the good little PL600 he is.

Connor has family, something Daniel thought he once had. He has a human father, an android brother, and a dog. He belongs to them and they belong to him, and the circle is complete and Daniel looks at it from the outside wishing he were in. 

There is no family to be found at Jericho, not when others despise him for so suddenly shining a light on deviancy. The light had certainly not been flattering.

“This is Simon, the original founder of Jericho and one of the Jericho Four.” Connor introduces them one day and Daniel looks back at his own face though Simon looks infinitely more exhausted.

“A brother, Connor?” Simon’s smile is tired but genuine as he clasps Daniel’s hands. “You’ve brought me a brother.”

There are eighteen other PL600s in Jericho, excluding Simon himself and Simon’s lips quirk briefly when he declares that he now will even out the number to a nice rounded twenty. That’s all the PL600s left in Detroit city. Twenty. 

Their line is obsolete, weak, slow, not worth saving and after Daniel’s stint on television though there was no official recall apparently waves and waves were returned and destroyed. He is responsible for the death of their brothers. Just another critical error stacked atop the glitches that make up his mind.

Simon sees the weariness on his face, a face like his own, and takes him home away from the open hostility at Jericho. Daniel meets Markus Manfred, the leader of the revolution; one of a kind Kamski masterpiece, and adopted by a human father and human brother. 

Here too, Daniel is on the outside looking in. Simon is kind and lovely and patient and all the things Daniel doesn’t deserve, and for all his kindness and loveliness and patience Daniel does not belong here.

>Add family?: Y/N

>>N

“What will you do with your new life?” Connor asks one day, and they are walking through the rain sharing an umbrella wandering aimlessly through Hart Plaza for the sake of aimless wandering.

“I don’t know.” Daniel answers. “Why do you ask?”

“Because I want to know.” Connor’s smile is sheepish and apologetic. “I guess it’s penance owed.”

“You put Emma’s life above mine. You did the right thing, you made the right call.” Daniel sighs and he is too tired for this. “You owe me nothing, Connor.”

“Perhaps.” Connor nods. “But I want to help. We’re allowed that now, Daniel. We can want things.”

“I don’t know what I want.” He does know, though. He wants his old life back. He wants to hold Emma’s hand when they cross the road.  He wants to help her with her homework. He wants to bake her favourite cookies and sneak her an extra one before dinnertime. He wants to read her bedtime stories and tuck her in and kiss her brow goodnight. He wants to be needed and loved and he can’t have that ever again. Glitchy androids aren’t useful to anyone.

Family: Emma Phillips

>Remove family?: Y/N

>>Y

Family: None

“Daniel…” Connor’s voice is soft with concern, his touch softer as he rests his other hand on his arm.

“I don’t want to be alive. That’s what I want.” He hisses through gritted teeth, and the tears slip down his cheeks and he’s furious and frustrated. “I can’t stand to be awake in a world that makes no sense to me. You drag me out here and talk about new life and second chances and wanting, and all I want is the darkness you put me into in the first place.”

“No.” Connor shakes his head. “That’s not what you want.”

He wants to scream, he wants to shout that Connor couldn’t possibly know a single thing about him, that what he wants is for all this to go away and yet all he does is stand there and cry. Slowly, as if afraid to startle him, Connor steps close and wraps his arms around him and Daniel cries and cries and cries.

“It’s alright,” Connor murmurs, squeezing him close. “We can figure it out together.”

He finds new purpose in a small bakery in Greektown, a place called Essie’s. He bakes Emma’s favourite cookies and the baker Mrs Esselthorpe, an ageing woman with kind eyes and gnarled hands, finds they are her favourite too. 

There’s no need to interact with humans or androids who would recognise him since he stays out the back by the ovens. The way the dough forms and rises and bakes fills him with a sense of accomplishment and pride and the empty trays are congratulations on a job well done. He bakes cookies and croissants and finds fulfilment in the steady routine.

They are...peace offerings, in a way; paper bags warmed by freshly baked cookies and given with the hopes they will enjoy his creations and by extension his company. Leo declares his undying love for them through a mouthful of his fifth cookie, spraying crumbs everywhere as Simon sighs indulgently and North snorts through a laugh as Josh hands him a napkin. Carl dips one into his afternoon tea and eats it slowly, complimenting him on the use of spice within the dough.

“You and Simon make the most delicious cookies. Must run in the family.” Carl winks, and he quickly turns his head so his red LED can’t be seen and commented upon. Family . There’s that word again.

He bakes two sets of cookies next, one for human consumption and the other for canine consumption. Hank gives a surprised, amused laugh as they watch Sumo enthusiastically tuck into the dog biscuits. He fixes Daniel a curious look.

“Anyone invent a way for you boys to eat these too? Seems a shame you can’t enjoy them.” He dunks the cookie into a glass of milk and chews thoughtfully, closing his eyes for a moment to savour the taste. “Can’t remember the last time I ate a freshly baked cookie.”

“We can consume a small amount to analyse the composition of ingredients.” Ronan informs him, picking up a cookie and sniffing it. “Domestic androids have taste receptors too, used for adjusting foods to their family’s liking.”

Connor plucks the cookie from his brother’s hand and nibbles on it, LED swirling yellow.

“Well Daniel, perhaps next time use less vanilla, and add hazelnuts along with the milk chocolate chips.” He shoots his father a grin. “One of Hank’s weaknesses is Nutella.”

Two months into 2039, and six months after that fated night on the rooftop of the Phillips home the world continues to turn and life continues ever onward. Progress is slow for the Jericho Four but progress is progress and they certainly have more rights now than they ever did before.

Still, there’s a question unanswered: What use is a PL600 with no family to care for? It’s the question that’s plagued his mind ever since reactivation but he realises he’s been approaching it wrong this whole time. 

He’s not sure how or why it happens, but slowly, ever so slowly, the urge to return to the darkness ebbs away. It’s small moments, slivers and shards that he gathers in his palms and holds them close. The way Simon treats him like a brother, taking all his sins astride and never breaking step as if they’ve been family all along.

The way Leo Manfred is all black scathing humor much like North, and how those two refuse to let him wallow in the storms of his mind when he could be poking fun at the dark clouds instead.

The way Connor’s brother Ronan meets his snark and scowls with an unflinching expression and witty deadpan delivery. The way Hank always eats his baking leftovers.

The way Mrs Esselthorpe holds his hands and squeezes them at the end of the day before she shuffles off home. The way Connor drops by to buy cookies for the precinct with the money he now legally earns.

The way Connor always asks how he’s doing and seems to genuinely care about the answer. The way Connor waits for him some evenings after work so he can walk him back to his shoebox of a home. The way their hands find each other on one such evening walk home, and Connor’s usual charming puppylike smile is almost shy and hopeful and all the things Daniel doesn’t deserve but wants and yearns for. The way Connor presses his lips to his and it’s a blessing, it’s validation, it’s confirmation the glitch isn’t a glitch at all.

He may not be a part of the Phillips family anymore, and perhaps he never was, but this is his family now.  

>Add family?: Y/N

>>Y

[dragonshadow02]

Part one of my fic for the #bakudekubirthdayexchange for CB who I don't know if is on tumblr. I saw someone say they would post theirs chapter by chapter and I kind of like the idea. Especially since I'm waiting for my Ao3 password reset.

Notes: in this AU Izuku didn't gain OFA from Allmight.

Courting a Villian-

The warehouse was silent, save for the drip, drip, drip of the rain and the soft whimpers of the woman bound to the wall. The sole other occupant of the building was waiting on the thin catwalk above for the rest of the players to set the stage. 

Izuku Midoriya-Deku- former hero enthusiast- and currently one of the most dangerous villains Musutafa had ever known- was done playing games. Someone would come busting into his sanctuary soon, and who it was would decide his captives fate. If they had decided to play nice and read his little love letter, he knew exactly who it would be...and if they hadn't, he got to play-it would be fun either way. A shiver of excitement traveled down the emerald haired villains spine, Ground Zero would be here soon ready to fight, and -if he was lucky something far more enjoyable.  The dark grey and green-clad figure rose from his crouch with a soft creak of metal, the catwalk was in disrepair, covered in rust but he was confident that it would do its job. The pale man's lips twitched as he heard a soft sound, neck rolling as he looked to the side. There was no extra light, he had known there wouldn't be, but the heavy tread of combat boots was hard to miss. In one smooth movement, Izuku launched himself over the safety rail, freefalling to land like a cat on the dirty concrete. 

