#ty taffy please send more

[montydrawsstuff]

I couldn't think of any outfits for Espio (mostly because idc about fashion in general/my father's village was attacked by fashion majors) but then I just heard Careless Whisper playing on the radio where I work and????? I remembered how I used to associate Wham!/George Michael songs with Espio soooo maybe just pick anything George Michael has ever worn in his music videos and throw it on Espio.

dont even get me started on how good this idea is

i had to chose my favourite song from him, Faith - the outfit is also so good, exactly my style

not taffy knocking it out of the park with another banger request!

[hovercraft79]

Winter Song

Ch: 7 Merry Christmas Darling

Chapters: 7/31 Word Count: I,707 Fandom: The Worst Witch (TV 2017) Rating: Teen Warnings:  None Summary: Sometimes, it takes some ice to thaw a relationship that’s been frozen for decades. Pippa invites Hecate to spend a holiday evening at a village celebration.

Notes: Only one day late! I hope to get back on track over the weekend, but I’ve hit the perfect storm of IRL holiday commitments and prompts I didn’t get done ahead of time.

This story is part of the B-Sides: Stories from the world of Hecate’s Summer Playlist series. It is a prequel to Hecate’s Summer Playlist.

Merry Christmas Darling is a great old Carpenters song.

Thanks again to Sparky, who only mocked me a little for sending her the draft at 4 am this morning. 

Pippa hesitated, hand poised just over Hecate’s door. She was second-guessing herself again. Or third, or fourth or tenth-guessing herself. She already had her hand raised to vanish the pink hold-all when the door flew open. “Hecate!” She stumbled back, startled. “I was just about to knock!”

Hecate smiled, eyes darting to the bag and back up to Pippa’s face. “Do come in,” she said, wincing.

“Don’t mind if I do, darling.” She swept past Hecate, squeezing her arm just above the elbow. Pippa dropped her hold-all onto Hecate’s sofa before unzipping her powder pink quilted jacket.

“You’re looking different tonight,” Hecate said, wincing again. “I mean… Ordinary clothes suit you, ughhhh…” Hecate turned away, huffing out a gust of breath. “I’m sorry… I’m trying to say that you look very nice tonight.”

Pippa grinned broadly. “Thank you, Hiccup.” She wanted to say more but knew she shouldn’t push. Hiccup was trying - she’d offered a compliment on Pippa’s outfit.

“May I get you something to drink? Tea? Or a glass of wine?” Hecate asked, her voice rising.

Pippa could see that Hecate was getting flustered. “Not just yet, darling. In fact, I was wondering if you might be willing to forego our chess game tonight? I thought –”

“Yes… that would be fine, you’re busy – especially this time of year. I understand if you need to cancel; I’m only sorry you didn’t save yourself the trip by mirroring.” Hecate’s voice, though pitched higher than usual, was steady. She couldn’t quite hide the gloss on her eyes, though she tried.

“No, Hiccup. Darling. You don’t understand at all.” Pippa laced her fingers through Hecate’s and pulled her over to sit on the sofa. Holding Hecate’s eyes with her own, Pippa waited until she knew that Hecate was listening to her. “I don’t want to cancel our evening. Not at all.” She let that sink in until Hecate nodded. “I was just rather hoping you might consider a different activity.” She released Hecate’s hand and unzipped her hold-all, pulling out two pairs of ice skates, one pink, the other black. “I had such a good time when we went in to town the other night, so I looked up the goings-on in some of the other villages in the area. There’s a Holiday in the Park that starts tonight in Foxmoor Glen. There’s to be carolers, a tree-lighting and an ice-skating rink. What do you say, Hiccup? Would you like to go? It’s all right if you’d rather stay in and play chess. As long as we’re together, I’m pleased.”

Pippa could see Hecate mulling it over. She tried not to look too eager; after all, if Hecate didn’t actually want to go, she didn’t want to force her. Neither would have an enjoyable evening. Finally, Hecate nodded. “I think that would be quite pleasant.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “I’d love to,” she tried again.

“Brilliant! Let’s find you some proper skating clothes, then.”

