#I went down a total rabbit hole yesterday because I was trying to find an image of this one specific part of the game that I remember

[straows]

Pheromone Spray; G.S

-In which you listen to Nanami's wife and order a pheromone spray that was supposed to make your husband go feral. Only, things didn't go exactly to plan.

A/n: This will be rewritten soon.

Pulling you hair up in a bun and sliding on your reading glasses, you sat on the floor in your guest bedroom closet as you scrolled on your laptop.

You’d gone out for coffee with Nanami’s wife yesterday. And she’d been going on and on about this perfume that had her husband, yes even the saint that was Nanami, acting like a man starved.

So of course, you were intrigued. Because for as long as you knew Nanami, he was a gentleman. So if that perfume worked that well, what would happen if she tried it on Gojo?

You’d tried a few different websites to find that specific perfume that Nanami’s wife used, but it was proving more and more difficult.

Finally, however, you’d seen it on a website buried amongst the others. And all they sold was this perfume, special lube and horny edibles. So of course you bought them all, using your own card that is. The total ended up being $263.35. Which, in hindsight, was way expensive and just about drained your account of all the money you had on there, but that was fine as long as Gojo didn’t look.

Sighing, you finally closed your laptop and took off your reading glasses before pulling yourself out of the closet.

Finally stepping out of the guest bedroom, Gojo, bless his heart, had been trying to find you for near about an hour. You’d convinced him to play hide and seek with you, and this was the perfect excuse.

“Found you!” Gojo tried to be slick as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders. “Not too good at this game are you?” Acting as if he wasn’t stress sweating from how hard he was looking.

Rolling your eyes, you just smiled. “Of course, yeah. I’m terrible at it.” Your smile turned to a shit eating grin as you looked away.

“Hey, I checked your bank funds and it says you spent about $100 on The Sims?” Gojo had a teasing grin on his lips as you immediately pulled away, cheeks flushed in embarrassment.

“Shut up,” you groaned, “I needed to get some more outfits but the patreon cost money and then I went down this rabbit hole.”

“Oh baby. Poor sweet baby. Of course you’d fall for shit like that.” Gojo sighed and pet your head, only for you to bite him. “Ow! If you wanted to fuck just say that!” He whined.

A month, a whole fucking month later, the package finally came in. And the packaging was pleasantly discrete.

You’d never yanked a package from the front porch so fast, immediately racing into your secret hideout, the guest bedroom, you locked the door, then ripped open the packaging. Smiling as you sniffed the perfume, it didn’t smell bad at all, it really smelled like your usual body mist you used.

Quickly, you spritzed it on, using probably way too much but you really wanted to see it work.

Grabbing the box, you hid it under the bed but paused when you heard the front door open and close. Shit. You’d forgotten Gojo had to go into the office.

But wait. This was perfect. You could try it out on him there. And if it did work, well, you could just giggle while Gojo struggled.

Immediately, you grabbed your keys and hopped into your car. Breaking a few traffic laws on the way there. You were just so excited. You loved watching the infamous Gojo Satoru, your finance, struggle. It just made you laugh every time. For example, you’d worn the Mean Girl’s Christmas outfit for Halloween last year, and refused to let Gojo touch you. So he was forced to rock a boner the entire way to the party, the whole party, and the way home. Of course when you got home he fucked you as hard as he possibly fucking could.

Walking into the office, you made a bee line for Gojo’s office. You didn’t notice other men at the office watching you. You had tunnel vision.

On the way there you had grabbed one of those bagels Gojo adored as an excuse to be there. Walking into his office, you smiled innocently. “Hey baby, you forgot to eat breakfast.” Setting down the little bag on his desk, you stood behind it, leaning back on it as you faced him.

Gojo smiled brightly, “Oh my god I’ll combust I love you so fucking much.” He near about moaned when he smelt the bagel. “I love you, I love you, I love you— is that a new perfume?” His eyes immediately locked onto your neck before glancing back up at you.

“Ummm, yes! Nanami’s wife gave it to me.” You laughed a little nervously, before tilting your head, “you like it?”

“Yeah you smell really good.” Gojo stood up from his chair, his hands leaning on the wood of the desk on either side of you as he pressed his face into your neck. “Really good.”

“Yeah? That good huh?” You couldn’t help but giggle, feeling his nose press against your neck like he was getting his fix or some shit.

“Fuck. Too good.” Gojo groaned, his pants growing tighter as a boner formed in his pants. His heart racing and his mouth growing dry.

One hand moved from the desk to grip your hip, bringing you flush against his body. “Shit,” he groaned into your neck, before pulling his face away and staring down at you.

About to say something, the door swung open to his office, and Nanami’s wife appeared. She paused, before smelling perfume and giggled. “You got it! Oh my god!”

Nanami appeared behind her, an amused look in his eye as he watched Gojo be in the same predicament as he was not even a week prior.

“I believe the ladies would like to go out for lunch. You have some paper work to fill out.” Nanami gave Gojo a stern look.

Gojo didn’t take his eyes off you before forcibly prying them away and looking at Nanami, “oh come on, my finance is here to see me.”

You grinned before pressing a kiss to his jaw sweetly, all while your hand teasingly trailing over his bulge.

Gojo had to muffle a groan, “y-you—“

“I love you baby, I’ll see you at home okay?” You winked at him before walking out with Nanami’s wife, giggling like school girls.

“What the fuck.” Gojo sat down with a grunt, his brows furrowed in frustration as he started down at the bulge in his pants.

“I tried to tell her it wasn’t a good idea to tell your fiancé.” Nanami sighed, about to turn around to head back to his own office before Gojo stopped him.

“Wait what do you mean? Tell her what?” Gojo eyed Nanami suspiciously.

“The pheromone perfume? My wife pulled that ridiculous prank on me last week. While I’ll admit, she did it at home so it wasn’t really a problem.” He pulled at his collar slightly as he remembered the hours he spent ‘reminding’ his wife about what he thought of her pranks. He fucked her all night and took off work the next day to use the perfume again.

“You’re joking.” Gojo stared at him, his jaw clenched. “And she’s just gonna leave me like this?”

Immediately, he pulled out his phone to look at her bank account, noticing that she only had $1.22 left and that she’d spent $263.35 on that fucking perfume. “Well shit.” Pulling out his phone, he immediately sent the text that he’d be waiting for her at home, and that’d he’d needed to come early due to ‘being sick’.

“He loved it! Loveddddd it!!!” You smiled widely as you spoke with Nanami’s wife, all giggles and smiles when you got that text. “Wait, shit. He said he’s not feeling good, do you think he’s sick from it?”

Immediately your face dropped, “can that happen?” Looking over at your friend, concern written all over it.

“It didn’t happen with me and Ken, but I don’t know. Gojo may be allergic to it?” She frowned.

“Here, I need to head home. Can I pay you back for the lunch tomorrow?”

“Nonsense. I got you into this mess. Go make sure he’s okay, I know you’re worried.” Nanami’s wife shooed you off and you were thankful as you rushed home.

Walking inside, you looked around and noticed all the lights were off. “Baby? I’m home. You said you weren’t feeling well, what’s wrong?” Turning on the light, you walk into the kitchen not noticing Gojo, who was in nothing but a pair of grey sweats. The outline of his painful looking boner showing through the fabric.

“Welcome home.” He wrapped his arms around you from behind, glaring down at you, “your little perfume prank today was not very funny.” He huffed.

“Wha-“ You paused, “wait. How did you find out about it?”

“Nanami.” Gojo pressed a kiss to your shoulder, all the way up your neck before biting down hard on your shoulder making you gasp. “Fuck you still smell so good.”

“You can’t blame me, the way she said it drive Nanami crazy… I just wanted to try it on you.” You tried to be all cute and sweet, but he was not having it.

“I can blame you. Because you left me there to deal with it all on my own.” His fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, before roughly palming at your breast. “You’re so mean to me.”

A soft whine slipped past your lips as you let your weight lean against him. The feeling of his large hands roughly grabbing all over your body had your thighs squeezing shut.

“But this is what you wanted right? Hm baby? Wanted me to be rough and manhandle you, that it?” His voice was mocking and his tone condescending. Teeth nipping at your neck and jaw as he ground against your ass. Stuttered and breathless moans were muffled as he buried his face in your shoulder.

“Y-yeah, wanted you to be rough with- fuck, with me.” Placing your hands against the cold granite of the counter, you leaned forward so you could your ass against him completely, moaning softly when he’d grip your hips roughly before pressing into you.

“You definitely need to be punished.” Gojo nodded to himself, pupils huge and dark, his hair sticking to his forehead as a light layer of sweat coated his skin, “and you’re not getting out of it anytime soon.”

In a way, your plan worked. You got to see him squirm at work. And in the end you got what you wanted, just for a lot, lot longer than you’d imagined. Seeing as Gojo didn’t even show up to work the next day as he was far too busy fucking you in every room and on every piece of furniture in the house.

I mean from the bed, to the dress, to the floor and closet. To the shower, to the hallway and to the kitchen. And all throughout the house.

By the time Gojo was finally shooting blanks and his cock was so sensitive that he’d hiss if you were to touch it, he finally began to calm down.

And instead of punishing you more by making you sit on his face while your overstimulated, he just wraps his arms around your naked and exhausted body and refuses to let go.

Lololol I love the idea of some shitty perfume making your bf go batshit crazy for some puss.

[aghostinmyownmachine]

👓🦋🧪-for the ask game!

Thank you for the ask!

👓 What helps you focus when you write?

Years ago I would have said headphones with music and only writing late at night once everyone else was asleep to minimize distractions. In the last couple years, that's shifted dramatically—just yesterday I went out to a Greek restaurant and spent the entire time there writing. As long as no one's demanding my immediate attention, I seem to be able to write just about anywhere right now, and I intend to ride this train to the end of the line because it's so much more efficient and convenient than stealing a couple hours at best each night 😂

🦋 Which character is your favorite to write?

MMMM. From DBH? Tina Chen. She's an agent of pure chaos, and I kind of adore her. In terms of writing from characters' POVs, though, it's a toss-up between Gavin and Nines. They're very different, which makes them easy to switch between without getting bored.

🧪 Do you research for your fics?

Ha. Haha. Haaaaaaa. Yeah. I try not to go totally overboard with it, lest I only research and never write, but I've spent a lot of time in the last six months on Google Maps familiarizing myself with Detroit's layout. Eldritch horror!Nines has required all kinds of deep-sea research; mechanic!Nines has led to a frankly astonishing amount of research about Germany's road systems considering Nines spends less than six hundred words in the country. I'm pretty good at not falling totally down the rabbit hole anymore, but sometimes I don't quite know what details I'm looking for until I find them, so. That's the way it goes.

ask me about my fics!

[kinetic-elaboration]

February 4: Jane in DDMD

I’m really distracted by the Grammys (weird of me, since I don’t really care about the Grammys) so I’m not sure how this will go, but I’m going to try to write down some thoughts on Jane in the Fire/DDMD era, following my thoughts from last night on Daria during that same arc.

I’m going to respond in particular to the assertion in the essay I linked yesterday that Daria and Jane’s conversation in the hair dying scene sounds as if the two characters have “only known each other a month.” I think that’s very interesting. It’s tempting me down a rabbit hole about Jane that I’m not ready to go down entirely right now but maybe I’ll just peer in. My first, gut reaction is, yeah, that’s basically true but I don’t think it’s in an OOC way (the essay doesn’t explicitly say it is though I do think that’s the implied critique). It’s really easy to say, yes, objectively, Jane is assuming things about Daria that would be wildly out of character for her, that have no basis in anything Jane has ever known about her in almost two years of joined-at-the-hip friendship, and that don’t even really make sense. But the show acknowledges that; Daria acknowledges it; even Jane acknowledges it later. Was she herself out character to even go into that level of paranoia? And on so little evidence?