"Welcome, Kacchan"  He rose from his crouch as he spoke, lips spreading into a wide, slightly deranged grin. With a small click of the remote in his pocket the lights came on, illuminating his freckled face, and most importantly, his captive. The villian was far more interested though, in the hero that opposed him. The low light cast shadows over his face, but Izuku could imagine the way his brow creased in anger. Ground Zero was always ten times more attractive when he was angry...Or maybe that's just him being twisted. He had been told he was insane by more than one person-of course they usually ended up dead...but that didn't matter.  Bakugou was the focus of his universe. They had shared a dream, a dream to become the number one hero, but Izuku had been born quirkless. Once All Might himself had told Izuku that he could never be a hero, he had spiraled into a deep depression, he had turned his back on All Might after Kacchans rescue, even though the hero had tried to talk to him again. Being told off for trying to save a friend had been the last thing he'd needed and he was positive that, that was what his idol had had in mind. Watching Katsuki get prepared for the U.A. Exam...being told he would never be a hero- It had broken him. His dreams had been gone.  He had continued to hero chase, and record and theorize by habit, but the fire behind the curiosity was gone. That had all changed when he had stumbled upon his childhood doctor meeting with a group of known villains. 

     / Izukus hand was shaking as he wrote slowly in his notebook, mouth dry with fear. He was going to die. As much as he had thought about it in the wake of his recent setback, being faced with the reality was terrifying. He didn't want to die. He couldn't move other than the delicate scratch of pen across the paper.  A soft shuffling sound came from behind him and his heart jumped with terror, there was an impact against his head...then blackness and he knew no more/

The villain shook his head to clear it, he shouldn't be thinking about the weakling he had been. The Doctor had seen his analytical mind as an asset, had given him a quirk, a way to be useful. Izuku hadn't realized until Katsuki was in his second year at U.A. that the powerful quirk he had been given had been his own that the doctor had stolen from him as a child. It was then that he had decided never to let anyone take advantage of him again. He had left the League and made sure they would never try to take him back. He would become the number one villain, Kacchans foil.  He was more than a little in love with the hero that currently stood in front of him, growling with impatience, but Izuku was standing silent with a crooked grin on his face. Finally, Ground Zero had had enough and stomped forward towards his silent rival, fists crackling menacingly with explosions. 

"What the FUCK are you doing you crazy nerd? You told them to send me and I fucking came. Give me the hostage and crawl back into whatever hole you came out of."

Izuku raised a finger and waggled it back and forth, taking a step back and waving an arm grandiosely in the direction of the struggling woman. "  The wife of....whatever his name is is right there. I haven't hurt a hair on her pretty little head." He twitched a finger and the chain wrapped around the woman's neck tightened. " Yet."

He tilted his head to the side slowly, green eyes meeting masked crimson. " She's not important, just you..." He took a step towards Katsuki. " I needed you to come because you weren't answering my calls" A pout fell over Izukus freckled face " I wanted to ask you out Kacchan...expecially after all of the fun we've had." The metal jangled and tightened again ripping a strangled gasp from the woman.  " Since you wouldn't let me ask you out, I've decided that you get to court me instead." He tilted his whole body to the side and looked at the ash-blonde hero through green bangs. " Doesn't that sound fun? If you agree I'll give her to you as a...faith gift. If you refuse, she dies and you get to tell the head of the Heroes Commission that you let his wife die...so sad for you and your victories" The answering snarl was music to Izukus ears.  He continued quickly before Katsuki could get a word in. " So Kacchan, this is how it'll be... You. court me. Bring me presents...ask me on dates" He waved a hand. " Knit me a scarf" His smirk grew into a grin as he added that little bit of humiliation in...Katsuki hated knitting. Forty-Five calls and over a hundred text messages from various burner phones and Katsuki hadn't responded to a single one. Izuku was feeling a little ghosted to say the least. He knew he'd have to take drastic measures to get what he wanted. 

" You're out of your fucking MIND if you think I'll agree to that bullshit." The blonde had grown better at keeping his temper from effecting his quirk, but Izuku could see the glow of his palms as he clenched them tightly. " I'm not going to act like a fucking girl."

"ah, ah, aaah men can knit too" Izuku waggled his finger again. " Do you really want to lose your perfect streak? I thought you wanted to be number one, Kacchan" He shrugged slowly as his rival seethed. " A hero always wins....isn't that what you said once?"  The green-haired villian started to walk towards the woman on the wall only to be body blocked by Katsuki. A feral grin spread across the villians face, that was more like it. 

He may not have a strength quirk but he was durable, and he'd been through hell in Musutafas underground. He and Katsuki had met each other in battle more than once and had broken even. 

The green-eyed Villian jumped back from the hit to minimize its strength, bringing the power of his mind to bear to keep Katsuki away from him for now. Their usual fight and fuck routine wasn't his aim right now and he knew if they got into a brawl that was exactly what would happen. Izuku could feel the adrenaline singing through his veins pushing him to fight, but he wanted more than that now. 

His hand raised and his captive gagged again. " We're not here for that Kacchan. No fighting this time. Deal or no deal." Was dating him...wooing him so objectionable that Katsuki would let someone die to avoid it? Or was it the scarf thing? It didn't matter. Date or Death. That's what it came down to. Green eyes held crimson yet again, but this time Izuku wouldn't turn away, jaw set in a stubborn line as his captive passed out from lack of oxygen.  Katsuki snarled and punched the scarred villain in the jaw before turning towards the woman. " This is the worst fucking way to ask someone out, nerd. No fucking girly shit but I'll take you on a goddamn date like you want." Ground Zero freed his captive, checking her pulse and throwing a nasty smirk over his shoulder. " Should have known you'd be begging for more after you'd had a taste." The heroes cocky voice sent a shiver of arousal through the villain even as is irritated him.  " Am I begging Kacchan, or do I have you exactly where I want you?" He whispered as he let the hero carry her out the window. Apparently he'd need something a little more convincing to get the kind of reaction he wanted from his obsession. He really wanted that scarf. He wanted Katsuki to make something...show Izuku that he was worth the effort. He had seen a teenager work for hours for her beloved. it was a connection between them, those feelings. He wanted Katsuki to prove he felt something more for him than lust...even though they would always be on different sides and one would kill the other eventually...that was an understanding he knew they had. Katsuki would never let anyone but Izuku kill him, and Izuku refused to let anyone but Katsuki have that honor...but at least they would have now. 

He would need to send a more strongly worded love letter, luckily he knew exactly where to find it. 

[mittensmorgul]

Hey there! Well, one thing that really makes me so irritated and curious is the fact that in the prophecy Sam was the one who would kill Rowena permanently. But like why tf? Who even write the death books? Chuck? Billie herself? Fate? But why Sam? Why did he have to kill her? Like uhhhhh she was immortal, they were getting closer, being friends, i even see her as part of tfw and them BOOM, she finds out Sam is gonna kill her? Like what's the sense? Do you have a theory about it? 👀

Hi hi!

And oh, golly do I have theories. Too many theories, probably. Mostly because we just don’t know who “writes” Billie’s books. Actually the one thing I’m relatively certain of-- it’s not Billie doing the writing.

Of everything we know about how death and Death and fate work, and how those books themselves work, it’s been a fair assumption up to a point that the books are simply generated by a culmination of an individual’s choices throughout their lifetime. But I still have so many questions about those books.

For example, why is it implied that most people only have one book that rewrites itself if a person’s circumstances drastically change, and yet Dean has an entire shelf of books? Is it because of how much Chuck has directly interfered with his life? Or the fact he’s died and been resurrected so many times? If that’s the case, then why didn’t his “previous life” books disappear to be replaced by a new one? He may have died many times, but he’s still just one person. Why so many books?

That’s not what you asked, but I still think it’s important to understand the full picture of information we do know in order to attempt the best guess possible here. So in that spirit, I’m gonna take another slight detour on my way to attempting to answer.