****

“Are you ready?” Pippa asked, double-knotting the lace of her skate. Done, she stood, balancing on the blades and letting her ankles get used to the wobble. “I don’t remember the last time I went skating. Maybe that time we went into town our fifth year?” She watched as Hecate finished tying her own skates, admiring the way she looked in smart black t

“That’s the last time for me, I’m sure,” Hecate said, drily. She pushed herself off the bench, testing her balance on the blades. “Are you sure you don’t want me to charm the skates to keep us from falling?”

Pippa’s laugh rivaled the tinkling of the sleigh bells jingling on the horse-drawn carriage nearby. “That’s half the fun, Hiccup, the risk of bodily harm. C’mon… we’ll stay by the wall the first few laps.” In spite of her bold words, Pippa stepped gingerly onto the ice, sliding her skates in short, awkward strokes, grabbing the wall after only a few feet. She turned around, expecting to find Hecate still outside the rink. Instead, she nearly lost her skates when Hecate was right behind her, off the wall, sure and steady on the ice. “Of course, you remember how to skate, why wouldn’t you?” Shaking her head, Pippa pushed off from the wall. “Let’s go then…”

They took a rickety first lap around the rink, Hecate’s muscle memory returning much quicker than Pippa’s – much to Pippa’s chagrin. By the second lap they were both moving much more confidently, though perhaps not as quickly as other skaters. Pippa watched a cute couple skating past, hands clasped between them. She must have been looking a bit too wistfully, because when Pippa turned back to Hecate, she saw the look of hurt flickering across her face. “Hiccup?” She skated over to Hecate’s side, careful not to get too close. “What’s wrong?” She placed a hand on Hecate’s forearm, pulling her to a stop. “What is it?”

Hecate grinned ruefully and kept watching the couple make their way around the rink.  “It’s nothing, Pipsqueak, just… I want you to know that I understand if you’d rather be here with someone else; it would make a lovely place for a…date.”

“A what?” Pippa followed Hecate’s eyes, finally realizing that Hecate was focused on the now kissing couple. She couldn’t help it, she threw back her head and laughed, causing her skates to fly out from under her and landing her on her backside on the ice. Hecate was by her side at once.  “Oh, Hiccup…” she gasped, once she could speak again, “I promise you, darling, I am here with exactly the person I want to be here with.” She held out a hand and let Hecate help her back to her skates. Once up, Pippa pulled Hecate into motion, keeping their gloved fingers entwined for the next three laps, dropping them only when some racing children spun them around.

“Merlin’s rusty cauldron,” Hecate growled, grabbing Pippa’s arm to make sure the blonde stayed on her skates. She looked at Pippa, shocked to find Pippa staring back at her, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Pippa steadied herself on her skates, lifting her chin in challenge.

Hecate raised one slender eyebrow, but shifted on her skates, digging one toe into the ice, preparing to push off. “Once around the rink, then first to the exit? Loser buys the snacks?”

“You’re on, Hardbroom,” Pippa said, pushing off “GO!” Both witches raced away, laughter trailing behind them.

****

“Not the worst job I’ve seen today,” the nurse said, smiling as she finished wrapping gauze around Pippa’s palm. “Don’t know what you were thinking, dearie.”

Pippa flexed her fingers, wincing as the gauze stuck and pulled against the raw, scraped ice burn covering her palm. “I was thinking I was going to win,” she chuckled. “Would have done, too, if that boy hadn’t cut me off.” Instead, Pippa found herself sitting in the first-aid booth, getting her hand patched up while Hecate was off somewhere with Pippa’s wallet, choosing snacks that would no doubt be healthy and sensible. She sighed. Too bad… she’d really hoped for some caramel popcorn.

“Here come’s yer friend now,” the nurse said, pointing through the crowd at Hecate.

Pippa watched Hecate weaving her way through the mass of people, hands full as she carried a cardboard tray with drinks and brightly colored boxes. “Feeling better?” Hecate set the tray down and handed Pippa a steaming cup of hot chocolate.

“Mmmm….” Pippa breathed in the heavenly scent of the chocolate. “I am now… I just knew you were going to bring back something healthy, like a spinach smoothie or kale chips.” She sipped at the hot chocolate, sending a quick, silent spell to cool it to just the right temperature. “Perfect.” She eyed the colorful packages. “And what other treats did you bring?”