The essay points out that Jane’s primary evidence of Daria’s ‘designs’ on Tom were the call to him about the movie, the conversation in Penny’s room, and the accidental walking in on Tom and Jane making out. She makes no references to anything else. And of course the conversation in Penny’s room was Tom’s doing and the accidental walking in was truly accidental. So she’s putting a lot on this phone call. But personally I don’t find this surprising or even a stretch, really. Daria and Jane are close but Jane still has certain ideas about her, certain assumptions; we all put everyone else in boxes to some extent, and Daria has her box. That box is best friend, and it’s also been, for most of the time she’s known Tom, ‘person who doesn’t really like Tom.’ Jane probably perceived that the antagonism was thawing, but that would have seemed like a positive development—personally, for her. She doesn’t have to wrangle Daria’s constant jealousy anymore, phew. But Daria and Tom still only exist in relation to HER; if they’re together, she is also there, because why else would they be in the vicinity of each other if not to also be in the vicinity of her? I think she’d truly forgotten she’d given Daria Tom’s number and so the idea that they had any interaction or relationship in the broadest sense outside of her required this total re-set of her subconscious assumptions about them. And in that re-set, a whole new world opened up. If that one thing was possible, then what ELSE is possible?

Maybe this sounds really over the top, but it makes sense to me. I definitely have had moments with people I considered myself close to when I realized there was some other layer of them that I hadn’t previously perceived, and it can be very destabilizing. Also, while there’s no evidence that Daria was ever doing anything inappropriate with Tom, he definitely was, in a subtle, toeing-the-line way. Jane was picking up on something and she wasn’t being paranoid about it. He did go THAT way to see Daria before he went THIS way to see her. He was way too eager to go out for pizza with her but not with just Jane. He had been trying too hard in their failing relationship (“Sappy Anniversary”). And again, it seems in character for a person generally, not just Jane, to mix up these two strands of data, the Tom strand and the Daria strand, because that Tom would betray her is shitty but that DARIA would betray her is catastrophic. The relationship with Tom is already failing. The relationship with Daria is supposed to outlive everything, all disagreements, all romance, all guys. That Daria is at fault here or the overall mastermind is the worst-case scenario. In a perverse way, that’s why Jane is drawn to it. It’s the fucked-up compliment of giving Daria full agency in a situation where, objectively, she’s actually in way over her head, almost entirely passive.

So Jane has started to feel destabilized and uncertain. She can’t totally pinpoint where the feeling is coming from, because no one’s done anything really egregious or impeachable yet. It’s a lot of bad vibes, it’s a lot of ‘this doesn’t seem right but it isn’t technically wrong.’ Saying any of this precisely and out loud is going to make her look like she’s losing her mind. She’s never going to be able to actually explain it and if she did, if she went through it piece-of-evidence by piece-of-evidence, she’d sound like she’s delusional and making a lot out of nothing. So she approaches it from a totally different direction. She approaches the problem by the size of her feelings toward it, not her evidence supporting it.

I agree that Jane is not mad sympathetic in DDMD in many ways but honestly, at the end of the day? She’s right. She’s right! Tom did cheat on her and then Tom and Daria did start dating! It all happened just as she was most paranoid it would!

Part of what makes Jane come off so badly is that Daria doesn’t fully defend herself in the moments when she most should. And it’s understandable, given her arc and her personality and her position at this particular moment, that she wouldn’t. But it does allow Jane, and her righteous anger, and her justified paranoia, and her strong personality, to roll over her. I do agree with the essay’s conclusion that that’s basically what happened. But I can’t really blame her for it. I think that the episodes are actually crafted really well and overall designed to show a situation with no real good guys or bad guys. It’s rare to see a storyline where everyone is messy as hell but the narrative itself gives them all grace. I think some people might, especially at the time, have been angry about the degree of grace given to some of them, especially Tom and maybe to some degree Jane, but I like this aspect of the story line. It’s incredibly re-watchable to me, even now.

[giant-sketches]

Origami Rabbits

Huge props to @chatladybugaboo​ for the super awesome and cute idea that inspired this one-shot story of mine. Now this is simply based on the idea they posted about as I really wanted to make it my own so it just has similar elements and the Sander Sides characters. 

I worked really hard on this one too. It has a total of 4 sketches and one gif animation so please enjoy!

@just-some-gt-trash​ Is also going to write their own version as well so be on the look out for their’s as well!

Word Count: 3864

Disclaimer: Slight depiction of bullying/ cursing/ swearing/ mean words/ shouting

I plan on doing more one-shot stories like this called Short Sides. Let me know if you want to get tagged on them from now on or just look for the tag Short Sides.

For a long time now, each time Virgil experienced a rough day of Remus and Deceit teasing him, he’d find a tiny origami animal placed below his bed. Sometimes it was the usual swan, but from time-to-time he’d receive butterflies, frogs, and his personal favorite, rabbits. At first he thought it might be one of the other sides, but both Remus and Deceit only shot him puzzled looks when he’d ask them about it. Remus suggested Virgil may be doing it in his sleep, while Deceit believed he was just lying to garner attention. However, Virgil knew something was up and he planned to find out what.

  The next day Virgil steady he’s nerves as he purposely antagonized Remus and Deceit. He was successful in his taunting and by midday he was exhausted from his antics. He dragged himself to bed for an early rest, but in reality he only pretended to sleep. He had his back turned facing the wall and he listened patiently for any kind of unusual sounds. Right before he was about to give up, Virgil's ears picked up on the sound of footsteps creeping up on him, but they sounded soft. Were they tip-toeing? He also noticed that he hadn’t heard the door open so how did someone get in? Was it a ghost?!

  A shiver ran down his spine at the thought. Sure it would be pretty cool to meet a ghost who did origami, but the idea was still pretty creepy. Then, the footsteps stopped and Virgil hesitated a bit before gingerly turning over to peer behind. There was nothing! What in the world was going on? He obviously heard the sound of footsteps so where was the person making them? As his mind began to fall into madness another sound caught his attention. Was that humming? The sweet sound was coming from below his current eye level. Slowly, Virgil turned his head downwards and was astounded by what he saw. 

It was a person, a very, very tiny person who was cheerfully setting down an origami rabbit at the foot of his bed.

  Virgil couldn’t believe his eyes. This person looked to only be about the size of his pointer finger, if not smaller. The origami rabbit he was holding was at least half his size. He had soft brown hair that curled slightly upwards. He wore glasses, a light blue polo shirt, and what appeared to be a cat sweater tied around his neck. His face was also similar to Virgil’s, could that mean he was also a side? Then why was he so small? It wasn’t just his size either though, there was something about his presence that felt completely different from Deceit and Remus. Virgil wanted so badly to talk with this little side, but he was too afraid. He knew just because he received gifts from them, that didn’t mean they wanted to be seen. Otherwise they would have just delivered them in person.

  With that he rolled back over and fell asleep this time. In the morning he gently picked up his tiny gift and stared at it. He really wanted to thank them, but how should he go about it without scaring them off? Perhaps a return gift was the best idea as he began thinking over his options.

“I could try making my own origami animals in response, but then again they may end up too big for them to carry. Also what would they do with them afterwards? For me I can just keep it in my nightstand drawer.”

  Virgil needed to think of something the tiny side could use that wouldn’t take up a lot of space or be difficult to carry. What about food? It might be tough to make something small enough, but it was worth a try. A couple days later Virgil gathered up some ingredients to make simple sugar cookies. He knew he could make tiny portions by rolling out the dough and using the metal part of a pencil with the eraser taken out to cut out perfectly sized circles. Figuring out which temperature to set the oven to and for how long the cookies needed to bake was the tricky part. It took a total of three attempts to get it right, but sadly not all the cookies survived. He was left with six in total to package up with a cut up plastic bag and a trimmed twist tie.

  He turned in early for the night once more with his return gift placed at the foot of his bed. He turned to face the wall as usual and listened patiently. As time went on Virgil began to worry if the tiny side was going to show up. True his day wasn’t as bad as others, but he still made it a point to look distraught. Then again he had no idea when or from where the tiny was watching him so it was plausible that they never saw him upset. As his mind raced with uncertainties those all familiar footprints appeared. Virgil quickly quieted his mind and focused on the steps as they came straight to his bed and stopped.

“What is this?” A whisper came from below.

  It was the tiny who had noticed the gift. Virgil prayed they liked it as he waited to hear more, yet the next noise that reached his ear was the sound of running. He twitched slightly as he stopped himself from making any sudden movements. He waited, counting down the seconds in his head before he would take a look behind him.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1….now!

  Virgil quickly turned around and caught a glimpse of the tiny sliding into the space between his bookshelf and the wall. So that’s where he had come from. Virgil instantly remembered his main goal and glanced downwards. There, at the foot of the bed, was an origami swan and no cookies. The tiny, even though they ran, had taken his gift nonetheless. He smiled slightly at the notion of that tiny enjoying his handmade sweets. However, a pain ran through his heart as the sound of those hurried footsteps kept repeating in his mind. Despite his best efforts he had scared them off and he may never get to see them again.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

  *Huff* *huff*

  How did this happen? He had been so careful this whole time not to be seen, but now he had gotten caught. Well not physically caught, but seen, he was seen!

“This isn’t good! I promised the others that I’d be careful if they let me keep doing this. What do I do now?”

   As Patton ducked back into the hole in the wall right behind the bookshelf, he was lucky enough not to wake the others as he slid into his room. He took multiple deep breaths to calm himself as he slumped onto his bed.

“Woah boy...what am I going to do about this?” He thought as he stared at the lovely bundle of cookies resting in his hands.

“I wonder what kind they are. I really want to eat them, but what if he put something weird inside? No, no, the kiddo wouldn’t do that...right? I guess I feel like I know him, but do I really? He is still one of them after-all.”

  Patton sat quietly in contemplation as he couldn’t decide on whether to eat or not to eat. Suddenly, his growling stomach made the decision for him.

“Looks like all that running made me hungry and he did make these himself just for me. The least I can do is eat them.”

  Cautiously Patton reached into the bag and pulled out a cookie. Even though they were small, just one of them was close to the size of his palm. They appeared to be normal sugar cookies as he gingerly took a bite. Spontaneously, Patton’s nervous demeanor melted away as he scarfed the rest of it down in blissful enjoyment.

“Oh my goodness, he made these for me? They’re so good! How-how could I have suspected they might be poisoned...I’m terrible.”

  Patton felt a lump form in the back of his throat. He just kept thinking to himself that he ran away and he was almost positive that the giant was awake when he did. It only made sense that at some point the giant pretended to fall asleep and instead noticed him as he delivered another origami animal. He couldn’t be sure as to when or for how long, but it didn’t change the fact that the giant knew. He knew and instead of hunting him down the giant had left Patton a gift to thank him. It was a delicious gift too. Patton now felt so ashamed of himself and hadn’t noticed that his bedroom door was now open.

Logan and Roman: “Patton? What is that?”

Surprised, Patton jumped to his feet in response.

Patton: “I-I can explain.” he whimpered.

------------------------------------------------------------------

  Morning came way too early as Virgil groaned. He really didn’t want to get up and instead buried himself further into his sheets. Last night was a huge mistake! What in the world had made himself think it was a good idea to leave a gift when that would obviously mean he knew they existed! Fuck!

“I’m such an idiot. I try to do something nice and I mess it up like crazy! Now I may never see him again...the only person who’s ever given a damn about me.”

  Virgil wanted to cry, but he had to hold them in or else Remus and Deceit would call him out on his red eyes. That would just make his mood even worse. Not to attract any unwanted attention Virgil dragged himself out of bed. For the remainder of his day he constantly zoned in and out of thought. Would the tiny show up tonight? He could really use the pick-me-up right about now. Sadly, the day seemed to drag on with Remus bugging him about his robotic behavior and Deceit sneering at him for being dramatic. God this sucks!

“Enough, I’m turning in early for tonight.”

“What, but you did that yesterday. I’m beginning to feel you don’t like hanging out with us V.”

“That’s cause I don’t Remus and stop calling me that.”

“Oh I’m so hurt, I-I’m wounded by your sharp words. Agahahah!”

Jokingly Remus pulled a can of tomato juice from his sleeve and shook it violently. Next thing Virgil knew he and Remus were now covered in the red contents.

“Shit! Why did you do that? Now I have to take a shower and clean my clothes before I go to bed.”

“You just looked so pale I thought you could use some color! Want to bathe together to make up?”

  Remus had already begun undressing while still in the living room. Flustered, Virgil didn’t even take the time to answer such an outrageous question and hastened himself to the bathroom. He kept checking over his shoulder to make sure Remus wasn’t taking a peek, but after a while he believed he had gotten away. Virgil sighed in relief, but at the same time he was almost thankful he hadn’t gone to bed yet. He was anxious, anxious that the tiny side really may not show up. He had to be brave though; he needed to know if the tiny truly was gone forever.

-------------------------------------------------------------

“Now Patton, I hope you understand where we’re coming from with keeping you under house arrest.”