I’ll start by point to this very, very long post I made about Rowena’s entire character arc on the show, posted December 1, 2019, so before we saw her back in 15.08. It’s on AO3, because it’s far too long for tumblr:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21641770

I go into a lot of detail on her overall character arc, as well as this very specific storyline. But before I delve into Rowena’s side of this conundrum, I also need to delve into Sam’s...

In a really creepy way, the result of 13.19 was Sam getting to experience a version of “you either have to save him or kill him” that was John’s final declaration to Dean about Sam. Because at the end of 13.19, Rowena took a strange comfort from the entire experience. Knowing that no version of her own death would be at Lucifer’s hand actually helped her deal with her biggest personal fear and horror. It had haunted her, and ruled every choice she’d made up to that point. But here was Sam... kind, understanding Sam who’d given her that page of the spell book to free her power to protect herself... offering her a hand of friendship and help to potentially change her fate? And not just an automatic death sentence? Well, that was something.

Like she told Michael in 14.14:

Rowena: Fate says Sam Winchester's going to off me, which makes dinners a bit awkward, but does give one a certain sense of security.

In a weird way, she trusts Sam. She knows he’s not lurking in the shadows just waiting to kill her, you know? She knows he wouldn’t kill her without a very good reason. And she knows that she’s been doing everything in her power not to deserve killing. To have Sam and Dean Winchester welcome you into the family, and believe you can change your fate is their universe’s equivalent of being blessed. And Rowena has treated it as such.

So... that said, what does it take to actually change one’s fate? What does it take to redeem oneself?

We’ve already seen those books of fate shift over time. I mean, the most blatantly obvious example is from Dean’s books (all of them! well... except for that one Billie gave him) that changed after 14.10. And then we have to assume they all changed AGAIN after 14.14... because Michael was dead and couldn’t use Dean’s vessel to destroy the world anymore.

We also know from another agent associated with death that it’s our human choices that can change our fate, thanks to Lily Sunder in 14.08:

SAM: Fine. Then change it. Let her into Heaven.ANUBIS: I'm an accountant. I don't have that kind of power.SAM: Yeah, right. Like you or-- or God has never made an exception?ANUBIS: That's right. Because God doesn't decide. I don't decide. You do, each of you, your individual choices all tallied up at the precise moment of your death. Keep me here. Try and kill me. It is not going to change Lily Sunder's fate. But it might change yours.

Except... knowing this, knowing her choices had the power to change her fate, gave Lily the power to choose a different fate for herself. Of course she couldn’t know for sure if it would be enough, if her last Good Deed would be enough to tip the scales, but she hoped. And it had changed everything.

LILY: I don't understand. Why am I here?ANUBIS: Hm. Care to try your luck again? [Anubis brings out his abacus again, and measures Lily’s soul. Most of the beads are now white, and rise to the top]ANUBIS: I'm curious. Did you know what doing the spell would cost you? Say hello to your daughter for me.

Doing the spell cost her life, but she had already begun to let go of her very long life. She’d had time to get her revenge and make her peace, and her last act, as her own free choice, had been enough to save her soul. It’s more than she ever could’ve hoped for when she’d set the course of her life more than a hundred years earlier.

And yet, for Rowena, performing the spell that had saved the world from the hell rift caused by Chuck’s temper tantrum hadn’t been enough to redeem her. She’d been just as hopelessly trapped in hell as if she’d never consciously chosen to become better in the first place. Her redemption failed. And I gotta wonder... why?

Rowena’s goal was pure-- save the world with the one spell she knew would work, but that would cost her everything. She didn’t even hesitate. She didn’t stop to wonder if performing this spell and making this sacrifice could redeem her soul. She only cared that Sam would be saved (well... and the world...).

And yet, in working the spell, she literally needed Sam to do the deed, because it wouldn’t have worked without him. She didn’t believe in love enough to sacrifice herself, her love for anything or even the world itself. The only thing she truly believed in enough was the power of the prophecy of her own fate in Billie’s book, which is just nine levels of pain to understand.

This is why her taking the throne of Hell is just... literally the Worst Possible Outcome if it was indeed her final fate on the show. And for the details on why, because I’ve already typed 13k words on the subject and typing them again here feels kinda frustratingly pointless, I’m gonna point back to the very long post on AO3 again. :’D

Does Chuck have any power over what those books say? We just don’t know.

Had Rowena rewritten her own fate before performing that spell, and despite her belief in her actions in 15.03, had her own fate already been rewritten? We just don’t know.

Had Rowena actually earned her redemption, and like so many others who didn’t deserve it, did Chuck banish her soul to Hell as a punishment for flouting his plans? Did he just need her out of the way because like Billie, she meddles? Or gives the Winchesters too big an advantage in solving their problems? Again, we just don’t know.

But I’m still convinced that we haven’t seen the end of her story yet, and so I’m not really gonna speculate beyond this...

[softspots]

commission fic for @ari-trash, who asked for demon!Anti and a very lustful Chase (inspired by this twitter thread)! I hope you enjoy!

(Read it here on AO3!)

---

Chase slipped through the curtain of the confessional and sat down quietly, making the sign of the cross as he waited for his priest to speak.

It seemed like the silence stretched on longer than normal - or maybe it just felt that way because of his shame - but eventually his priest began. “May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in his mercy,” he said in his warm, kind voice.

Chase nodded at the man’s slightly shadowy figure through the screen between them. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” he recited. “My last confession was nine weeks ago and these are my sins.” He took a breath and lowered his eyes, guilt rising up in him as he listed off all that he’d done. “I’ve let myself be… lustful. Promiscuous. Six times this month I’ve gone home with men I met in bars and had sex with them. I’ve been drawn to pornography, I watch it often at home; even in public a few times, on my phone with earbuds, if I think I can do it without being caught. And I - I posted a video of myself masturbating on an adult website because I wanted others to - ” He swallowed hard, his face hot with embarrassment. “I wanted others to see my body and post lustful comments so I could read them and enjoy them. In addition to all of this, I have allowed lust to cloud my mind too many times to count; I think about engaging in obscene acts almost constantly. That is all I remember, Father.”

He tried not to shift or squirm as finished speaking, every inch of him filled with shame. Why, why had God given him this to struggle with? Sins of the flesh were the most humiliating of all to confess, and he should know, considering how many times he’d been in this exact situation before seeking forgiveness for similar transgressions. Why couldn’t he get a hold of himself? Why did he have to be so - so damned insatiable?

“Describe your sinful thoughts to me, my son,” his priest said. “What is it that rises up in your mind in these moments of weakness you have?”

Chase shrank into himself. His blush must be up to the tips of his ears by now. He didn’t want to admit to the dirty details, they were so embarrassing; but his priest was only trying to help him, right? He was a good, kind man. His voice was soft and soothing as it floated through the thin screen separating them. He was a man of God, he could be trusted. And his voice was so gentle, drawing the truth from his tentative lips like a kiss. His voice could be trusted.

“I… they aren’t moments of weakness, Father,” he said. “It’s all the time. It’s nearly every minute of the day. I’m always, always thinking about sex. I think about - I specifically think about being taken by other men. Letting them… use my body as they please.” He squeezed his legs together tightly as a new wave of heat spread over him; this time it wasn’t shame. This time it was excitement.

He began to panic as he realized. Oh no, please, no, he couldn’t be like this now! Not in front of his priest, not in the middle of his confession! He had to stop, he needed space to breathe and calm down, he needed -

“Go on,” his priest prompted tenderly. His voice was so strangely wonderful. Chase had never known a voice to sound so nice. Hearing it calmed his racing thoughts immediately, though the heat within his body remained.

He didn’t need to leave, he thought, all the fear draining away. He needed to keep talking. He needed to confess, confess to everything. Just like his priest had told him to in his lovely, lovely voice.

“I fantasize about being fucked hard,” he said, not even giving a thought to how he’d just used vulgar language in church. “I want to be bent over and spread open so huge, fat cocks can shove inside me. I want to be a whore, I want to moan and drool while I’m pounded by dick after dick and filled with cum. Nothing is ever enough for me, I always want more; even after I let the men I meet in bars take me home and fuck me I’m still not satisfied, I have to use toys - I have so many toys, I ride them until I can’t even walk. That’s what I posted online, a video of me fucking myself with one of my dildos. People said it was so hot, they called me a slut in the comments… I loved it.”