Smirking, Hecate opened the boxes. “Cinnamon roasted pecans – still warm.” She held out the box, her smirk softening into a gentle smile as Pippa plucked out a few pecans and popped them into her mouth.

“Heavenly,” she said, munching. “What else?” The next box was filled with a rainbow of saltwater taffy pieces, wrapped in waxed paper. “Lovely, I’ll save that for later.” She eyed the last box.

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t want what’s in here,” Hecate teased. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

Pippa batted her eyes furiously, “Please?” Hecate held out for a moment before opening the last box and revealing a tiny mountain of caramel popcorn. Pippa squealed and snatched the entire box off the tray. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She shoved an entire handful into her mouth, moaning most inappropriately at the sweet, salty crunch. Mouth full, she winked her appreciation at Hecate, winking again when she saw the way it made her blush.

****

It was late when Hecate finally stepped out of her small bathroom, warm and relaxed from the bath, wearing the soft, fluffy robe that she would deny to anyone that she even owned. Walking towards the bed, she spotted an unfamiliar object on her nightstand. Out of habit she looked up, reaching out with her magic to check not only the castle wards, but her personal wards as well. Everything seemed to be in order. Stepping closer she could see that it was a snow globe. Pippa.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, Hecate picked up the snow globe and gave it a twist. Glittering snowflakes swirled around a cluster of ice skaters on a tiny, tree-lined pond. She noticed a key for winding on the base and twisted it, smiling as the melody to “Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas” began to play. As the music played, the skaters began to move around the pond, spinning and twirling as they circled. Hecate wound it a couple more turns before returning it to the nightstand. She crawled under her covers and rolled onto her side, magicking out the lights before resting her chin on her hand. There was just enough moonlight that she could still see the tiny skaters circling the pond. She fell asleep listening to the music and dreamed of hot chocolate, ice skating, and Pippa.  

[seenashwrite]

The Midwife: Part One

Status: Complete (1 of 4) Word Count: 3K Category: Mini-series; Behind-the-scenes canon compliant; Historical; Mystery; Teamwork; On-the-hunt   Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Various O.C.s; References to familiar people/places Pairing(s): N/A  Warnings: None Overall Summary: In the mid-1950s, a member of the New York City chapter of the Men of Letters is sent to the United Kingdom to assist with what appears to be another stack of cold case dead-ends, when he suddenly finds himself questioning one of his closest-held convictions. 

          *~* The Midwife : Master Post *~*

There was once a small pocket of unmoved time in Kansas, about half a century's worth, and it came to an end simply, no magic required. A turn of a key in a lock, two sets of steps across a threshold, then it was over, just like that. Simple maneuvers were in contrast with the Men of Letters' old hat routine but the new occupants of their abandoned shelter under Lebanon favored such actions when they had the option.

These legacies were not alone in that position, though they may have found the premise hard to swallow as the years went by, as their knowledge grew. Their encounters with a few of the more interesting members of their inherited fraternity would have done little to convince them otherwise. Seeing is believing, and what-have-you.    

Proof. Tangibility. Something solid, something that could be held in the hand, studied, documented. Rumor meets research meets methodology. Hunter meets weapon meets monster. So, in that respect, more Men of Letters than not.

No one would have faulted the Winchester brothers for missing the typewriter at the very back of the lowest, farthest space, under the rotting table, inside the water-damaged and disintegrating box, completely covered by shadows and cobwebs in that brick-walled cellar of a storage room.

Perhaps some fault - they had lived there for years by the time the typewriter's keys began to move for the first time in decades - maybe that room should have long been discovered, its items sorted. The youngest would have found the books of value, slightly molded as they were. The eldest most assuredly would have found the vintage weaponry of interest, if not use.  

Should they ever go hunting in their home, and should that hunt take them to the dark corner, and the box, and the rusted device, a yellowed paper wrapped on the roll, filled with words in faded ink would await them, though they'd need to be timely: things of such nature do eventually tend to fall to pieces.

Kendricks Academy, just outside London - 1956

.

I've heard it said that if you question your own sanity, then the thought in-and-of itself means you're not. Insane, that is. I found that reasonable, though I suspected many a lunatic had to have felt it creeping on, so reason, yes; comfort, no.