“I do, it’s just...he didn’t do anything to me after he found out. Isn’t that a good sign?”

“Patton, please that thing is just trying to trick you. Once it’s gained your trust he’ll trap you in a cage and keep you as some kind of pet.”

“Roman’s words may sound dramatic, but that’s all a plausible outcome for you if you continued.”

“We hope you can trust us on this Patton.”

  Roman placed his hands on top Patton’s shoulders and gave him a hug of reassurance. All they wanted to do was keep him and themselves safe from the giants. Patton hugged back in response.

“We’re going to bed now. Try to get some sleep Pat.”

“Okay, thanks guys.”

“Goodnight Patton.”

  With that Roman and Logan left, leaving Patton to sulk in his room. He reached underneath his bed and pulled out the rest of the sugar cookies he had gotten from the giant. They were so sweet. There was no way someone who took the time to make these just right for him could be bad, thought Patton. It’s not like he didn’t trust Roman and Logan, it’s just that he wanted to trust the giant too.

“I have to see him again. This time actually see him.”

  With new resolve Patton slid open his closet to reveal the origami rabbit he had hidden inside and smiled with confidence. --------------------------------------------------------

  Virgil was struggling to stay awake as he nodded in and out of sleep. Sure it would make sense to just admit defeat that the tiny side wasn’t going to show up, but he couldn’t help thinking that if he stayed up a little longer there may still be a chance. As his mind began to waver the familiar sound of soft footsteps snapped him awake. The tiny had actually shown up to Virgil’s bewilderment. He was so happy he hadn’t scared him away after-all.

  He had to stay quiet though until the footsteps stopped. Then he’d turn around slowly to look. This time he wanted to try talking. As the footsteps came to a halt, Virgil prepared himself, but was stopped by the sudden shouting coming from an unknown voice.

“PATTON!”

“Ah! Ro-Roman?!”

“Patton what do you think you’re doing out here? You’re supposed to be under house arrest and sleeping in your room.”

“I-I know, but I don’t think we need to be so afraid of this one. He’s not like the others.”

“Patton please. Look at him, he’s huge! He could do anything he wanted to with you if you're caught and we, we may not be able to get you back.”

“Bu-but…”

*sigh* “Listen Pat, you may think you know that giant, but you don’t. He’s a giant and all giants do is hurt people. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“Roman I-”

  Before Patton could finish he saw the blood drain from Roman’s face as his eyes moved upwards. Instantly, Patton knew what Roman was looking at and whipped his head around to notice the giant staring down at him from the bedside. Patton was paralyzed by fear and didn’t even hear Roman screaming at him to flee.

“RUN!”

  In a flash Roman ran for his life. He didn’t even look behind him, fully believing Patton had followed suit, but he hadn’t. Patton was still at the foot of the bed staring up at the giant in terror. His breathing became shallow and it took everything he had just to keep standing as his knees buckled. What was going to happen to him?

  Virgil had heard everything and in a fit of anger had turned around to defend himself, but stopped after realizing what he had done. He was a complete idiot! Now one tiny had run away from him screaming and the other was just staring at him terrified. He really wanted to reach down and touch the tiny to let them know he didn’t mean them any harm, but after the conversation he just eavesdropped on he was unsure that wouldn’t help the situation. With that in mind, all he could think to do was smile meekly down at the tiny and hope that would do something to show he was nice.

  Virgil’s smile caught Patton off-guard. Why is he smiling like that, he looks so sad. Smiling should make people look happy. Why isn’t he doing anything else? Wait, did he hear what Roman said? Oh my gosh if he did no wonder he looks like that! Is he trying to show me he won’t hurt me? What do I do? Should I try talking to him? I’m scared, but he also looks scared too. No, I have to be brave! I came out here all on my own just to see him and I’m looking at him right now.

“H-Hi....”

  Virgil was stunned. Did he just say hi to me? That wasn’t my imagination was it? Should I say hi back, no wait, what if my voice is really loud? Then should I wave, no no, sudden movements might scare him off. What am I supposed to do then? I need to answer quickly or it will freak him out. Here goes!

“Hi…”

So awkward, but he didn’t run. That’s a good sign.

“Um...my name’s Virgil, wh-what’s yours?”

God, I hate small talk! Will he even answer? My mouth doesn’t look scary does it? What if he thinks I want to eat him or something? Ugh, gross, only Remus would find it funny to try and eat someone.

“My name’s Patton. It’s ni-nice to meet you Virgil.”

He’s talking to me, like we’re having an actual conversation. He’s even smiling at me now. Man he looks so cute!

“Hey Virgil? Yo-you’re not going to hurt me are you?”

“What no, of course not! I-I could never hurt you...you’re so nice and sweet. I’d hate myself even more if I ever hurt you. Please believe me!”

“Woah hey it’s okay I believe you!”

“Really?! I’m so relieved. After what you both talked about I was so worried you’d be too afraid to even talk to me.”

“So you did hear us after-all...”

“Yeah, but it’s okay. I mean I must look like some kind of giant monster to you guys, but I was happy to hear you thought I was at least different compared to the others.”

“That’s because you are different, but still tha-”

  Patton flinched as he locked his gaze onto Virgil’s hand now lowering down towards him. He braced himself expecting to be grabbed, but was surprised to feel soft fingertips caressing his face and hair instead. Surprised, he looked up to a beautiful smile painted on Virgil’s face.

 Patton blushed deeply as he titled his head into Virgil’s gentle strokes. Virgil was pleased to see Patton had stopped shaking and looked like he enjoyed being touched.

“Sorry if I scared you. I just really wanted to touch you and make it clear that you’re safe here with me.”

“It’s okay. I’m not scared anymore and I do feel safe.”

“I’m glad to hear that...do you think I could pick you up?”

“Sure, I’d like that a lot.”

“Alright, just stay still while I bend down to grab you. I promise to be careful.”

“I trust you Virgil.”

  Virgil was elated to hear those words as he carefully lifted Patton up in his hand and closer to his face to get a better look. As Virgil inched Patton closer, Patton took the initiative and landed a kiss onto Virgil’s cheek. 

Virgil yelped in surprise, but remained still as to not jostle Patton around in his hand. His face had gone completely red in amazement at suddenly being kissed.

“What was that for?”

“That’s for the yummy cookies you made me. Did you not like it?”

“What, no I-I liked it! I just wasn’t expecting it, is all.”

“Oh well that’s good to hear. I can give you more if you want!”

“Let’s not for now. I don’t think my heart could take that a second time.”

  Patton giggled a bit at Virgil’s bright red face. He felt so silly now for ever being afraid of such a person.

“Still, the cookies you made me were delicious. Thank you again for them.”

“I-I’m glad you liked them. Although, there’s no need to thank me really. I made them as a thank you for all the origami animals you’ve been making me. They’ve always made me feel special.”

“That’s because you are special.”

“Geez, are you always this sweet?”

  Patton only smiled widely in response. Then he yawned and rubbed his eyes. It had gotten pretty late and Patton was finally slowing down.

“I think it might be best for you to head on back now Patton and get some rest.” “But I don’t want to leave yet! How about we have a sleepover and I stay here with you for the night?”

“What about your other friend who ran away? I’m sure he’s worried about you.”

“You mean Roman? Oh he’s been glaring at us for awhile now from behind the bookshelf.”

“WHAT?!”

  Virgil frantically focused on the spot at the bottom of the bookshelf he had placed at the other side of his room. There, tucked away in shadow, was instead Roman staring daggers at him. It would appear he came back after noticing Patton wasn’t behind him, but he was still too scared to come back over.

“HEY ROMAN! I’M GOING TO SPEND THE NIGHT WITH VIRGIL, OKAY?”

“WHAT!? NO NOT O-”

Before Roman could finish, another person’s hand wrapped itself around his mouth and skillfully dragged his entire frame out of sight. Then a similar hand shot out from the darkness in the form of a thumbs up.

“What in the world was that?”

“That was probably Logan. It seems like he’s given the okie-dokie on me staying here with you for the night.”

“Oh….okay. Are you still sure about this though? What if I roll over in my sleep and squish you, or maybe you fall off the bed?” “Don’t worry so much kiddo. It’ll be okay! If you’re worried about hurting me or me finding my way off the bed then I’ll just sleep on top of you.”

“On top of me?”

“Yeah, I’ll sleep on your chest. You think that will work?”

“O-on my chest?! I am a pretty solid sleeper so it sounds like the safest option, but will you be comfortable there?”

“I personally think I’ll be super comfortable there.”

  Virgil had reached his limit for compliments and overheated at those words. All he could do now was give a simple nod in agreement and start to move into position to allow Patton to climb on top of him. The sensation of Patton’s tiny hands gripping onto Virgil’s shirt was strange and tickled like Hell. Luckily, the feeling faded quickly as Patton crawled over to the center of Virgil’s chest and laid down. Virgil used one hand to bring the sheets up to his torso and the other to hold Patton in place.

“You comfortable?”

“Very much so.”

“Cool. Hey Patton, before you go to sleep I just wanted to say that I’m glad I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you too Virgil.”

  Patton yawned as he nuzzled his face into Virgil’s chest. Virgil blushed and pressed one of his fingers to Patton’s back and stroked it soothingly.

“Goodnight Patton.”

“Goodnight Virgil.”

  As they drifted into a deep slumber it was unsure of how things would go from now on. However, they both knew that no matter what came their way they would never want to be apart.

The End

[syndianites]

The After; The Athar: Chapter One

Chapter 1/?

Chapter 1 [Here] - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

AO3: This Chapter - Full Fic

Summary: Post Season 2, non-Mianitian Compliant. The crew finally land back into the world after the events of Ruxomar. That should be a good thing, right? But Wag is feeling the burden of everything that has happened to him, and he didn’t even get his magic back to boot.

It’s hard to be happy when life has been so shitty.

Relationships: Sparklington (end-game), Marthlington (temporarily), Sparkanite (Spark x Ianite) (past, mentioned), Motanite

Content Warnings: Death Mentions, Implied Depression, Implied PTSD, Self-Deprecation, Breaking up a Relationship (Marthlington)

AN: I’ve been working on this since September? of 2019! I have 5 chapters done and still going. I wanted to wait to post this until I was done with it, but my impatience has gotten the better of me.

@the-moon-pal I’m coming for your crown king >:)

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They’d made it home a couple weeks ago, to the land of Mianite. It’d been such a relief. They got to meet the rest of the alts, got to watch Dianite meet the other gods- and cringe at the tension that crackled between them- got to find all their homes again. For once, in the past-however-long, there was peace. They could relax.

So why did Wag feel like utter shit?

Right. Because he literally got the worst part of the deal.

He thought his powers would come back when they got home. And they did, for a few hours. Not the full range, but a lot of it. It felt good to be full of magic again. It felt like he was himself.

But then things started to fall apart. Martha grew distant. His powers fell away in fits and bursts. He realized that the rest of FyreUK had moved on after they made amends in Ruxomar. They found their way on. Without him.

Nothing was the same, he realized, as he spent more time around the place they had called ‘home.’

Spark had done what he did best: built a city. Well, more like a village. What had once been a place of buildings thrown about at random and mostly open plains was now sparsely populated. Neatly arranged shops and a few houses took up the space next to the beach. New people had even begun to show up.

Everything was changing around him, yet he was stuck holding onto the past. Holding onto his wizardhood, to his brotherhood, to a partner that was farther now than ever, and- worst of all- he was still holding onto the hope that everything would just… go back. To how it was.

To when he was important.

Well, like fuck is he was going to sit around and loathe his existence. He could at least try to do something. Swear to Athar, he wasn’t going to turn into a lump of depression just because he couldn’t handle change! He’d rather be a walking mass of depression! That way he could at least pretend he was being productive.

Potions or spellbooks? A question as old as time. Potions were a staple in his life. If there was one thing that would never leave him, it was his ability to make fucking potions. Like, fucking make potions. Not potions to help people fuck. On the other hand, the more he poured through spellbooks, the more likely he was to get closer to finding out how to get his powers back.

Maybe his powers left when FyreUK left, taking all the glory of Athar with it. But that was too terrible of a thought, so that got chucked in the ‘not-today-bitch’ bin. Which was a handy dandy mental bin that stored all of his worst problems.

He never could fit himself in it, though.

So potions it was.