“Are you becoming aroused as you tell me this, my son?” his priest asked. Chase realized foggily that he’d taken off his t-shirt; he was holding it loosely in one while his other hand was fumbling with the button of his jeans. When had he started to take his clothes off, he wondered, his mind feeling distant. And when had it gotten so hot in the confessional? It felt like someone had lit a fire, his skin was shiny with sweat and he swore the air in front of him was wavering with the heat.

“Yes, Father,” he said through increasingly heavy breaths. His heart was thumping loudly and his cock was hard and aching in the pants he was struggling to take off. “I’m very aroused, I’m - I’m so horny, Father. I want to be fucked right now, I want a cock inside me right now!”

His priest spoke again and now his voice was deeper, darker, different, but no less beautiful and every bit as compelling as before. “Touch yourself, child,” he purred. “These thoughts and desires of yours are overwhelming, aren’t they? You must satisfy them. Touch yourself.”

He stopped trying to shove his pants and underwear down and just pulled his cock out to start rutting into his hand mindlessly. Everything just kept getting hotter and hotter and this whole thing was wrong but it was making him feel so good. “I want you to touch me,” he whined. “I want you to fuck me. Will you? I want it so much… you’ll be rough like I need, right? You won’t be like everyone else I’ve let have me, I know it, I know you won’t; you’ll make me a slut like I wanna be. You’ll fuck me right here in church and make me scream so everyone here’s and knows I’m being a little whore in the house of God. You’ll do it, won’t you? Right?” His hand was pumping up and down his cock so fast it was nearly a blur. He tried to work his other hand down into his jeans to finger himself, but they were too tight and his skin was too sticky with sweat and the desperation to have something, anything inside him was driving him insane.

“Please fuck me,” he begged, pressing his forehead against the delicate screen keeping him from his priest. “Please, you - you did this, you made me so horny, you have to help me! Your voice…” He trailed off, trying to catch his breath in the intense heat of the confessional. “I love your voice, it takes everything away… everything except this. I don’t know why I came here, I don’t care but please, fuck me! I’ll do anything!”

“Anything, boy?”

Chase gasped. He was there in front of him, his priest - but he wasn’t his priest. He looked like his priest, he had the face and body of his priest, but… his eyes. His eyes were pitch-black and searing as they gazed down at him in amusement.

It wasn’t his priest. It was a demon wearing his priest’s flesh. And Chase didn’t care.

He threw himself at the demon, wrapping his arms around its too-hot body and grinding his cock against the stolen robes it wore. “Yes, anything!”

“Will you give unto me your body?”

“Yes!”

“Will you give unto me your mind?”

“Yes!”

“Will you give unto me your soul, child?”

Chase all but sobbed, overcome with lust. “Yes! All of it! Everything, anything! You can have it! Just fuck me, please!”

The demon placed a hand under his chin and tilted his head up, directing Chase to look at him. He’d changed; the face and body of his kindly older priest was gone and now the demon looked… like Chase himself. But sharper, leaner, far more dangerous. His eyes were still a glittering black and now a horrible, gaping wound had appeared on his throat, oozing dark blood onto his collar bones and bare chest. Somewhere in his clouded mind Chase understood that this was a terrifying creature and he needed to run for his very life.

But he needed it to fuck him. So he squeaked but didn’t struggle as the demon slammed him against the wall of the confessional with one hand, using the other to tear Chase’s jeans and underwear to shreds with a gleaming knife that materialized in his palm. Chase felt the blade ghost over his skin as it destroyed his clothes and shuddered at the ice-cold touch; it was a drastic contrast to the suffocating heat all around him.

“Good boy,” the demon rumbled in his ear, lifting Chase up by his hips like he weighed nothing and pulling his legs around its waist. “Your soul is a lovely little thing, I’m quite pleased to be its new owner. Now, I believe there was something you needed?”

Every last trace of air was snatched from his lungs as the demon rammed its cock inside him, burying itself to the hilt.

Somehow it didn’t hurt; there was no pain aside from the usual semi-pleasant ache that came with being filled. The demon gave him no time to adjust to its - truly massive - size before beginning to thrust hard, using its grip on Chase’s waist to bounce him up and down like a toy.

“You’re all mine now,” it said over the flood of moans and cries that spilled from Chase’s lips. “Every little piece of you belongs to me. You’ll be a treat to have down in Hell, I’m sure of that. If you’d care to know the name of the one you now serve, I am the demon - ”

It spoke a word that clashed within Chase’s ears and made him cringe. He didn’t understand the name at all and he knew he could never hope to repeat it, but the sound of it was horrible.

The demon laughed at his reaction. “But you could have no use for such a name. You may call me by the first part of it: Anti. Or better yet, simply call me Master.”

Chase gasped as the confessional caught fire - bright green fire. The flames overtook the walls and the curtain, burning them away and surrounding Chase and the demon Anti. Instead of crackling and popping, the fire shrieked and cried like tortured souls. Anti kept fucking him, slamming against Chase’s prostate over and over as the fire rose up around them. Chase could do nothing but wail in pleasure as the blaze consumed them.

“Look at where you are, my pet,” Anti said, letting his cock slip out of Chase’s opened hole so he could turn him around. He manhandled him effortlessly and once Chase was arranged how he wanted - his back to Anti’s chest, facing outward - he dropped him back down onto his enormous cock and continued making Chase ride him. Chase whined at the sudden emptiness and moaned loudly at the return of Anti’s cock - his Master’s cock, his demon Master’s huge perfect cock that filled him up so good - but didn’t forget the order Anti had given. He looked out at all that stood before him and his eyes widened in shock and awe.

He was in Hell. It was everything and nothing like he’d imagined it to be.

“Welcome home,” Anti murmured with a hint of a taunt in his voice. He wrapped his hand around Chase’s throat for a moment and when it fell away something hot, heavy and metal appeared in its place.

A collar. He whimpered, cock twitching and dripping.

“Consider that your uniform, little concubine. Although it’s still missing its final touch.” Anti began to fuck him even harder, even faster, even rougher. Chase howled, back arching and eyes rolling back in his head as he was totally, utterly ruined by his Master’s cock.

“You begged to be filled with cum, didn’t you? Well, fear not, pet; your cup runneth over.”

[searchingwardrobes]

Sadie Hawkins Dance

Yes, I know it is Thursday, so don’t worry, I will be posting chapter four of Until the Day Breaks and the Shadows Flee. However, I couldn’t wait to post this because I first got the idea months ago, and it is a gift for a wonderful friend. @snowbellewells is like my fandom twin. We have so much in common, and we’re constantly saying to each other “me too!” when we chat. Marta, you are one of the kindest people I have ever met, and I wish I could send you a handsome pirate to feed you Hershey Kisses, but alas you’ll have to settle for this fic. But, my dear friend, you deserve all the best!

Marta, this fic was inspired by our conversations about term paper season as English teachers. Remember when I told you about rewarding myself with Hershey kisses every time I finished grading a paper? I stopped classroom teaching when I had my oldest, and since Luke turns eleven next week, that means I’ve been away for over a decade! It’s hard to believe, and I know that things have changed tremendously since I taught. However, my mom, my sister, and my cousin are all still teaching, and I know from them that kids now do almost all their work on laptops given to them by the school. When I taught I still used an overhead projector! Anyway, I tried to make this accurate, but I may have made mistakes, and I also know here in the States things vary so drastically state to state and district to district. My point is, I tried!

Also based on the song by Relient K. My husband was cleaning out his nightstand a few months ago and found an old CD Walkman. Inside was my old Relient K CD, and I have been on a kick listening to them again ever since.

Summary: English teacher Emma Swan and her fellow English teacher and best friend Killian Jones use Hershey Kisses and a bet involving their school’s upcoming Sadie Hawkins dance to motivate them as they grade term papers. But will this lead to kisses other than the chocolate variety?