Burt flicked a tiny paper ball across the huge library table to get my attention, and I tilted my head slightly in his direction, met mischievous eyes with my own, ones I suspected were dull and glazed-over and a step shy of insanity. A small snicker was my confirmation, and it was quickly shifted into a mild throat-clearing when our monotone host glanced over his shoulder in our direction. Undeterred, the long, thin stick in his hand went back to pointing - poking, really - at the projected data on the wall, the droning getting right back on track.

This was how I'd die.

He was such a promising young man, they'd write. Twenty-four, taken long before his time, found still sitting up in the chair, his beloved research scattered around him. He is survived by an incredibly angry fiancée, bereft over the meticulously-yet-indecisively-planned wedding that shall never occur. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made in his name to the Men of Letters, United Kingdom Headquarters, London. Please earmark as funding for booze-filled credenzas in all meeting rooms.

It wasn't just the London chapter - my home chapter in New York City was filled with fellows who could bore with the best of them, and though I loved my job, this assignment was working my nerves. I'd thought my breaks in the cold cases department - especially the last one - would send me into the more active areas of our duties. Active without action, for the most part, but I would've happily taken it.

Instead they’d sent the Lily Sunder investigation on without me, then sent me across the pond, a stack of ice-colds awaiting me in the United Kingdom. And, of course, the not-so-brief briefings delivered in succession by brethren who grew increasingly brain-numbing. Thank heavens for Burt.

Per usual, he seemed to take everything in stride, easygoing to a fault. He was only around five years my senior, though his somewhat girthy physique and heavily balding scalp made him look older. And while he supported me in my desire to see what else our secret society had to offer, he seemed perfectly content languishing with the cold cases.

Even the fact that we'd been boarded at the school didn't seem to faze him, thin mattresses and bland food be damned. His pockets were always filled with candy, a bit grandfatherly, but I found myself grateful. I'd taken to munching whenever he did, and after almost three weeks, my waistband had started to protest - made sense why Burt was perpetually suspendered. Still, I took the offered piece of wax-wrapped taffy as we walked back to the dormitory.

"No more bubblegum?" I asked, pulling the sticky wad in two before I stuck it in my mouth.

"Nah," Burt replied, talking around an entire piece of taffy settled into his cheek, where it was causing a giant bulge. "Got in my mustache the other day."

"Stop blowing bubbles."

"Then what's the point, Jacky?"

"Got me."

"Say, you heard anything from home?"

"Colleen changed her bouquet again."

"I meant Lily."

"No, lilies were three bouquets ago."

"The Sunder case, you moron."

"Ah. No. Last time I asked, Peterson said it was now 'eyes only'." I capped off my response with rolled eyes, then went ahead and stuffed the other half of the taffy in my mouth. Burt knew better. I hated talking about it.

"Still makes me mad," he replied in a sympathetic tone.

"Nothing makes you mad."

"Well, that did! Jack, you're the one that found the lead, confirmed the Canada sighting---"

I sighed. "Burt---"

"And for pity's sake, the Nephi---"

I hocked my taffy into a nearby bush before I stopped in my tracks, turned, gripped his forearm. "Burt!" I hissed, glancing up and down the walkway. 

Smatterings of students were still lingering and walking about, most headed into the common areas or their next class. And though we were outside, I still couldn't believe he was speaking so loudly, so casually. Saying that word aloud at all.

Burt's brow creased slightly and those always-rosy cheeks pinked up a notch, but then he swallowed his taffy and grinned. "Wanna skip that lukewarm, eighty-percent-dough-shepherd's pie in the canteen, head to a pub? I know one that serves actual hot meals, overfill the pints...." He trailed off in a slightly sing-song voice, wiggled his eyebrows so much they almost hit the rim of his cap.

I sighed again, then shrugged my shoulders. "Why not?"

It wasn't simply that they'd taken what I'd come to consider my case away from me. It was the nagging feeling I had that despite the fact Sunder had caused no harm to civilians to our knowledge - well, excepting herself - the Men of Letters' continued interest in her was more than just loose-end tying. No reason but the pangs in my gut to think it was some kind of vendetta. Then they'd allowed more and more access to the files once my early, modest hypothesis showed promise, and I'd stumbled upon quite the reason during a fact-finding mission to the chapter house in Kansas.