Now that he was out of the business of magic, most of his money came from his potion making. He had made yet another little wizard- alchemist? Potion master?- tower. Plopped some advertisements in el Pueblo de Spark and took orders to pass the time. He had to fund his botany experiments somehow.  Someone had to introduce weed into this world, that might as well be him.

If he was going down in history for something, that wasn’t ‘Word Renowned Wizard Extraordinaire’, then ‘The Guy who Made Weed’ would sure as hell work. 

Wag pulled up his log of orders. Luck, luck, dexterity, healing, luck, love- yeah, those didn’t really work but he’d make it anyways-, strength, luck, yadda, yadda, yadda. Lots of luck. He could probably get away with making a batch or two of luck potions, then work through the rest.

He spared a glance outside. Spark’s little hut-square town was beginning to develop into a pleasant little fishing hole. Surprisingly- or not, given how deep the waters were nearby- the place was actually a fairly hot place for single fish to mingle. Warm waters, nice and deep, lots of cover, and not much human interference. Until now, anyway.

Either the fishermen were starting to get a fair amount of revenue going or they really needed help. Luck potions were among his most expensive. The ingredients were hard to acquire regardless of how you made it.

Rabbit’s foot? Morally and physically hard to get a hold of. Rainbow trout? Terribly rare. ‘Star-light Fruit’? Not even confirmed to exist.

His method was a little more straightforward. A butt load of four-leaf clovers, a tiny bit of alcohol, and a fuckton of glitter. Clovers for the magic, glitter for the look, and alcohol for the feeling of being lucky.

It was a very bullshit potion.

It took forever to find the clovers, let alone collect them.

Athar give him strength.

Giving one last look outside, he tucked his log book in his cloak. Then he went and rummaged through his chests.

Monotony here he comes.

~~~

Wag was halfway through his second batch of luck potions when a distant knock came from his door, followed by the sound of bells. If not for the bells he’d have ignored the knocking. With a stretch, he putzed down the stairs. The many flights of stairs.

He missed being able to make elevators.

Opening the door revealed one Mr. Sparklez, hair tousled but otherwise neatly groomed. He was relaxed, if not a little winded from his trek up the hill Wag claimed as his own.

Wag smiled. “Hey Sparklez, what brings you up to my tower of terror today? Here for a chat or a swanky danky potion?”

He gestured for Jordan to head inside and get comfortable, but the man waved him off. “Actually,” Jordan started, “I was wondering if you’d seen Martha? I needed to ask her something and I haven’t seen her all day. Figured she’d be with you.”

Ah, so Jordan wanted to find Martha.

Ouch.

Doing his best to ignore the squeeze in his chest, Wag kept his smile firmly in place. “No, I don’t think I have. She, uh.” He paused, going for a nonchalant shrug. “She doesn’t come around the tower all that often. I’d ask Spark instead. She tends to hang around him more. Her good ole pops and all, y’know. They do have a lot to catch up on.” Wag tried to ignore how weak his words sounded. He didn’t want it to sound weird that Martha wouldn’t come around, but instead he just sounded pathetic.

Great.

Jordan gave Wag an awkward smile, seemingly uncomfortable with the sad display. “Ah, alright. I’ll ask around for Spark.” 

He turned to leave but caught himself before he was fully turned away. Jordan chewed on his words. “Are you-” His eyes swept over Wag. “How have you been? We don’t see you as much anymore. Other than Tom, I guess, but it's hard to get rid of Tom once he decides you’re friends, y’know?”

“I’ve been,” Wag wanted to laugh, but pushed through the sentence, “swell, thank you. I would get out more, but I’m always so busy potion making. Gotta pay the bills somehow.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue. It wasn’t the exact truth, but he did spend a lot of time on potions.

Letting his shoulders settle, Jordan gave a small laugh. “Who would press a wizard to pay bills? Someone who wants to catch on fire, I’m sure.” He opted for a friendly smile. “If you ever want to hang out or something, let me know. I’ve been getting kind of bored between Spark telling me how to be a better champion of Ianite and living in an actual, peaceful society.”

Wag waved after Jordan as he began his descent. Yeah, a wizard. A frown tugged at his face while he shut the door.

A real fucking wizard.

~~~

Making potions was rather methodical. Each step took a certain amount of time, each item had certain effects, meshed certain ways with other items. It was like following a recipe, but with bigger consequences for messing up. Cooler results, though.

Wag had just finished melting down the clovers he’d gathered and extracting the essence- which is to say he lit it on fire after sprinkling a generous amount of blaze powder on it- when Jordan had stopped by. Which was convenient, since he needed to wait for the weird half-liquid half-slime to cool off enough to move it. The awkward potions, glitter, and alcohol were already prepped. Now all he needed to do was mix shit together.

Oh joy.

At the very least, it was satisfying to roll the clover essence into little balls to plop into an awkward potion and then watch them dissolve. The clover gave the essence a natural, healthy green color while the blaze powder, which clung to even the most thoroughly washed slime, gave it something of a yellow highlight. Golden glitter gets dumped in to make it feel like you were about to drink something special. Yes, the glitter was edible. No, most people didn’t realize he put glitter in this shit. Then the alcohol was for that background buzz. It was meant to dull the senses just enough to trick people into believing, wholeheartedly, in whatever god-forsaken abomination he just made.

Sorry. What ever divinely crafted, totally safe potion he’d just made.

Sure, he didn’t test it himself, but it seemed to work well enough for the people he gave it to. So where was the harm?

It was fine.

The next part was perhaps the most boring. And he’d spent all day yesterday crawling on the ground looking for four-leaf clovers.

Tagging and packaging. Writing names on slips of paper, tying them to the potion, putting it in a small, padded box to prevent any breaks. Rinse, repeat. It was annoying, wasted money, all that jazz, but it helped the look. Who wants to be handed a regular old potion, by hand, when you can get it in some majestic looking box to really add some sparkle to your magic?

Maybe Ruxomar rubbed off on him in a bad way.

In any case, the look was important, and by Athar was he going to make it look fucking fantastic.

Unfortunately, this task was also terribly, horribly monotonous. Worse yet, it left room for thinking. And thinking was Wag’s least favorite pastime since floating in the Void. Especially since floating in the Void.

It lead to him thinking deeply about himself and Athar knows that most of his life problems could be traced right back to that. His mistakes, his fuck ups, his shortcomings, all of it came back to him thinking way too hard about himself. 

Gross.

Instead, he tried to run over potion recipes in his mind. Or any recipe, really. All the different ways to make a fire resistance potion when you don’t have magma cream. Counting how many potions used lemongrass. Figuring out what potions would make it more likely to catch fish. Literally anything. As long as it was potions, it was fine.

Not about himself, not about Athar, not about wizards, and not about… Martha.

Yeah, that last one would be a one hit k-o. 

But now that his mind had touched on the subject, it dug in. Sunk it's claws into the delicate stability of his mind. Dramatic, he knows, but that’s how it felt. It was like the more he tried to get the thought out of his mind, the further it burrowed into him. Awful, painful, and not even worth the effort.

Martha… clearly didn’t care about him anymore. Or, well. He winced at the thought. She didn’t love him like she used to. If she, uh. Did in the first place. But this was old news. This was something he pondered after she seemed to avoid him like the plague, seemed to grimace when she looked over and saw him and not him.

Steve.

The name sat heavy in his head. They hadn’t meshed well, ‘specially where Martha was concerned. But they managed, for her, because they loved her.

Wag felt guilty, looking back on it now. For stealing their time together, for messing with their relationship. They hadn’t gotten to be together enough, had lost too much time before-

Yeah, he didn’t like thinking about Steve more than he didn’t like thinking about Martha. Wag didn’t feel like he deserved to think the name, let alone put himself up against his image. Steve was a hero. He rebelled against Helgrind in a cunning, intelligent way, he was selfless in more aspects than any of the heroes that appeared in Ruxomar, and he was the one to sacrifice the most. To sacrifice it all.

Where did Wag stand against that?

Honestly, it was no wonder Martha couldn’t stand to look at him. He was just a reminder of Steve, a reminder that she didn’t have Steve. That she had him instead. 

Had she ever loved him?

That wasn’t the point. The point was that Martha was hurting, trying to pick up the pieces of what she left behind in Ruxomar. What she had lost. And Wag wasn’t doing anything to help. He was stuck up in his tower, making potions, trying to forget about everything that he wasn’t.

He should try to look for her.

But the last time he did, he got turned away. She was “catching up with her father.” She was “busy settling into the new world.” She was “trying to get a grip on her new goddesshood.”

Wag was persistent, but even he could get the hint.

By Athar, he got the hint. “I don’t want to see you.” “Don’t come near me.” “You can’t help me.” 

He wondered if Spark was doing anything to help her or if he was also caught up in everything that had happened. From what he had learned about the man in Ruxomar, he was devoted to his wife. No, he gave everything for his wife. Learning she was dead after working up everything to see her again?

He had played it well. When he heard the news, Spark kept strong, only letting his tears show. If he had gone home later after parting with Martha, who had her own grief and guilt, crumbling on the inside no one would know. And if he had locked himself away and let everything loose, let himself break, none would be the wiser. But they could guess, they could give him a passing glance, a thoughtful frown.

Wag wondered if he still carried that grief around with him.

Spark had taken to trying to discipline Jordan to be a better champion of Ianite. It had made the man uncomfortable with getting told he could be a better follower and all. Or rather, having it implied that he wasn’t the best follower. Spark was stubborn in ‘training’ the champion of Ianite to be a full fledged follower.

Still, Jordan didn’t appreciate the sentiment.

Wag understood. Having the husband of the very goddess you watched die get on your case about being a better follower? When the crushing weight of guilt hadn’t fully let off your shoulders? He wondered if Spark hadn’t taken to coaching Jordan to make himself feel better, to remind himself that he would have kept Ianite safe, that he would have fixed the world before it broke out from under them.

It sounded like torture.

But it helped settle Wag. Call him selfish, but he felt better knowing other people had real problems, real grief, to deal with. Sure, Wag had his hang up with Martha. Yeah, he had his issues with being-a-wizard-yet-not. But he wasn’t as close to neck deep as Spark was. Like Martha was.

He wished belittling his problems made them feel less suffocating.

Martha. Martha was still pushing him away. And he was letting her. What did that say about him? About their relationship?

A sigh heaved out of his chest. It was like someone stuck a large rock right in his rib cage, tucked neatly between his lungs. Hard, heavy, and an all around burden. Potions. He needed to think about potions.

His hands betrayed him with a subtle shake. How many names did he have left to write? How many boxes did he have left to pack? Fuck if he knew. He had to keep counting, to find a way to wrap up all his issues, his panic, his fear, into a nice little package and tuck it away like a forgotten gift.

Athar help me, Wag tried to control his thoughts, I might drive myself insane by the end of the year.

As if on cue, another knock at his door broke his thoughts. He tried not to feel relieved to rush away from his potion packaging. He was fine, cool as a cucumber.

Throwing open the door, he came face to face with his second visitor of the day. Tom.

Tom was standing in front of his door almost uncertainly, like he wasn’t quite sure why or how he got there. He took one sweep over Wag’s unhidden face and a determined, focus look set in on his own.

“We,” Tom looped his arm around Wag’s in a sudden movement, “are going out somewhere. No if’s, and’s, or but’s.” 

Eyebrows shooting up, Wag let himself be dragged from his house with an aborted motion to close the door behind him. He mournfully watched his door stay ajar. Hopefully no one else ventured up the hill today, otherwise he might be down a few potions.

“Why?” Wag turned his attention back to Tom, who was resolute in his intention of pulling Wag away to Athar knows where.

A grin was shot in his direction. “You look like you need to get out of the house. Also, I’m real fuckin’ bored and you’re clearly in need of some company.”

A wry smile snuck on Wag’s face. “Oh lucky me. We should get some tea, live up to our trademark.”

Tom nodded. “Absolutely. Let’s hit town. Fuck it up. Flaunt our hero-ness and get shit faced.”

“Let’s not get shit faced, and especially not get kicked out of town for making a ruckus.” Wag fondly rolled his eyes. “I do quite like living here and it’d be a shame to have to follow you around to make sure you don’t die.”

Tom gave a mocked offended gasp, free hand coming up to his forehead as he leaned away. “How dare you! I’ll have you know I’d never die if I didn’t live in a community. I’m a rogue, don’t you know.” He sniffed. “I can easily hold my own in the dangerous wilds.”

“Without anyone to pester and annoy?”

“I can pester anything!”