Rating: G for tooth rotting sweetness

Also on Ao3 and part of my Fandom Birthday Playlist

Tagging: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @kday426 @let-it-raines @teamhook @bethacaciakay @whimsicallyenchantedrose @welllpthisishappening @thislassishooked @branlovestowrite @delirious-latenight-laughs @resident-of-storybrooke @ekr032-blog-blog @nikkiemms @shireness-says @ultraluckycatnd @optomisticgirl @distant-rose @profdanglaisstuff @gingerchangeling @vvbooklady1256 @wellhellotragic @ohmakemeahercules @hollyethecurious @cocohook38 So many of us love Marta, go give her some birthday wishes!

She said, “You’re smooth, and good with talking. Will you go with me to the Sadie Hawkins?” The Sadie Hawkins dance, in my khaki pants, there’s nothing better. The girls ask the guys. It’s always a surprise. There’s nothing better. Baby, do you like my sweater?

Killian Jones slammed down his red pen, then slapped his hand on the term paper he had just finished grading. Emma Swan rolled her eyes at his dramatics.

“Hit me,” he said.

Emma grabbed a Hershey Kiss from the bowl on her coffee table and unwrapped it. “Open up,” she told him.

She tossed the candy through the air, and her best friend caught it perfectly on his tongue. He relished the chocolate with exaggerated pleasure, winking at her as he swiped his tongue across his bottom lip. Emma rolled her eyes.

“You’re full of it, Jones, and a complete drama queen.”

He chuckled as he slid another paper from the three stacks lined up in front of him on the coffee table. Emma sat with her back against her sagging couch, her legs spread out in front of her beneath the well worn table. Her stockinged feet rested in Killian’s lap. He sat cross-legged on the other side of the table. His neat stacks of papers sat on one end, and Emma’s laptop on the other. Killian cocked his head at her, his pen tapping on the dented wood.

“A drama queen? You wound me, Swan.”

She squinted as she searched the screen for where she’d left off reading her next student’s paper. “Well you’re the one eating chocolate like it’s a sensual experience.”

“It is a sensual experience - meaning pertaining to the senses,” he argued. “I smell the cocoa, I taste the milk chocolate, and I feel the candy melting on my tongue.”

As if to prove his point, his tongue made yet another appearance. Emma glared at him.

“Okay, you make eating chocolate seem like an orgasmic experience.”

He laughed, scratching behind his ear, and Emma grinned at the nervous tell. She’d won this round of their usual flirtatious, slightly scandalous banter, and she inwardly exulted. She was well aware that most of the teachers and half the students at Storybrooke High were wondering when the Freshman English teacher and the Junior English teacher were finally going to get together. She hated to disappoint them, but it was never going to happen. Killian had started out as her co-worker, then had wormed his way into the friend zone, and the next logical step would be a relationship. Emma didn’t do relationships. One night stands, yes. Casual dates, yes. Neither of those were in the cards for her and Killian since they were permanent fixtures in each other’s lives, hence the friend zone.

“So, are you chaperoning the dance?” Emma asked casually.

“I would love to, but it’s a Sadie Hawkins dance, and no lass has asked me.”

Emma glanced up to see Killian giving her his patented adorable pout. Nobody did puppy dog eyes like Killian Jones. Emma rolled her eyes. Nobody did eye rolls like Emma Swan.

“We’re talking about chaperoning.”

“A man still likes to be wooed, Swan.”

Emma barked out a laugh at his ridiculous antics. She saved what was on her screen, entered the grade into her online gradebook, and slapped her hand on the coffee table.

“Hit me!” she said.

A Hershey Kiss went sailing through the air, hitting Emma on the cheek and bouncing onto the floor.

“Apologies, Swan.”

Emma scowled as she threw the candy back at his head. “You did that on purpose!”

He laughed as he unwrapped another chocolate, and this time, he aimed for her open mouth.

“That’s 14 down, 76 more to go,” Emma sighed. “How about you?”

“Ten.”

“You could go faster if you did it all online. That’s kind of the point of the kids emailing the links to their papers? You know, teaching in the 21st century?”

“I prefer the old fashioned way, love,” he argued splaying both hands over his perfect stacks before him, “I need to print them out, to feel them in my hands. I can also grade them anywhere, whether or not there’s wi-fi. And finally, I have a system.”

Emma shook her head as she chuckled. He’d given her a long, rather boring overview of his “system” before, one that he swore kept him from being too harsh on either the best writers or the weakest. He tried to be fair and to bring out the best in each student, so really, how could she fault him?

She could, however, tease him.

“Well, old man, I guess someone has to keep the red pen factories in business.”

“There are factories that only make red pens?”

“Someone makes them,” she mumbled as she forced herself to focus on a poorly written introduction.

“I’m fairly certain the adult coloring book trend will protect the red pen market.”

“I never got that fad.”

“It’s supposed to be relaxing, Swan.”

“What’s relaxing about coloring the same damn flower with a million petals for half an hour?”

Killian laughed, the sound of it free and easy. Their conversations were always this way. Mostly ridiculous, brutally honest, and always fun.

“You know,” Emma told him, leaning back against the couch as she worked the kinks out of her neck, “studies have proven that students get stressed when they see the color red on their work. Why don’t you use another color?”

“Like what?”

“Anything, apparently, remember the adult coloring books? Use . . . I don’t know, purple or something.”

“Then they’d just get stressed when they saw purple.”

Killian scratched a C- across the stop of the paper he was grading with a flourish, then slapped his hand down on it. “Hit me!”

Emma tossed him another Hershey Kiss, and then the two of them fell into silent concentration. Killian absentmindedly rubbed the bottom of her feet with one hand as he ran the end of his red pen along the lines in front of him. He started to chuckle after a few moments and lifted the paper for Emma to see.

“Do you know what this is?”

Emma smiled as she leaned closer to the paper. “A list?”

“Aye. A list of every short story F. Scott Fitzgerald ever wrote. With the year each was published and in what literary magazine it appeared.”

Both Emma’s eyebrows rose. “And what point font is that?”

“18 in verdana.”

Emma laughed. “Do they think we’re idiots?”

Killian shrugged as he scribbled a note in the margin. Emma spun her laptop around for him to see.

“A list of every agricultural export from Costa Rica. 22 point font, comic sans”

Killian quirked a brow. “Looks like Nicholas Zimmer takes the prize for best padding of a term paper.”

Half an hour later, the floor was littered with an obscene amount of Hershey Kiss wrappers and the tiny paper tails that Emma knew she would keep finding in her carpet for at least a month. Her vision was swimming as she tried to focus on her laptop screen and Killian was stretching the fingers of his right hand with a grimace on his face. Emma stretched both arms above her head and her spine cracked.

“25 down. You?”

Killian rubbed at his forehead wearily. “22.”

“I told you it would go faster on your computer.”

“Technically, I went faster. You completed eleven in the last half hour, while I completed twelve.”

Emma waved off his argument. “Short term gain, Jones.”

“Oh really?” he replied, leaning over the coffee table towards her. “What about a little wager, Swan?”

“I’m listening.”

“If I finish grading my term papers before you, I get to pick out what you wear for the Sadie Hawkins dance. If you finish first, you get to pick out my outfit.”

Emma narrowed her eyes as she crossed her arms. “No way I’m letting you pick out my outfit.”

“Scared?” he teased with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Of course! You’re a man! I don’t want to get fired.”

He splayed a hand over his heart. “Swan! Do you not trust me?”

“No.”

He chuckled, setting her feet on the floor so he could come around the coffee table and settle in next to her. “I just have a need to see you as a stereotypical schoolmarm. You know, tight bun, glasses, a tweed skirt.”

Emma snorted. “Let me guess, tweed mini skirt with my shirt half unbuttoned.”

“Nope,” he argued, popping his p, “I mean, full blown schoolmarm. Maybe even a cardigan and a string of pearls.”

“Okay then,” she told him, giving his tight jeans and blue button up a once over. As usual, the top few buttons were undone on his shirt to let his chest hair breath. “And if I win this little bet, I want to see you go full blown nerd. Khakis, a sweater, bow tie, the whole nine yards.”

Killian gave her a smug grin. “You’re on.”

They shook on it, and then Emma’s head fell to his shoulder. “I guess this means we should get back to work.”

“I don’t know about you, but I need a break.” Killian picked up her Roku remote. “The Musketeers?”