House. Ha. Basement, more accurately, and the cold case guru there, Haggerty, was so excited to have company he would've let us redecorate the place in pastels if we'd asked nicely enough. Anything to keep me and Burt there longer, keep him occupied.

He was one of the more enthusiastic members, reminded me a lot of my father, truth be told. More into the metaphysical than I was, sure, but with a logical mindset. I understood why I'd been ordered to consult with him, given the nature of Sunder's appearance in the grainy photograph we'd obtained. The professor hadn't aged a day since the time she'd disappeared from what was left of her life, and our working theory was witchcraft.

Witchcraft didn't just mean magic in my business; it was one of several sub-classifications under the magical umbrella. And if you wanted the skinny on the workings of witches, you called on Haggerty. Even though he'd retired not long after we'd met, he never hesitated to get back in touch with any thoughts he had on the ideas I'd written to him about, the more far-fetched ones  I'd want to bounce off of someone before writing them up for field work consideration. Besides Burt, he was the most open-minded member of our little club. At least, that I'd ever encountered.

Which was why I was glad it was just Haggerty in the room with me when I'd had to sit down due to my shock, right there on the concrete floor, deep in the bowels of that small-town basement, just to the front of the rickety file cabinet I'd been plundering.

"You okay, kid? What's that you got there?" he'd asked.

In reply, I'd simply held out the folder to him when he'd come over and stooped down beside me.

He'd let out a low whistle, went from a stoop to taking a knee as he flipped through the papers. "This must've come from your neck of the woods, you know," he'd said cautiously. "Not sure I know how an old northeast recruitment file would've ended up here."

I knew.

They'd chalk it up to a mistake if I'd asked, a clerical error fifty-some-odd years gone, that the documentation should've gone to storage with anything else not germane to the ongoing nature of our work. Besides, they would say, it doesn't matter to the case, didn’t change the goal. Lily Sunder needed to answer for her meddling in otherworldly affairs, she needed to be monitored, needed to be questioned on her intentions.

But the truth was obvious - to me, to Burt, to Haggerty - that the real reason the file had been sent away from the New York house all those years ago was because they were embarrassed.

Sunder had refused no less than fourteen separate invitations to join the Men of Letters before the turn of the century. They'd been after her research talents since she was barely into adulthood, based on her early work in apocalyptic studies. They got more aggressive once her teaching career took off, and - judging by the verbiage in the copies of the letters they'd sent and the documentation of multiple recruitment trips to Maine - they were practically salivating over the thought of having a bonafide angel expert in their ranks.

"I still think it's why the Moles sent us here," Burt was saying, using our pet name for the ancient, die-instead-of-retire administrators in the Men of Letters.

He took large swig of beer to wash down the meat-and-two veg he'd just polished off. The rationing from the war had ended in the not-so-distant past, and it seemed all the cooks in the land - excepting the ones back at Kendricks, that is - were excited to get to do things up right again. Not that I had much of an appetite, but if we'd had to be banished, it had come at an ideal time, at least in that respect.

"We weren't banished."

Oh. I must've said that part aloud.

"Eat your food."

Burt was channeling his mother then - I knew because of the full British accent on all three words. His father was an American Mole, while his mother was the daughter of a very well-respected professor at Kendricks, not to mention all the uncles and cousins on both sides. Their family visited London for several months each year, so between that and hearing his mother every day, he was good for the occasional drift from American English, though he’d let loose around me from the jump.

There was some beef that kicked up off-and-on between the American and British leadership, and I never got invested, but a few of the older members in New York would dole out side-eyes and huffs at Burt's sporadic "pints" at "pubs", "mash" and "chips". It was more than the accent thing, though.

He kept close to the vest in general. I think because they weren’t shy about their resentment - some odd contempt for him for not being more of a go-getter, double legacy and all. Though about all that pedigree garbage, Burt couldn't have cared less. 

They didn’t know how hard he worked behind the scenes, how much Burt cared about our mission. Not how I knew. And I also knew how much he cared for me.

So I obeyed, eating a few bites of some of the best fish I'd probably ever had, and he went on.

"I'm telling you, them pulling us out here right after Sunder? It's not a coincidence. Tell me you're not thinking the same thing."