Wag bit his lip to stop a laugh. Tom always brought such energy with him. It was refreshing. Maybe he was right, he just needed some company.

He wouldn’t say that to his face, though.

“I suppose so,” Wag continued, “You are rather persistent. I bet you could annoy the sun into setting early.”

“Nah, I’d blow that fucker up instead.” Tom winked, snuggled back up to Wag, effectively trapping his arm. “I still think we should get shit faced. Drink our sorrows into the drain, throw them up another day.” 

Wag mock gagged. “I’d rather keep them down the drain, thank you. Besides, what a waste of alcohol. If I’m drinking, I’m drinking to keep it down. Not!” He quickly cut Tom off, “That I want to go out drinking.” He eyed the sky, giving a disapproving look to Tom when he saw that it was still early afternoon. “No one should be getting drunk before the sun touches the horizon.”

With a pout, Tom leaned into Wag’s side. “Lame. I suppose,” he drew out the word, “we could go get some good old fashioned tea. Call it a pre-game without the game.”

Wag rolled his eyes. He wasn’t looking to out game his issues. That wasn’t a solution. It’d just make him turn into a sad drunk and give him a headache in the morning.

This is why he needed weed back.

But also, he didn’t want to develop another problem. Gotta keep it clean. For now.

Tom still had his own plans, alcohol or no alcohol. “I find when I’m feeling down that doing something batshit stupid makes me feel better. We should go fishing with our bare hands- no, with only our teeth- and no shirt on. Attract ladies and gents to us alike. Are they looking at our finely chiseled chests or our daring courage? Who’s to say.”

“You are far from chiseled my friend. Try soft.” Wag poked Tom in the stomach jokingly. “And who said that I’m feeling down?”

“Hey!” Tom swatted his hand away. “I’ll have you know I’m more ripped than you’ll ever be!” He huffed, squeezing Wag’s arm. They walked in silence for a moment, now upon the town. After wandering the street for a second, Tom spoke again, quieter. “I had this feeling.” Wag eyes him. “It was weird. My gut was telling me to check in on you. And then when you opened the door it was written on your face. Even I’m not dumb enough to miss that.” 

Wag heard the unspoken I was worried carried in Tom’s words. Talk about soft. He squeezed Tom’s arm back. “Oh wow, a gut feeling?” He teased lightly, “I think it was just you missing my magical presence. It is hard to go too long without seeing me.” If only that were true. “But I’m here now, and we can go do something absolutely stupid, just for you.”

They share a smile, a quiet thank you floating between them.

Tom gets a glint in his eyes. “Does this mean we can go catch fish with our bare hands?”

“I suppose so.” Wag drawled. “How else are we going to show off our toned figures?”

That got him a laugh, one concerningly maniacal, and he was dragged between houses.

Yeah, he might regret this.

Tom turned and gave him a smile that was all teeth and no common sense. He paused next to the shore, a little ways off from the docks. Shucking his clothes, one Tom Syndicate stood proudly in his underwear, unconcerned about the effect of sunlight on zombified skin. People gave them a look of distaste.

Oh, he was definitely going to regret this. 

~~~

Soggy was one way to describe how Wag felt. Wet as shit was another. All in all, he was rather pleased with himself and the rather large, shiny fish sitting in his lap. The fish which so happened to be a fair amount larger than Tom’s.

“Oh fuck you.” Tom spluttered around a mouthful of fish, laying down an arm’s length away. He had gathered quite an amount of fish, a solid number for catching something with your mouth alone. None of them were that large. In fact, most were an average, if not slightly below, size.

Wag eyed the pile smugly. He may have only caught two, but damn if he didn’t go big.

“Well, it seems that I’ve caught myself a winner.” He tried not to look too pleased. The look on Tom’s face told him he failed.

Tom scoffed, letting the fish fall to the sandy floor with a wet fwop. “You got lucky! Clearly, quantity wins the game here. Sure, you caught one big, old, dumb motherfucker, but I caught a dozen other dumbass fish! I should get the win.”

“Wasn’t size the goal here?” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

Before Tom could fire back, a voice from behind interrupted him. “I think the two fools sitting in their underwear soaked to the bone are both losers.”

Wag tilted his head back to see Tucker standing with his hands in his pockets, back slouched, and an easy smile on his face, standing just where the sand turned to grass. Next to him was one lovely fox lady, Sonja herself, and one Sparkle butt, Jordan.

Nice to see the gang all here.

Tom sat up. “How dare you! I’ll have you know we are the best fishers on the island!”

Tucker raised a single eyebrow. “Really now? Are all the other fishers out at sea today?”

“Well excuse you, Mr. Boner. I’ll have you know we caught all of this,” Tom sweeps his arm across their score. “And I think that’s quite the haul.”

“How long did it take you?”

“Fuck you.”

Tucker snickered, moving closer to poke his foot into Tom’s side. “That’s what I thought.”

Wag, meanwhile, was carefully moving his prize to the side so he could stand up. Brushing the sand off himself, he exchanged a smile with Sonja and a nod with Jordan. Sonja gave him a good natured headshake. “And here I thought you were smarter than this.”

Jordan’s eyes trailed down Wag’s chest before flittering away. “Right down to your boxers? Tom must have gotten you good.”

“Well, I was fairly set on getting a nice cup of tea and walking across the beach, hand in hand like real lovers, but Tom was far more intent to go all macho and catch fish with his mouth alone.” Wag leaned in with a hand against his mouth to give a stage whisper. “Between you and me, I think he’s trying to step up his oral game.” He winked.

Jordan groaned, giving Wag what he thought to be a rather dramatic eye roll. That wasn’t even the worst he had to offer, and he’d given him such an easy setup! Sonja waggled her eyebrows and giggled when Tom butted in. “It’ll never be as good as yours dear.” He batted his eyelashes mock innocently.

The group burst into laughter. Tucker stepped closer, swinging an arm around his vaguely damp shoulders. “Hey, it’s nice to see you out and about man. It’s been a hot second. Almost thought you’d drank the wrong potion and kicked it or something.” 

Wag nodded seriously. “Quite the real possibility. Why, just yesterday I almost drank real glitter! The kind you’re not supposed to eat.”

“Been there,” Sonja added, “I thought I was going to die when I did. Just gave me a very colorful trip to the bathroom.”

Tom grinned as he moved to elbow Jordan in the side. “I bet our good ole Captain here wouldn’t know the difference. How else did he get his namesake, right Mr. Sparkley Butt?”

“Hardy har,” Jordan gave Tom a fondly disgusted look. “The name’s Captain Sparklez, that ‘namesake’ came from you giving me a stupid nickname.”

They fell into more chatter, giving Tom and Wag the time to put their clothes back on, Tom not caring that he was still wet as he put his suit back on, while Wag just slung his cloak over himself. No point in putting pants on over wet underwear.

The group, all now clothed to some extent, began to wander back towards town. Wag was more than content to listen to Tom ramble on. He would get interrupted by Tucker when he said something ‘incredibly stupid’ and, more rarely, by Jordan, who would correct some technical thing that Tom clearly did not give a shit about.

Sonja drifted next to him, giving Wag a conspiratorial smile. “You’re looking mighty fine in just a robe and boxers. Is this the bedroom Wag special? Or is that sans boxers?” 

“The bedroom Wag special is whatever you want it to be.” He winked. “It’s magic all around.”

They exchanged a laugh, falling silent again.

Wag knew that wasn’t what Sonja really wanted to talk about.

She looked back at him, a warm look in her eyes. “It’s nice. To see you out. Been a while, y’know?” Sonja stretched her arms out in front of her. “It really has been a bit since we’ve talked. And since you’ve left the house. But honestly?” Her tail swishes behind her. “I could have made a few more treks up that damn mountain myself.”

Shaking his head, Wag elbowed her side lightly. “It is a fairly tall hill, but I think mountain is a bit of an overstatement.” It was, in fact, a bitch of a climb, but Wag didn’t think it was that bad. He’d put the tower just on the other side of the Glowstone Forest, across from the Priest’s house. (What was it called again? Forest of the Void? Abyss Forest? Obsidian Trees? Yeah, he didn’t know or care). 

Left unsaid was a ‘That’s okay, you don’t have to go out of your way’.

He received an eye roll. “Please, the only trek worse than that is up to where Tucker’s first house was. I was so happy when we moved it down the mountain. Well, into.”

It’s no trouble, her words left hanging, I don’t mind.

Wag huffed. How dare she be considerate. “You know what’s worse than a trek up a mountain? A trek up a mountain to get some rare flower, only to be spited by the universe and have not a single flower growing up there. Honestly, I could use some help from someone so used to climbing mountains.” A smirk pulled at his face. “Or maybe just send someone up there for me.”

We could always hang out when I’m playing master botanist. If you’d like.

Sonja smiled at him, but couldn’t resist getting a dig in. “Aw, did you skip leg day? Have some chicken legs over there? That’s alright, I’m sure someone,” she tilts her head, eyes sweeping past the buildings around them, “would be willing. Get a nice little lackey so you can rest your old bones at home and complain about how the cold makes your joints stiff.” 

“How dare you,” Wag sniffed, hand held up to his heart. “I’ll have you know, my joints are just fine in the cold! Some of us just aren’t made of the cold, little miss fox.”

Sonja, ever so mature, stuck her tongue out at him.

They kept up some conversation, occasionally stopping to listen in to whatever Tom was saying. Wag, for a moment, realized that he had missed this. Missed them. That even though he wanted to avoid all the new things in this world, he’d always have his friends.

A quiet, hopeless voice asked if they’d leave him too.

~~~

There was nothing quite like hiking up a hill, in only your boxers, a little buzzed, during the night time. The pure amount of skeletons that had sniffed around looking for a cheap shot alone was bad enough, but the fact that his legs already hurt from struggling to fish with just his mouth without drowning? Yeah, it felt more like he was climbing up a mountain that was near vertical.

Fuck gravity.

A pit of warmth had settled in his chest a couple hours ago. Whether it was the alcohol that Tucker, of all people, had got the group into drinking or just the effect of being with friends for a while, Wag felt content. Not a common feeling in recent times. It was nice.

Really nice.

Upon reaching his door, his mind scrambled to figure out why it was left slightly open. He shrugged. As long as nothing was missing or stolen, he didn’t really care.

He made his way inside- making sure to actually close the door behind him- and wandered over to the stairs. Ah, his mortal enemy. Between being a wizard way back when and the magic rampant in Ruxomar, he had gotten way too used to avoiding stairs. Now it was a chore to move up and down the tower. But his bed was upstairs and he was not sleeping on the crappy couch he shoved into the lobby for guests or customers again.

So stairs it was.

By the time he got halfway up the stairs, he wanted to quit. Why, in Athar’s name, did he put his room on the third highest level? Stupidity, that’s why. The view was so not worth it.

When he actually made it up to the correct floor, he pushed the door to his room open, chucked his clothes to one side, and collapsed in bed. Now this, this was worth it. Soft, plush, warm, and very much without skeletons.

The less arrows being shot at him the better.

A soft chuckle caught his attention. Or rather, killed the peace he had wrapped around himself mere hours earlier.

He didn’t move. Not because he was scared. No, he knew who was in his room. He just wanted to pretend, for a moment, like this was something he was used to.

Like coming home to his lover being home wouldn’t surprise him.

The bed dipped beside him and his robed and boxer-ed glory. A hand ran through his hair. Wag tried not to tense.

“Seems like you had a good night out.” Her voice was like silk, soft and pleasant on his ears. “Hopefully they didn’t hassle you too much.”

Wag breathed. His chest was tight, emotion punching at his ribs. “Yeah,” he said, “It was nice to have some time with them again.”

All of this felt so forgein, now. To have her here. Was she here? Or did he drink more than he had originally thought. Shit.

Martha scratched his head. “I do have to say, I’m surprised that you actually left the tower. You’ve been holed up here for so long I thought I’d have to drag you out.” He could hear the smile in her voice. Or maybe he was imagining it. His head was a mess and he wasn’t quite sure what he was making up and what was real.

It was kind of pathetic.

He laughed. “Yeah, Tom showed up and dragged me out. Not complaining though, I had a lot of fun. It was nice to take off from work. Making potions gets boring.”

So did sitting in your own depressing thoughts, but that was more exhausting than boring.