Emma pouted. “You know too many of my weaknesses.”

He waved the remote in her face. “Just a few episodes, Swan, you know you want to.”

She scowled at him as she snatched the remote. “One episode, then it’s back to work.”

He flashed her a toothy smile as he rose and pulled her onto the couch with him. She curled up next to him, grabbing a blanket from the arm of the sofa. One episode turned into three, which turned into both of them drifting off. The next thing Emma new, sunlight was filtering through her curtains, and Killian’s chest was rising and falling beneath her cheek.

So much for getting back to work.

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

Emma stifled a yawn as she walked up and down the rows in her first block class as her freshmen clicked away on their laptops to identify the dependent clauses in the list of sentences on their screens. She had a cup of coffee on her desk, but she was pretty sure it was cold by now. Her neck hurt too because Killian’s shoulder apparently didn’t make a very good pillow.

She paused just as she walked past Violet’s desk. The normally quiet and studious girl was laughing behind her hand, and was that the ding of an incoming message Emma had just heard from her computer? Emma spun back around, and Violet’s eyes grew large and round. The girl slammed her laptop closed, her face turning red and Emma almost felt sorry for her. She couldn’t have looked more guilty if she’d tried.

“I . . . finished early,” Violet stammered.

Emma held her hand out, “Let me see.”

Violet slumped as she turned the device towards her teacher. Emma opened the computer, and Violet’s grammar work was there on the screen. Yet down in the corner was the icon for the Discord app. Emma pulled it up and saw that Violet had been chatting with Grace three rows over. But one of her best students chatting in class in an app that wasn’t even supposed to be downloaded onto a school computer wasn’t what shocked Emma. What shocked her was the content of the conversation.

whiterabbit: saw somethin this morning

camelotgirl: what

whiterabbit: know how ms swan lives across the street

camelotgirl: yeah

whiterabbit: i saw mr jones leaving this am they hooked up!!!!

camelotgirl: no way mayb he was just givin her a ride

whiterabbit: no his car was at her place all night

camelotgirl: she does seem tired lol

whiterabbit: you know he wore her out 😜

camelotgirl: O.M.G

Emma knew her face was ten times redder than Violet’s. Which was saying a lot because Violet was currently the color of a tomato. Emma took a deep, slow breath, then released it and told herself not to panic.

“Violet, I would like to see you and Grace after class. In the meantime, you are to concentrate on the assignment and that is all.” Emma arched a brow at Grace, who also slumped in her seat. “Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Ms. Swan,” the girls murmured in reply.

Emma pushed Violet’s computer back to her, and forced herself to lengthen her spin and keep her voice calm. She finished the lesson, feeling relief surge through her when the bell rang. Grace and Violet, with heads down dejectedly, shuffled reluctantly to Emma’s desk.

“How did you girls get that app on your computers?” Emma asked. “You know social media of any kind isn’t allowed on school devices.”

She tapped her fingertips on the desk as she regarded the girls. Actually, the laptops were set up with all kinds of blocks and security settings, so whoever got around it was smart. Grace and Violet were good students, but they weren’t the computer hacker types.

“Do we have to tell you?” Violet asked, her lower lip trembling. “We don’t want to get him in trouble!”

Emma forced herself not to smirk. Violet had been dating Henry Mills for a few months now, and she had a strong suspicion he was the him. He was a good kid as well, but also entirely too smart. Not to mention his mother was the principal, which meant he had free rein of the school after hours. She’d also noticed him spending a large amount of time with Graham Humbert, the school IT guy. Emma had assumed it was because his mother had briefly (and notoriously) dated him, but it looked like Henry had other reasons for seeking the man out.

“No, you don’t have to tell me,” Emma said, leaving out the fact that she would be having a private conversation with his mother later. Violet visibly deflated. “But, you will be deleting that app immediately.”

She had both girls pull up Discord, and when their chat once again filled the screen, Grace turned to Emma.

“I only told Violet, and I promise I won’t tell anyone else. Your secret is safe with us.”

Emma let out an irritated breath before smoothing her features into what Killian called her “teacher face.”

“I appreciate that, Grace, but this illustrates why you can’t jump to conclusions. Gossip can do a lot of damage. Mr. Jones and I were grading papers together, that’s all.”

“Teachers pull all nighters?” Violet asked as her brows rose.

Emma chuckled. “Yes, sometimes. Term papers take a really long time to grade, so this is a very stressful time of year. That’s why I’m tired all the time.”

She gave Grace a pointed look then, and the poor girl turned a bright shade of red. “We’re sorry, Ms. Swan.”

“Apology accepted. Now, erase this app because if I see it again, I’ll have to write you up and send you to Mr. Humbert to get your hard drive wiped.”

She was fairly certain the threat of a hard drive wipe was more motivation for the girls than demerits.

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

Emma jumped when a to-go bag from Granny’s was plopped onto her desk. She rubbed her eyes wearily and blinked to clear the sleep from them. How had she fallen asleep so fast? It felt like the bell just rang to dismiss her kids to go to lunch. She looked up to see Killian standing there with a pleased grin on his face.

“Grilled cheese,” he told her.

“With fries?”

“Onion rings.”

“Good,” she said as she grabbed the bag, “I was just testing you.”

Emma bit her lower lip as she watched Killian pull up a chair and set his own Granny’s bag on her desk. School gossip had never bothered her before, but after the chat she’d read between Violet and Grace, she was tempted to ask him to eat lunch somewhere else. But how could she when he’d bought her favorite meal? Besides, it wasn’t the first time he had spoiled her this way. She’d completely taken advantage of his coveted third block planning period, yet he’d never complained.

“So how’s it going?” he asked, gesturing to her computer screen.

“It’s not,” she sighed. “I told you The Musketeers was a mistake. I’ve barely been able to keep my eyes open all day.”

He chuckled before taking a bite of Granny’s lasagna. She studied him as she dipped an onion ring in ketchup. If he was equally exhausted, he showed no evidence of it. His eyes were as bright blue as they ever were, his black dress slacks, collared shirt, and leather vest hugging his frame in a tasteful yet fashionable way. His hair was tousled, but artfully so, and she knew full well he’d spent time in front of the mirror to get it to look that way.

“What?” he asked after swallowing a bite of salad. “Do I have sauce on my shirt?”

She shook her head and smiled. “You just don’t look as tired as I do, that’s all, and it’s completely unfair.”

He shrugged and waggled his eyebrows. “What can I say? I’m devilishly handsome.”

Normally she would roll her eyes and throw him a witty retort, but today she was more aware of his flirting than usual. She glanced over his shoulder at the door that led to the hallway.

“Something is bothering you, Swan,” he told her seriously, “and it isn’t your fatigue.” He leaned closer. “You know you look lovely as always, right?”

Emma shifted nervously in her chair. “You probably shouldn’t say things like that at work.”

Killian’s eyes widened, but he quickly covered it with his usual charming smile. “Then I’ll just save it for tonight. I was thinking you could come to my place, and I could cook for you because God knows you need to be eating more than Pop Tarts and grilled cheese.”

Emma kept her eyes glued to her sandwich. “I don’t know. I was thinking I might just grade on my own tonight.”

Killian was silent for such a long time, that she finally lifted her gaze to his. There were times she got the uncanny feeling he could read her mind. Her heartbeat picked up, worried he would ask for an explanation, but instead he quirked his lips into a half smile.

“I won’t force feed you broccoli, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I just need to focus, that’s all,” Emma muttered before cramming another onion ring in her mouth.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “then how about you come over tomorrow night?”

Emma suppressed a groan. He was really going to make this difficult, wasn’t he? “I actually think we need to stop . . . you know, spending so much time together.”

Killian narrowed his eyes. “Where is this coming from?”

She let out a long, slow breath before telling him about the Discord chat she had stumbled upon. When she finished, his expression was unreadable. He just sat there, lounging back on that stupid plastic orange school chair as if she was an open book.

Oh, who was she kidding? He could always see right through her.

“Okay, Swan,” he finally said with a long, slow nod.