I set down my fork, wiped my mouth, then looked at him as seriously as I could manage. "If I think too much about it, I'm going to get mad. Besides, she's not out here, and they know it. She may've been, but it's not as if there's any way to determine it - she's been running since Zeppelins were all the rage. I don't know what it is, but it's not Sunder."

Burt pulled his small, leather-bound notebook from his inside pocket and untied the strings, ready to make his case. I started stuffing carrots I didn't want into my mouth so I wouldn't slip from my current irritation at his pressing into that anger I'd just warned him about. My best friend was an absolute mule.

"Wales: Llandudno - old Liddell summer home location - nothing.  Cairnholm - what was left of the Peregrine house - mild trace. You know how many kilometers we covered in Wales, total?"

"No idea, but I bet you---"

"Nine-hundred eighty-seven-point-eight, Jacko. You know how many miles that is?"

"Burt, are you going to be arriving at a point anytime in the near---"

"Then here," he continued, flipping a page. "Bloomsbury - former home of the Darlings - mild trace. All those random train depots - all the tunnels, ALL of them, Jack---"

"I was there," I said, downing the last quarter of my pint quicker than I should've, mentally crossing my fingers that his end point would have an actual theory behind it this time.

"---and we only confirmed potential - just potential - trace on one."

"You do recall when they ponied up about already knowing all this? I wanted to punch that guy."

"The short fella, the white-haired gentleman, who likely would've died on the spot if you had done?"

"Yup, that’s the one," I shot back casually, then glanced around. I caught our waitress' eye and held up my empty mug with what I hoped was a somewhat genuine smile. Burt was still going.

"All-in-all, not a definitive sign of an active hidey-hole to be found."

"I hate when you call them that."

"Window, door, aperture, passage, thinning, portal - still a hole. I stand by it."

"Fine."

"Kirke estate - every single room - not even a hint of anything."

"I'm going to rescind your best man status if you keep this up."

"Colleen can’t stand me, she'd be thrilled. Hell, Jack, make it her wedding present for all I care."

I frowned. “Jeez, Burt. What is with you?”

Then he frowned. “I was actually listening to their briefings. Were you?”

"Barely," I replied honestly. "They're sending us on follow-up field trips that first year initiates should be handling, and I actually miss our office and the city and my family and even that stupid tiny room in that overcrowded chapter house."

"And your fiancée."

I gave him a look. "I'm tired of chasing down what have always been children's stories with bits of truth in them somewhere. Bedtime tales that have been around long enough - plenty long enough - that if there were anything important to them, the Moles would've sussed it out when they were initiates."

Thankfully the waitress brought over our next round then, and I set into mine like a man just crawling in from the Sahara.  

Burt huffed at that, then said, "Tomorrow's the first time we're going somewhere that's not a rehash. You didn't notice anything new and different about the briefing today?"

"That it's the closest I've gotten to empathizing with the undead."

He flipped his notebook around to face me and planted a finger above several sets of numbers. "Exact latitudes and longitudes, exact area of square kilometers to cover." He flipped another page. “And here's the inns we'll be staying in. We're gonna be gone for a few weeks, and I know it's not just a hop-skip from here, but this shouldn't take more than four or five days, give-or-take.”

I set my mug down slowly, scanning over the notes quickly. He was right. I raised my eyes to his. He grinned when he saw he finally had my interest.

“I think they might've been testing us with all this other stuff, make sure we were accurate on the traces we'd found, see how thorough we were in following up with any living witnesses, how detailed we were in reports. I think this trip is why we're here. Because if I wanted to whip up a nice little spread, keep people away from my hidey-hole? This is exactly the type of place I'd put it.”

I stared at him for a few moments, my normally whirring, ever-processing mind at a complete standstill.

Now he leaned in closer. “And I think I have an idea about how it connects to the Sunder case - to your theory.”

Burt wisely didn't say the word - though the volume of the pub's patrons would've likely drowned it out anyway - and instead just kept studying my face.

“Spit it out,” he finally ordered.

I inhaled and exhaled a deep breath, glancing down at the scribbled locales, then back up, obeying Burt once more.

“What in damnation do they think is out on the moors?"

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