“Oh,” Wag turned his head to face Martha, looking up at her. The darkness made her hair stand out. It looked like a halo around her face, bringing out her lovely lilac eyes. She was just as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her. But there was something heavy in her eyes that she tried to wipe away when his own reached her. “Jordan was looking for you earlier. Did he ever find you?”

Martha blinked and the heaviness was gone. Ish. He knew it was there. Somewhere.

“Ah, no.” She frowned. “I’ll have to see what he needs tomorrow.”

He nodded. To be honest, Wag wasn’t convinced Martha was actually sitting here with him. Which was kind of sad. Very sad.

“I can come with, if you’d like,” Wag rushed out, trying not to sound desperate. “We haven’t had much time together, which is understandable with your dad being around and all the stuff you need to do. And, y’know, it’d be nice to walk with you for a bit.”

Oh, he sounded so desperate.

Yikes.

A smile graced Martha’s lips. “Sure, I’d love that.” Wag let out a breath. “We’ll take a stroll, get a nice scenic view of the beach as we go, call it a date-” She cut off. The heaviness came back to her eyes. Wag knew what she was thinking. Who she was thinking about.

It hurt.

“I’m going to go take a shower before getting ready for bed. You can go ahead and sleep, if you’d like. I know you’ve had a long day and you’re probably tired. Don’t force yourself for me.” Martha stood as she said this, fingers trailing in his hair. Then she left.

Reluctantly, Wag got up to do just that. Changed his boxers and hung up his cloak. Buried himself back into bed, under the covers.