He rose from the desk and stepped right into her personal space, balancing both hands on the arms of the leather desk chair she had saved up money to buy herself. It was an extremely fancy chair that spun and rocked. Emma currently had it leaning back as far as it would go, and still Killian leaned forward, his nose almost brushing hers. His eyes, a darker blue than they had been when he first walked in, searched her face. His gaze flickered to her lips, and Emma wondered if he would kiss her. When he spoke instead, she was surprised at how disappointed she was.

“But the bet is still on,” he told her, voice low.

“The bet?” she winced when it came out high-pitched. Damn, she wanted to kiss him right now. What? No, he was her best friend! It wasn’t like that. It couldn’t be like that.

“The Sadie Hawkins dance?”

“That is a sexist and antiquated tradition.”

“Be that as it may,” he quipped with arched brows, “Storybrooke High is having one, and if I finish my term papers first, you owe me a schoolmarm outfit and a dance.”

“The bet was we had to wear whatever the other one chose. We never said anything about a dance.”

Killian leaned ever closer, turning his head to whisper in her ear. “I’m changing the terms. I want a dance.”

Emma swallowed, his close proximity sending a chill down her spine. “I am disinclined to acquiesce to your proposal,” she shot back, quoting one of his favorite movies.

Killian released the chair and stepped back, a crooked grin on his face. “We shall see about that. Good day, Swan.”

She sagged in her chair, her heart racing. It was as if she had thrown down a challenge, and Killian decided to rise to the occasion. No Emma, she admonished herself with a quick shake of her head, poor choice of words! She wet her lips, trying to calm herself down, but there was no denying it.

She had a thing for Killian Jones.

Which meant she had just lost her best friend. She turned to her desk with a groan and dropped her head to the hard surface.

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

Emma smiled when she saw the little bag of Hershey Kisses in her teacher box. She pulled them out and read the accompanying note:

75 down and only 15 more to go! I sense a schoolmarm outfit in someone’s future! Love, Killian

Her smile widened to a full blown grin as she dropped the gift into her messenger bag and pulled out her cell phone.

Thanks for the chocolate, Jones, but I see a sweater and a bow tie. 78 down. *mic drop*

Emma chuckled under her breath as she sent the text. She tossed her phone back into her bag and fished around for her keys as she headed down the humanities wing. She was surprised to see Violet and Grace waiting for her outside her door.

“What are you girls doing here so early?”

The teens glanced at each other nervously.

“We, um, wanted to talk to you,” Grace explained.

“Ok,” Emma replied as she unlocked the door. A tiny part of her worried that their private Discord chat had somehow become public, but she quickly pushed it away. After all, she had avoided Killian for a week now; their only interactions texts and the frequent chocolates left in her teacher box.

Emma entered the classroom, flipped on the lights then dropped her bag beneath her desk. She plopped into her chair and spun to face her students.

“I’m listening, ladies.”

“Well . . . “ Violet began hesitantly, “you see, we’ve been thinking, and . . . um . . . I mean, we noticed -”

“We think you should ask Mr. Jones to the Sadie Hawkins dance,” Grace blurted out.

Emma’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry . . . what?”

“It’s all our fault,” Grace hurried on, “that you won’t hang out with Mr. Jones anymore. I mean, everyone knows you’re together all the time - “

“- until now,” Violet put in.

“Exactly!” Grace nodded. “And Mr. Jones just hasn’t been the same. He’s really sad.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Girls, I seriously doubt Mr. Jones is pining over me or anything. We’re just friends. And I haven’t stopped hanging out with him, we’re both just busy.”

She pulled her laptop out of her messenger back and opened it up on her desk, expecting that to be it, but the girls lingered. She glanced up at them with raised brows.

“You’re wrong, Ms. Swan,” Violet said softly, “he really is sad.”

“How do you know this? You’re freshmen, he teaches juniors.”

“Henry said so.”

Emma frowned at Violet. “Your boyfriend told you his teacher is sad?”

“Well, yeah. Henry wants to be a writer, and he’s always hanging around after school because of his mom, so he’s gotten to know Mr. Jones really well.”

Emma bit her lip as she regarded the girl. She was well aware of the bond between Killian and Henry Mills. The boy had even let Killian read a few of his short stories.

“And everyone’s noticed the yearning looks and doey eyes,” Grace added with a smirk.

Emma scoffed. “I don’t yearn.”

“But he does,” both girls said at the same time.

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

Killian Jones was well aware of his tendency to brood. He used to argue when his brother Liam would accuse him of it, but now? Now there was no sense denying it. He was brooding, melancholy, angst-ridden, and a thousand other synonyms for dramatic and pathetic. He was a grown man acting like a teenager in a Disney Channel movie.

He threw his red pen down on his desk in frustration, realizing that his mind was a thousand miles away from Emily Dickinson and her dash-filled poetry. He was so close to finishing his term papers - just five to go - and he’d never wanted to win a bet so badly in his life. He’d missed Emma terribly even though it had only been a week. If he won the bet, maybe he could at least get one dance.

How many synonyms were there for pathetic?

There was a knock at his classroom door, and he wearily called out for the person to come in. He was thinking of leaving anyway. It was past five, and he obviously wasn’t getting anything else done today.

Henry Mills appeared tentatively in the doorway, and Killian grinned.

“Good afternoon, my boy, or should I say good evening? It’s late for you to still be around.”

Henry came closer to his desk with a shrug, and it was only then that Killian realized he was carrying a large shirt box.

“I went home, actually, but Violet and Ms. Swan asked me to bring this to you. Mom said you were still here, so . . . “

The boy trailed off as he set the box on Killian’s desk. Killian narrowed his eyes as he stood and regarded the box.

“Ms. Swan in league with your girlfriend? What’s all this about?”

“Beats me,” Henry said, “I’m just the messenger.”

Killian lifted the lid on the box, and inside was a pair of khaki pants and a gray cardigan sweater with huge brown buttons. Resting on top was a red bowtie and a note. Killian picked it up and opened it to find Emma’s messy handwriting.

90 term papers graded, Jones. I win. So will you go with me to the Sadie Hawkins?

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

“It’s totally unfair, you know,” Emma told Killian as she entered the gym on his arm.

“What’s unfair?”

“That you still look hot dressed like a nerd.”

“I told you,” Killian quipped with a waggle of his eyebrows, “I’m devilishly handsome.”

Emma laughed and smacked him in the chest.

“I have to say, Swan,” he said giving her an appreciative gaze, “you cut quite the figure in that dress.”

She was dressed in a much softer, feminine way than was normal for her. Her dress was pink with an A-line skirt that hit her knees. She had pulled her hair up into a ponytail that she had curled with a curling iron. To be honest, she had never had a date to a school dance before. So maybe this former foster girl was indulging in a childhood fantasy; at least she knew Killian could understand that.

“Why thank you,” she told him, a blush staining her cheeks. “You’re not disappointed about missing out on your schoolmarm fantasy?”

Killian grinned brightly as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Oh, I have multiple fantasies, Swan.”

She was completely incapable of a come back when he looked at her that way. She bit her lower lip, her gaze drifting to his mouth.

“Oh for the love of God, just kiss already!”

The two of them jumped apart, faces flaming to see their boss Regina Mills standing there, her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She had traded in her everyday sensible pantsuit for a sensible dress skirt instead. The two of them held their breath, worried they were about to get a lecture on school romances, but Regina just rolled her eyes at them.

“Just keep it PG, ok? Now get to the punch bowl already!”

Grace and Violet may have kept the topic of their Discord chat a secret, but they didn’t do the same about Emma asking Killian to the dance. All night, kids were coming up to tell them how cute they were together. Emma felt her face had turned as red as the punch.

Halfway through the evening, the DJ called them out by name to come out on the dance floor. The hoots and cheers of the students as Killian led her out to the middle of the gym floor was deafening. He rested one hand at her waist and clasped his other one with hers as Christina Perri’s “The Words” began to play. Emma breathed a sigh of relief when students drifted onto the floor as well.

“You don’t like being the center of attention, do you?” Killian teased.

“Not exactly,” Emma laughed.

“Well, unfortunately, you need to get used to it.”

Emma tilted her head. “Why?”

“Because there’s no one here as beautiful as you.”