Yeah. It’d be a date.

~~~

Martha didn’t like to get up early. Neither did Wag. Normally, this lead to them sleepily cuddling until one felt so inspired as to get up. Normally.

Ever since the group returned to the land of Mianite, Martha didn’t sleep as well. Between nightmares, being a fledgling goddess, and the… absence of certain people, she found herself waking earlier and earlier.

Wag had his fair share of sleep troubles. Where sleep troubles stopped Martha from sleeping as much, it led to Wag sleeping more. The less he slept the more exhausted he was. The more exhausted he was the more he slept. It was a vicious cycle and actually the reason Wag didn’t leave the house as much.

Nonetheless, both found themselves getting ready to leave just after dawn. Martha moved like last night didn’t end awkward and uncomfortable. Bright, cheerful, and painfully affectionate with Wag. Like she hadn’t been avoiding him for the better part of their stay here.

The worst part was that this wasn’t the first time she came back like nothing was wrong. It was almost like she could tell when he was starting to doubt their relationship. Except, he was constantly doubting their relationship. Even when things had been going well. But this time, it was like she knew when he was thinking about how much of a relationship they didn’t have.

Which was concerning if she actually knew what he thought.

Wag, on the other hand, moved like a zombie. Tired, groggy, and barely awake. The picture of early morning beauty. It wasn’t far off from how he used to act, but now it was like someone had chained weights to his feet.

Damn, he was tired as shit.

Martha had set about making some breakfast from the little food he had. Some eggs, some- thankfully not spoiled- fruit, and milk. Wag was pretty sure he didn’t have milk, but he wasn’t going to question it. She was the more magical of the two, now, so it was within reason that she could get milk in the few minutes he’d lagged behind her in getting out of bed.

He, on the other hand, was on the task of making coffee. Coffee was something of a luxury here, since it was so new to the land. It wasn’t grown naturally on the island and Wag wasn’t sure if it was imported from some far off place or if it had been introduced by the earlier dimension hoppers that still hung around. Spark, for sure, seemed to run on the stuff.

That didn’t really matter to Wag, though. He had a plant of it in his garden, for ease of access, but more importantly to see if it could be used to help crossbreed weed into existence. No far off land had procured the plant yet, so he would still strive to be the maker of weed.

Not the best plan in the world, but that wouldn’t matter once he actually made the plant.

He really shouldn’t be encouraging substance abuse.

Surely, coffee would wake him up. Then he could go on a walk with Martha and do that thing they seemed to do where they avoided those topics and pretended like everything was fine. And maybe, just maybe, they’d enjoy the conversation. Maybe they’d feel something again, feel whole for the brief moment where they let themselves forget about the person who was missing, the person that clearly held more place in Martha’s heart for it to have torn so much when he-

Maybe Wag would get his shit together and let things die between them.

Maybe he’d decide that fighting an uphill battle wasn’t worth it.

For now, though, he was content to pretend things were the same. It was better than being entirely, wholly alone. And, deep in his heart, he still loved her. So, so much.

Enough that he knew it would hurt no matter what he did.

They chatted over the food Martha cooked. She complemented his coffee, the beans from the plant he owned, and he told her that the cooking is just as good as it’d always been.

Neither mentioned that it was usually Steve, not either of them, that did the cooking.

They tossed little affections at each other with ease. Like it was second nature. A brush of hands, a quick smile, a peck on the cheek. It was like a dance. As though they were trying to make a show of how much they still cared, how much nothing had changed despite the fact that everything had changed.

Hands loosely held together, they left the house as a unit, holding up a conversation with ease. If either of them tripped up in their speech as they avoided that topic or this word, neither called each other out for it. For all that everything was off and wrong, they made it work. They found a way to shove a cube into a round hole.

Whether it was because they wanted it to work so bad or because the hole was a giant chasm with space for miles was up to debate.

The beach was calm in the early morning. Fishers were stocking up their ships to start up on their daily trip, tightening a rope here, making space there. Few people walked about the town, the kids either asleep or getting hassled to eat breakfast. With so few people out, it felt like they were on the outskirts of life, just the two of them. Like viewing the world through a painting.

That illusion was helped by the sheer height of Jordan’s tree. It was still there, despite the damage it had received when Tom got to it. If he looked closely, Wag could see the remains of burn marks and grooves held in the thick bark. He had heard that, after the heroes had left, Ianite had nursed the tree back to life in honor of her lost champion.

He ignored the fact that Ianite had sent them into the void in the first place.

Wag himself had left before that, called on to help the heroes that he had watched over as a distant wizard. Even now, he wondered if it had been worth it. To lose everything because he was asked to. In his weakest moments, he wondered if it hadn’t been the gods’ way of throwing him out.

That thought hurt the most out of everything in his life and he never let it linger.

It wasn’t long before they made it to the base of the hill that Jordan’s tree- sorry, Jerry’s Tree- sat beside. They weren’t that close to getting inside yet, but it was a milestone.

As they climbed the hill, massive roots stretching out below them, Wag started up some conversation about the different species of trees. He never once mentioned apple trees. It was part of his botany, after all, and important to keep track of. The types of trees, not apple trees. Apple trees were just one of those topics and therefore something they made an unspoken agreement not to talk about.

He pondered, during his ramble, that Martha could have just flown up the tree. She could do that, after all. Wag couldn’t. Not anymore. The worst part was that he’d help build this tree, or, well, make it. Way back then. That was a sore spot to think about, but even still he was in awe of the tree. Not because of the fact that he's contributed to it- no, he had felt a sense of pride for that a long time ago. Rather, because of how it’d regrown.

Ianite’s gentle hand had turned it from merely a large, enchanting tree to a behemoth of divine wonder. Its branches had spread further, with more room between them and the tips reaching towards the heavens. The leaves had shaped up and gotten fuller, surely the size of a full-grown adult by now. Fireflies could be seen lazily hovering about clusters of leaves, giving the tree a pleasant, natural lighting.

Many more platforms and walkways had been built, new buildings having been added on top of that. They stretched from one end to the other. The most daring teased the edge of a branch, hung firmly along the length of it. The walkways were either long rope bridges made of braided vines that shimmered a faint purple or ramps made and reinforced by the same wood the tree was made of, the bottom featuring fancy swirls alongside the support beams.

Other vines, flora, and bushes lined the branches and platforms. Though they looked like they were leeching off the tree at first, a closer inspection- granted you were on the tree to get an inspection- showed they were delicately wrapped around the branches and sneakily planted in hidden pots for a more natural look. The flowers ranged from all sorts of purples- fitting. Buddleias enclosed doorways, Hyacinthus were wound along lanterns strung along pathways, and an abundance of Jacaranda could be found wherever space was made for flora.

The more he looked the more nature there was to see, the more connecting walkways there were strung along, the more everything there was. It felt like the whole world was home under the canopy.

The tree had gone from the house of a solitary man to a city of nature.

It didn’t feel like the same tree.

Wag pushed aside the nagging thought that it was better than anything he could have ever made. Ianite was a full fledged goddess, Wag was- had been- a mere wizard with the idea of godhood in his head. What he made had been incredible for mortal standards, and was still incredible for the standards he had held himself to. It would do no good to compare himself to Ianite, especially when all she had done was repair what was already there.

As they made their way up to the crest of the hill, following the path from the town to the tree as it curled around Jordan’s old home, Wag spared a glance at the birch and quartz house. It was simple, sleek and minimal. It suited Jordan. Of course, Jordan himself had made it, so why wouldn’t it?

Compared to Jerry’s Tree, though, it seemed rather dull and insignificant.

Actually.

Wag spared a closer look at the smaller home. It looked lived in. A frown pulled at his lips. Was someone living there? Who else, other than Jordan, would?

Martha had picked up the conversation now, adding in details about trees that she had seen in her travels long ago, ones he’d never have had the chance to see. There were many interesting species, some magical in the same sense as Silverwoods, some as plain as a simple oak tree, but all more than enough to satiate Wag’s desire to know more. His mind kept getting pulled back to the Casa de Sparklez, though.

A thought struck him, one he’d had just moments before.

Jerry’s Tree looked and felt so different, now that Ianite had tended to it. Like it was a different tree. Did Jordan think the same? Did it feel less like home, after being away for so long and having watched it burn?

Was Jordan living in his older house because the tree felt so forgein?

Martha was going on about a beautiful tree known for the lights its seeds shone, especially during the night hours. It really sounded like a sight to behold. More than that, the gentle, awed look on Martha’s face pulled at Wag’s heart.

Take care of her.

There was a sour taste in his mouth. Wag decided not to mention what he had just noticed. That was Jordan’s business, not his.

Martha was looking at him now, a small, shy smile on her lips. Wag felt like if he said the wrong thing it’d disappear in an instant. Like Martha was used to having her interests pushed aside, or used to pushing them aside herself when people didn’t seem to care about what she was saying.

Take care of her.

He offered a smile back, a genuine one. He really did love her. More than anything, he wanted to keep loving her. But something told him it wouldn’t work. That what they had had started to decay sometime around the end of Ruxomar, around when he left.

No, around when Martha almost became Mrs. a instead of a Ms.

Bitterness clutched at Wag’s heart. For all the love he held for her, he wondered, again and again, if she held the same. If she ever held the same, if she even held something close to the same.

Take care of her.

Looking up at Jerry’s Tree, Wag remembered what it used to be. He remembered watching it burn, the pain he had felt in seeing his hard work get tarnished, in seeing a friend’s home wither away.

Now, though, it was different. Not quite a home, anymore, but reborn. Alive. And maybe, in the future, it’d be a home again, or maybe not. Maybe it needed to burn for it to become what it was now. Jordan would have never built it up to this, but Ianite had.

Maybe that was the secret, Wag pondered. Maybe you had to let things burn to be able to build them up stronger.

He looked at Martha again, at the softness in her face and the hardness in her eyes. His heart pulled in so many directions. Love, anguish, love, despair, love, hurt, love love love.

Yeah, he was going to have to let this relationship burn.

[solace-sun]

Not the Typical Way You Meet A Soulmate (Solangelo) - Chapter One

Preview: Nico had his fun for the night. It was time to go home. Which would've been easier if the ground beneath him isn't spinning. The world was moving in ways it shouldn't. He wasn't sure which direction was home. The street was now solely lit by the harsh streetlights towering above him, and the sidewalk seemed to slip from under his feet.

At the current moment, Will Solace hated just about everything he could see. He hated his shitty car for breaking down, and he hated the empty refrigerator in his kitchen. He hated how he had to walk to the store, and he hated his broken arm that hindered his ability to adequately carry his groceries home from the store. He even hated the lady at the checkout for only giving him two bags, which teemed to the brim with his groceries. He hated the way the sun reflected across the pavement and trees around him. The sun filtered the colors of the earth's surface in such a painstakingly gorgeous way, one that seemed to mock Will's current mood.

Needless to say, Will was pretty pissed.

Lost in his own hatred for the world and everything on it, Will failed to see the growing tear at the bottom of one of his bags. The bag broke and groceries tumbled onto the cement before he could even notice the hole.

Now, Will really hated his groceries. He almost thought about just leaving them on the ground as they lay, in an utter defeat. Before he could walk away from the wreckage, someone approached him from behind.

"Do you need any help there?" A voice came from behind Will. He turned to find a dark haired man standing behind him, clutching the straps of his backpack. Will's expression softened.

Now there's something I don't hate.

"That would actually be so great, thank you," Will sighed with relief.

"It's no problem. I was raised to always help the crippled when they're in need," the man joked, referring to Will's broken arm.

"Do I really look that sad?" Will asked with a laugh. The man shrugged before bending over to pick up the spilled groceries.

"We can use my backpack to carry what fell out," he offered, opening the bag for Will.

"Thank you so much," Will replied, "What's your name?"

"Nico. And you?"

"Will Solace."

The two placed an assortment of fruit, ramen, and frozen meals into Nico's bag.  Before hefting his bag onto his shoulders, he flashed Will a thin smile. The pair began to trudge through an uncomfortable silence down the sidewalk. Just before the silence became too thick, Nico spoke, driven by curiosity.

"How'd you break your arm?" He asked.

"Oh, I broke it during a lacrosse game last week," Will responded.

"Lacrosse?"

"Yeah I play at the school here. Or, well, I used to, I guess," Will responded.

"You quit because of your arm?"

"Yes and no, I guess. Getting injured kinda made me realise there's more important things I could be doing. Better places to put my time, y'know?"

"Makes sense," Nico agreed flatly.

"Yeah, guess I'll be spending more time focusing more on school, for right now," Will replied, "I'm here for pre-med."

To which Nico's response was a stifled snort.

"What's so funny?" Will demanded.

"I've never seen a doctor in a cast and sling before. I don't know, I just think it's funny. Did they let you wrap your own arm?" Nico joked. Will gave a sardonic huff and rolled his eyes.

The two continued their walk down the sidewalk. Will took a turn and gestured towards an apartment complex.

"Looks like we're here," He spoke. Nico followed him up a flight of stairs and watched as Will fumbled with his keys in the shadow of his front door.

While Will opened the door, Nico had gathered an armful of groceries from his bag. He placed them into Will's arms.

"Hey man, thanks for everything," Will thanked.

"It's all good," Nico gave a wary smile as he zipped his bag shut. He gave a wave to Will, and turned on his heel, starting for home

Maybe it was the weather, or maybe it was who Nico had just met, but that day, Nico felt lighter than usual. A feeling from the pit of his stomach that made his head feel airy. The feeling continued his entire walk home.

His mood only improved when Hazel told him about a party happening the next night. Parties were Nico's favorite pastime, as the life of a dead end, part-time job weighed on him from time to time. Besides getting utterly and totally wasted on a weeknight, Nico had no real purpose. He needed some sort of distraction to get him through to the next day.

He opened the door to his painfully dull apartment, to see his step sister Hazel finishing up her ramen noodle dinner, with her head stuck in a textbook.

"How's it going?" Nico asked, greeting his sister.

"Someone's in a good mood," Hazel responded.

"What? I can't ask my sister, whom I love very much, how her day went?"

"Someone like you? It's pushing it dude," she joked, "Seriously though, the past week you've barely spoken a single word. What's up?"

"I don't know," he tried. And, in all honesty, he truly didn't know.

Hazel gave him a look of confusion, "Alright then, keep your secrets," She paused to shove a bite of noodles into her mouth, "Also, I've got a friend who's throwing a party tomorrow night. I gotta do some homework tomorrow so I won't be there, but I'd figure I'd let you know anyway." She said through a bite of noodles.

"Oh god, you don't know how happy that makes me," Nico smiled.

"Yeah, I know. Just, be careful. Please?" She bored her eyes into his. He turned away.

"Yeah, got it."

The next night, Nico managed to find himself in the corner of some shitty frat house, nursing a less than adequate bottle of vodka. But his head was swimming, and nothing else really mattered. Barely cognizant of anything, disillusioned and unaligned with the world around him was how he liked to be. The quality of whatever drink was in his hand at the moment didn't really matter, so long as it made the room spin. His favorite distraction to life was working just as well as it always had.

So when he saw a familiar blonde face, he thought he was seeing things. Will, apparently, thought the same, based off the double take he made when he saw Nico in the corner of the room. Nico flashed a grin.

"Hey, I know you!" Nico exclaimed, waving the bottle that was in his grip. Will made his way over to Nico, and settled down across from him on the gross, germ ridden couch. The unnaturally hard texture of the couch's fabric made Will wonder if the thing had ever been washed. He pushed the thought out of his head before he fell down a rabbit hole of thoughts he'd rather not think.

"Funny seeing you here," Will said.

"Eh, I mean, not really," Nico slurred, "Just crashing some party at a school I don't even go to."

"How did you even get in?" Will asked with a smile, tilting his head making his blonde curls fall over his eyes.

"I just told the shithead at the door I was a 'brother' from Delta Lambda Phi. He totally bought it," Nico shook his head and laughed.

"I'm impressed," Will admitted, "But why spend your time at a college frat party?"

Nico shrugged, "Free drinks. I could be asking you the same thing. Didn't you say something yesterday about focusing on schoolwork?"

"Gotta have fun somehow," Will shrugged.

"Then how come you've got an empty hand?" Nico inquired, motioning to Will's lack of alcohol and sober status. He offered Will the bottle of vodka in his hand.

"Oh, no, I'm good, thank you," Will refused, pushing the bottle away. Nico shrugged.

"Tell me why I'm not surprised that the smart, pre-med kid won't let loose at a party?" Nico teased. Will shot him a displeased glance.

"What? I'm joking!" He reached over and took a light punch to his shoulder, "I'm sure you're the funnest guy here."

"Funnest isn't a word," Will corrected.

"You're gonna make me take back my statement," Nico deadpanned. Will threw his good hand up, defeated. The other hand remained cradled by his side, bound by cast and sling.

"Give me the bottle," He demanded.

"There we go!" Nico applauded, "See? Now you're acting like a real jock! What was it you play? Football?"

"... Lacrosse."

"That's right, lacrosse. What the fuck even is that? Like, honestly, it wasn't even a thing in Italy."

"Italy?" Will inquired.

"I grew up in Italy. Moved here when I was thirteen? Fourteen?" Nico explained.

"Oh. Wow," Will spoke.

"You didn't answer my question," Nico prodded.

"Huh?"

"The fuck is lacrosse even?"

"I'm mean its just another sport," Will reasoned, "Y'know? You got your stick and the ball, and you try to make the goal."

"How long did you play for?" Nico asked.

"Oh, I don't know. I started when I was a freshman in high school, so... seven years?"

"Damn, that's a long time. You gonna miss it?"