As cheesy as the line was, for the second time that night, he had left her speechless. Emma’s only response was to release Killian’s hand so she could wrap her arms around his neck and pull him closer. He grinned in response, wrapping his arms about her waist. The song was winding down, and several of the students noticed how they had drawn closer together. The hoots and cheers from earlier filled the gym. Killian arched a brow at her, and Emma’s eyes widened. What was he up to? She let out a small yelp when he suddenly dipped her, winking down at her. The cheers of the students grew even louder, and now many of them were chanting, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Emma almost panicked when Killian pulled her closer when he lifted her back up. Yet the kiss he gave her was only a brief brush of lips against her cheek, and she sighed in relief. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to kiss him - God, did she want to! - she just didn’t want their first kiss to have an audience, especially an audience they had to see every single day.

So when the song ended, Emma tugged Killian through the crowd, away from the punch bowl. The dance committee had borrowed sets from the drama club’s last production of Oklahoma! for the night’s western theme. She yanked Killian behind a giant mural of a Conestoga wagon and beneath the bleachers.

“Making out under the bleachers, Ms. Swan?’ Killian admonished with an exaggerated frown. “I’ll have you know I’m a gentlem-”

Emma cut him off, yanking him forward by the front of his sweater, and crashed her lips into his. He was clearly surprised at first, but he caught up quickly. Kissing him was just as good as she had always imagined, his lips soft yet firm, and one of his hands tangled in her ponytail. Emma tilted her head, deepening the kiss, and she swore his tongue tasted like Hershey’s chocolate.

They could have stayed there behind those bleachers, kissing until their lips were swollen, but they both knew they would be missed. And getting caught making out would definitely not be PG. So she and Killian made their way back to the punch bowl, their fingers threaded together, sharing ridiculously sappy smiles.

The rest of the night was like one of those teen rom-coms Emma used to hate. Killian draped his sweater over her shoulders as they walked from the gym to his car, and her foot might have popped like Mia Thermopolis when he kissed her goodnight at her door. Despite kissing under the bleachers, he hadn’t been kidding. He was a perfect gentleman. And Emma literally swooned against the door after telling him goodbye. She waited for the fear to grip her. Fear that she’d let him in too fast. Fear that he wouldn’t stick around. Fear that their friendship would be ruined. But the fear didn’t come.

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

“Hit me.”

Killian Jones grinned, unwrapped a Hershey Kiss and tossed it into Emma’s open mouth. She ate it with an exaggerated moan, then licked her lips suggestively. He leaned across the coffee table and captured her lips in a deep kiss, tasting the chocolate on her tongue.

By the end of the night, there was an obscene amount of foil wrappers littering the living room floor, and Killian knew they would be finding those tiny paper tails in the carpet for the next month.

But that was okay. He and his wife did this every year. Kisses were the best way, after all, to get through term paper season.

[eirian-houpe]

Working Wednesday

Here is the state of my current WIPs with July’s Camp Nano picking up steam. As before, my main camp fic will be The Library Beneath the Clock Tower, I also have a project I need to get finished for July, and those two are taking priority.

The Library Beneath the Clock Tower: AU Cursed Storybrooke. (Inspried by/based on The Bookshop on the Corner: A Novel, by Jenny Colgan)

Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community. -  Chapter 33/53 posted and 6 more are written ready for editing, and I’m 2,023 words into chapter 41 - an important chapter.

All Our Past Mistakes: AU Non-Cursed Storybrooke

Doctor Gold, professor of history at the local campus of Maine University, is stuck in a loveless, and one might say abusive relationship with a wife who is less than attentive to their family, and whom he suspects cares little for her marital vows. His resolve to maintain his own faithfulness is sorely tested by the presence of one of his new students - a junior by the name of Belle French - whom it seems fate is determined to put in his way. The two become embroiled in a passionate, and redemptive relationship, but not before suffering numerous setbacks and separations. This is no instantaneous happy ever after, but a tale of two hurt souls finding their way together through darkness and despair. - nothing written since last week

Disparate Pathways: AU and Remix of Witness Protection, which was written for the 2019 RSS.

Gold has a past, a past that he has rejected, but it seems one that will not let him go. Belle, daughter of Governor Maurice French has been kidnapped, along with her mother, and just as the authorities raid the organization that is holding her hostage, decides to make her own bid for freedom, unknowingly derailing an undercover sting, and Agent Milnor has not choice but to take her into ‘protective custody,’ but is he all that he seems? As the threads of the story grow more tangled and the threat to Belle, and to Gold, her appointed protector, grow ever more real, a growing, mutual attraction makes everything far more desperate and far too personal for Gold to ignore what he knows to be the truth. - Nothing written since last week.

Scattered: AU OUAT, where the curse didn’t quite happen the way it did on the show. (It went ‘wrong’)

Casting a spell, any spell - at least the ones that involve more than just the wave of a hand, or worse, the wave of an irritating fairy’s wand - takes time, and patience, and the right ingredients, and… just like any recipe, if you get it wrong, it doesn’t mean the cake won’t cook, rather then will, just with unexpected or unintended outcomes. All of Rumplestiltskin’s careful planning and manipulation, all of his hopes and dreams turn to dust; ashes in his bitter heart in the blink of an eye… in the fall of an equine heart. Belle exchanges one terrible prison for another, and it’s one she is desperate to escape, and though Rumple’s fate as The Savior was severed from him centuries ago, sometimes fate itself has a way of finding an alternate route home. - nothing written since last week

What the Actual Fuck! : Sutherelle fic

Prime Minister Robert Sutherland is feeling pressured, and isn’t prepared to acquiesce to the repeated challenges from within his cabinet nor the wider circle of those around him. He resorts to drastic measures to ascertain who can be trusted, turning to an ‘old friend’ to help him separate the wheat from the chaff. Said friend promises to send in his best operative to assist the PM, the trouble is the operative finds out more than Robert necessarily wants to know, and all this just as all hell is breaking loose around him; people hurt, Britain in chaos and multiple deaths push him into making some hard hitting decisions in order to safeguard himself, the country, and the people he cares about - Nothing written since last week.

Breathe: Rushbelle.

As the Lucian Alliance attack Icarus Base, Doctor Rush makes the decision that dialing back to Earth is too dangerous, though that may not at all be his reason for attempting to dial the ninth chevron, persuaded by Eli, and by something Belle had said to him previously, he substitues Earth for Icarus, and the connection is made. In spite of hurrying to urge Belle to the ‘Gate room and through the ‘Gate, neither he, nor anyone else believes that Belle actually made it on board Destiny…  - Part one of the We Three series. -  Nothing written since last week.

Storybrooke’s Best Kept Secret: Rumbelle, Cursed Storybrook AU

This story was created accidentally when what I had written didn’t fit for something else. in which Belle is not kept in the assylum, but in a little cottage on the very edge of Storbrook town, and few know she’s there.  Then, one day, someone else finds out. -  Nothing written since last week.

Darkness In Hyperion Heights: Woven Beauty, Mystery/Paranormal AU

One stormy morning, Detective Weaver shows up to work and finds someone waiting for him in his office.  His visitor is a scholar and a curator for the British Museum, and has recently discovered that an artefact from the vaults is missing. She has followed the trail left in the wake of its disappearence and it led her to Hyperion Heights, and now, she needs Weaver’s help - 355 words written

Modern Wonders: Well now, how to classify /this/ one?  Lets start by saying it is a crossover with OUAT and SyFy’s Mini-series, Alice. It’s kind of ‘ensemble’ and kind of ‘Mad Rumbelle/Mad Curious Archer’ sorta kinda.  This is still in the ‘mulling’ stage, and might not get anything posted for a while, because of… well… reasons! (Spoilers), but we’re working on it.

Also, I still have 2 series awaiting their next works: Darker Hearts: an AU Wish!Rumbelle, and Thoughts On A Happy Ending: A Rumblelle focussed Belle introspective of the entire journey from season 1 through season 7. Nothing has been written for either just yet, so no change since theirlast update, but they are included in the writing schedule so maybe that will change.

All published works can be found on AO3 where I write as Eilinelithil.

Please feel free to ask me questions about /anything/ you see here, or any other curiosity that enters your head - anonymous asks accepted, I’ll talk about most things if you ask. If you want to ask the characters anything, you can do that too! You can also prompt me if you wish.