Will gave a huffy laugh, "Parts of it, for sure."

"Wait okay, I'm lost," Nico started, "How do you break your entire fucking arm during an over-glorified game of catch?"

"Got a nasty body check," Will explained. Nico gave him a blank stare in return; Will's words obviously did not mean anything to him.

"Someone body slammed me during the game," Will explained, "Fell back landed on my arm."

Nico made a pained expression, "Sounds like that hurt," he emphasized.

"It's not that bad," Will reasoned.

"How long to heal?"

"Only a few weeks."

Nico nodded, but before he could respond, a voice boomed from across the room.

"Solace!"

Will whipped his head around, to see another man trudging towards the two, shoving past a pool of party-goers and drunk bodies. His stride was confident and almost loud. Nico watched as he made his way over, unable to stop himself from taking an immediate distaste for the guy.

"Where have you been, dude?" the stranger asked.

Will averted his eyes, maintaining eye contact with the ground instead. He shrugged as a response before cautiously meeting the other man's stare.

"How come you don't come to lacrosse anymore? We miss you man!"

Nico couldn't decide if his words were authentic. His tone seemed to be genuine, but his condescending smirk and the arrogant gleam in his eyes wanted to tell of something different.

"I don't know," Will started. He turned his gaze to the floor and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Just come back to the team!" he exclaimed, his arms open.

"Man, I just... Just gotta think about it," Will reasoned, giving a sympathetic smile. In the shadow of the man he looked small. Maybe even vulnerable.

At this point, Nico had enough. Maybe his head wasn't quite where it was supposed to be, but his heart was. Before anything could be said, Nico interjected.

"God could you fuck off?" Nico barked, "Anyone with a pair of fucking eyes can see that he doesn't want to talk to you."

Will's head shot up and his eyes grew in shock.

"I'm sorry," the man laughed, "You talking to me?"

"Yeah man," Nico snapped, "Why don't you just leave him alone?"

"Don't you know your place?" The man retorted.

Nico was now riding on a high of his favorite drug; adrenaline. He cocked his head to the side and matched the stranger's confident energy.

"You wanna show me my place? Be my guest," he invited, standing up, a little shaky from the vodka. He tried to hide his stumble.

Will shot him a pleading look, "You don't have to do this," he whispered.

The stranger towered over Nico, "Who the fuck do you think you are?" the man snarled.

The room's atmosphere changed, voices began to hush and more eyes turned to watch the show. Nico stared down his opponent, undeterred from any distractions.

"Nico, c'mon, give it up, it's not worth it." Will persisted. But his pleads fell on deaf ears, Nico was too caught up in finishing what he had just started.

"You need to know your fucking place, fuckin' little shit," the man seethed, his shoulders rolling up and his face sneering. Before Nico could respond, a punch was thrown.

Luckily for Nico though, he had become skilled in the art of dodging fists through his years of picking drunken fights with strangers. This was nothing new for him. Instead of sucker-punching Nico in the gut, the man missed and lodged his fist into the drywall behind Nico. The crowd voiced sounds of excitement, shock, and concern. Nico could feel like anger blooming in his chest, pumping through his veins. If there was one thing he hated most, it was entitled, rich white frat boys. His hands turned to fists, but before he could commit to the final act, he felt Will tug on his arm.

"Don't do it man," He pleaded, with soft, sad blue eyes. Nico looked to the ground, trying to use his brain for the first time tonight.

"Yeah, okay. Party fucking sucked anyway," he cursed, "And I'm taking this with me!" He announced, pointing an angry finger to the bottle he had claimed earlier. He stumbled away from the scene, away from the hungry eyes of party-goers, away from the man he didn't even know the name of, who was now shouting obscenities to Nico's back. Away from Will.

Nico had his fun for the night. It was time to go home. Which would've been easier if the ground beneath him isn't spinning. The world was moving in ways it shouldn't. He wasn't sure which direction was home. The street was now solely lit by the harsh streetlights towering above him, and the sidewalk seemed to slip from under his feet.

Then he heard a voice call his name.

"Nico!" It was none other than Will, "That's your name, right? It's Nico?"

Nico smiled and nodded.

"Where you going, man?" Will asked.

Nico shrugged, "Home, I guess."

"You're not driving, are you?"

"God, no," Nico shook his head, "I don't even own a car. I was just gonna walk home."

"How's that going for you?" Will inquired, sarcasm hidden in his tone.

"It'll be fine, once the floor stops moving," he waved a dismissive hand.

"Let me walk you home," Will prompted.

Nico's brow furrowed, "What? Why?"

"Just a way to say thanks," Will shrugged.

Nico thought for a moment before he nodded. The two started off, absorbed in the sound of the quiet night.

"I'm sorry," Nico spoke, puncturing the veil of silence between the two.

"For what?" Will turned to Nico.

"I don't know... It probably wasn't on your agenda for tonight to piss off... Whoever that was."

"One of my teammates. Or, an old teammate, I guess," Will informed, "Don't feel bad about it though, I actually enjoyed watching you tell him off."

"Oh yeah? I could just tell he was making you uncomfortable. I can read you like a book," Nico flashed a cocky grin, proud of his "emotional intelligence" skills.

"Like a book? Is that so?" Will teased, "What am I feeling now?"

"You're probably wondering how you got into this mess, walking a drunk stranger home and all."

"You're not a stranger, we've met before," Will joked.

"Can't argue with that," Nico agreed.

The silence returned, but the two were comfortable in its wake. Will kicked at rock as they walked, while Nico struggled to place one foot in front of the other. In a cruel joke played by God or maybe fate, he stumbled and fell, only to catch himself on Will's good shoulder.

"Woah, there," Will laughed, holding Nico's forearms as he regained himself, "Do I need to carry you home?"

"Oh, yes please," Nico replied. Maybe drinking a whole bottle of vodka by himself was a bad idea.

"Alright then," Will said, moving an arm to secure Nico's balance.

"Wait, no I was joking-" Nico started.

"Yeah sure, you're gonna be joking until you fall and bust your ass on the concrete," Will retorted, "Don't make it weird," He said with a laugh, slinking his good arm around Nico's torso, with a gentle squeeze.

Oh.

Okay.

Don't make it weird. Got it.

"I'm not making it weird," Nico quipped.

"Great," Will shrugged. Will's curls brushed against Nico's cheek, and Nico was almost positive that Will could smell the alcohol on his breath.

"Hey, wait a minute," Nico wondered out loud, "How come you aren't shit faced?"

Will gave a breathy laugh, "I'm more of a babysitter than a drinker. I was watching over a few friends tonight, but then I guess you could say I had more pressing matters to tend to."

"A stranger was more important than your friends?" Nico questioned.

"Well, when a stranger tried to pick a fight and stumble home completely wasted -- by himself, I might add, then yeah. Also, my friends know how to take care of themselves."

"Are you saying I don't know how to take care of myself?" Nico demanded.

"Maybe," Will confessed, failing to sequester the laughter spilling from his chest.

Nico found Will's laughter to be contagious, something that couldn't be escaped, and he discovered himself chuckling along with him. Maybe it was the buzz, but Nico felt the warmth in his chest again, a cozy feeling from inside. He felt at home in the feeling.

As their laughter died down, the two came up upon the backside of an apartment complex. Even on the backside, the complex stood tall and elegant, the siding expensive and tasteful.

"Looks like this is my stop," Nico announced.

"Wait, but there's no entrances back here," Will noticed.

"What a gentleman, wanting to walk me to my door," Nico teased.

"I just want to make sure you get home safe," Will protested.

"I know. It's just that... I've got this roommate, whose fucking batshit -- like absolutely crazy. Hates when I bring people home. Doesn't even matter if they drop me off at the door. It's always an argument. Says it's always too noisy when I come home with people."

Will gave a dejected look to the ground, "Oh."

"I'm sorry," Nico tried, slipping out of Will's hold.

"Wait, hold on. I'm gonna give you my number. Text me when you get back safe," he prompted. He fumbled in his pocket and took out a crumpled receipt and a pen, and scrawled his number on the backside, "Here."

Nico smiled as he took the number into his own hands, "Thanks, Will. I feel like I owe you now," He laughed.

The pair separated, following their own individual paths. Except Nico didn't head towards the complex he had claimed to be his. Rather, once he was out of the spotlight of the streetlamps, he crossed the street, heading towards a less impressive complex. His home. His tiny, dirty home.

He knew lying was wrong, but his shame for his poorly house outweighed the moral balance in his mind. He had also had lied about the crazy roommate. Just another excuse not to let someone in, keep them at a comfortable distance; knowing all too well what would come once they knew what he really lived like -- the pitiful looks and gross expressions.

It was embarrassing. But it was all he could afford.

Nico hated the pity. Rather than confront it, he would create himself a false life. Call it lies if you like, but for Nico it was just protection.

He fumbled with his keys for a minute, wracked his brain with the task of trying to figure out which one was the key to the front door. When he opened the door he felt the cool dusty air hit his face. He cracked the door open and coasted inside, careful not to wake his sister sleeping in the room across from his, who had better things to do than getting wasted on a weeknight.

His least favorite part of the nights like these was coming home. No longer did he have his distraction, his escape from his sad apartment, from his own racing thoughts and feelings.

When he came home he was forced to confront it all. No more running, and no more hiding.

Nico found his way to his room, the door creaking open. His empty room greeted him and the cool air nipped at his skin. The cracks in the ceiling welcomed him and his creaky bed frame embraced him as he collapsed into his mattress.  Nico hated its grasp, but right now he couldn't protest; sleep called his name too loud to ignore. When he lay the room was still spinning. He pulled his phone from one pocket and a crumpled receipt from the other. He copied the number from the receipt into his phone.

Will received a text on his walk back to the party.

its nico mabe it h ome safe. thbanks for caring abt me lol

[welllpthisishappening]

One Foot In (3/7)

The facts were these.

Killian Jones was dead. This much Emma knew, standing in the middle of the funeral parlor staring at him. What she didn’t know was why. Or how. Or what she would do when she touched him.

Because Emma Swan had a gift. Touch a dead thing once, bring it back to life. Touch it again, dead forever.

And the last thing Emma could do was bring Killian back to life, talk to him for the first time in years, only to watch him die all over again. Not when she’d spent the better part of those same years being in love with him.

—–

Rating: Teen, but eventually they’re going to kiss Word Count: 9.3K this chapter. Again.  AN: I continue to have a lot of thoughts and feelings about all the thoughts and feelings you guys have about this mess of words. Thanks for being lovely. We get to that eventually this chapter. Also, happy hockey day internet. Yesterday obviously didn’t count because the Rangers don’t play until tonight. 

@shireness-says​ @optomisticgirl​ @nikkiemms, @teamhook, @dayo488​, @greymeetsblue​, @jennjenn615​, @heavenlyjoycastle​, @klynn-stormz​, @superchocovian​, @onepunintendid​, @jonesfandomfanatic​, @lfh1226-linda​

|| Also on Ao3 if that’s how you roll ||

—–

Emma Swan is twenty-nine years, six months, twenty-three days and, approximately, eight and half hours old when she wakes up to an empty apartment. 

This, normally, would not be cause for distress, but Emma is less than twenty-four hours removed from making sure Killian Jones wasn’t buried in the same cemetery she once kissed him in and they probably should have discussed the rules more. 

Like the never leave her apartment rules. 

Because everyone thought he was dead rules. 

Emma exhales, a breath of air she didn’t realize she was holding onto until she suddenly realizes how much she desperately needs it and it cannot be healthy for her vision to keep fading in and out like that. She assumes it’s a symptom of something. Possibly insanity. 

She feels a little insane. 

And questionably well rested. 

Because for someone who broke most of the most fundamental rules of the universe the day before, Emma didn’t wake up once all night. 

She refuses to acknowledge that that is probably a sign too. 

“Ok, get a grip, Swan,” she mumbles, mostly to herself because she is, in fact, the only person in that apartment. “He can’t have gone that far.”

Pushing out of the pile of blankets tangled between her legs, she glances around her admittedly small living room and the smile on her face feels equal parts unnatural, incredulous and a little overwhelmed. And kind of charmed. 

The blankets on the other side of the room are all folded – sharp corners and folds that are, very likely, Naval grade and the clothes he’d slept in are next to them, looking as if they’ve just been dropped off by the world’s most effective dry cleaners. 

This, however, does not give Emma any sense of where the hell Killian has actually gone and she can’t keep talking to herself. That’s a line she refuses to cross and a rabbit hole she refuses to go down and she jogs into the kitchen before she realizes that’s where she’s decided to go next. 

The plates are still in the sink, not much looking out of place, but Emma has been spending most of her free time with Ruby for years now and she’s got an eye for these things or something that would definitely make Ruby laugh and there’s a peace of paper folded on top of the coffee maker. 

His handwriting is different than it was when he was a kid, not quite as lopsided as it was when he got points taken off a spelling test for illegibility that required Liam to meet with the teacher. It’s blunter now, like he’s trying to work out all his emotions about the entire state of the world in a few letters on a piece of paper that Emma can’t even begin to imagine he found easily. 

You didn’t have any coffee left. You’re an awful hostess. 

Her hand doesn’t shake when she reads it, a moral victory she’ll probably hold onto for the rest of the day, and her smile still feels incredibly out of place. 

Because Killian is not in her apartment. 

Or dead. 

That’s probably the most important part of the whole thing. 

Emma genuinely has no idea what sound she makes in response to that. It’s not a laugh, she’s teetering far too close to those metaphorical precipices to actually find much humor in the situation, but it’s not actually a scoff or a groan either. It’s a weird mixture of all three, a sound that actually manages to hurt her throat on the way out before lingering in the air and pressing down on every side of her skull and he’s right; she doesn’t have any coffee. 

She was going to go to the store last night. 

She got a little sidetracked. 

God, now she wants a cheeseburger too. 

And Emma is disappointed she didn’t realize exactly where a very-much alive Killian Jones went as soon as she woke up. Because, once, when she was seven and he was eight – only a few days after his birthday and he’d been bragging about being older and wiser and several other things that made Emma kick at his ankles – he’d decided he wanted to know what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street. 

And the only way to figure out what was underneath that one man hole on Main Street was to lift it up, climb. down and start exploring. Immediately. He’d ignored most of Emma’s protests, smiling and nodding like she was making any progress in the argument, and eventually she’d run out of fight and gotten a flashlight out of the hallway closet. 

They didn’t find much of anything, just managed to ruin both of their shoes and Ingrid resolutely refused to give them pie for three straight days because they had to throw away their clothes when she couldn’t get the smell out and—

“He went back downstairs,” Emma sighs, shaking her head in something close to disbelief. 

She doesn’t time herself, but she assumes that she gets ready in record time – only a few minutes and a few droplets of water thrown at her face, not even bothering to brush her hair before tugging it up while jogging down the stairs to her own restaurant. Emma put the note in the back pocket of her jeans. 

Killian doesn’t immediately look up when Emma walks in, skidding across the linoleum tile of the kitchen floor, but she can see his lips quirk slightly and, if put under oath, she would swear his eyes get brighter. 

That is a scientific impossibility, Emma is sure. She’s also not entirely convinced they’re dealing with normal science. 

She doesn’t know what category magic fingers fall under. 

He’s half leaning on the counter, arms crossed lightly over the button-up he was wearing the day before and feet crossed at the ankles, a mug of what is, presumably, coffee in his right hand. There’s no tie, which is probably for the best because Emma isn’t sure she’d be able to handle that. 

And he’s not alone. 

“Hey, Em,” Graham says brightly, and Emma is glad she’s not holding anything. She would drop it. Killian’s tongue moves into the corner of his mouth. 

Emma needs to study science more because it feels as if the blood actually falls out of her face, vision doing that thing again and she’d just like some kind of confirmation if that’s even possible. 

Killian doesn’t move, although his eyes do narrow, a hint of a concern shifting into the space between him and Emma. There is not much space between him and Emma. 

“So, uh...I met your friend,” Graham continues, eyes doing an admirable job of looking like they’re bouncing around a pinball machine. “Didn’t really know you had friends.”

Killian snorts into his coffee, and Emma is torn between scandalized and...mostly scandalized. 

“I have friends,” Emma sputters. Graham does not look convinced. “Are you not my friend?” “I am your employee.” “Ok, well...yes, that’s technically true, but—” “—Do you want to share friendship bracelets, Em? Is that what you’re telling me?” “There’s no need to be a jerk about this.” “What about those little heart pendants? Where we each have half? Or is that too retro for us? We’re some kind of proper millennial relationship, right?” Emma scowls – an expression that is starting to become her default setting, and Killian is suspiciously silent. Until he isn’t. 

“We had matching temporary tattoos one summer,” he says softly, and Graham nearly falls over. He doesn’t actually, which makes it eight-hundred thousand times worse, and Emma briefly considers drinking the coffee straight out of the pot. 

She assumes burning her tongue beyond recognition will, somehow, ground her. 

“That so?” Graham asks, voice going gruff and disbelieving. “What summer was this? Recently?” “Do you honestly think I am the kind of person who has had a temporary tattoo in recent history?” Emma mutters. Graham shrugs. 

“I have a sudden and very strong suspicion I don’t know much about you at all, boss. It’s not for lack of trying, but…” He trails off in a way that makes Emma’s stomach twist uncomfortably, an allusion to almosts and possibilities that were never really either because Emma doesn’t like those words and she’s much better on her own. 

It’s safer that way. Less connection, means less possibility for getting hurt. Or something. 

She can’t really remember the reason for anything anymore, particularly when she can feel Killian’s eyes boring a hole in the side of her head and her pulse has only recently recovered from finding her apartment as empty as it normally is. 

“If memory serves, Swan was eight,” Killian says, still speaking mostly into his coffee cup. “She’d gotten a rather disappointing mark in third-grade science.” Graham’s shoulders shake when he chuckles. “What kind of science is third grade science?” “The most basic science possible.” “That’s a complete and total lie,” Emma argues. “That was...there was that frog thing involved and I—” “—Resolutely refused to do the assignment,” Killian finishes. “Did you also get detention?” Emma nods, not as stunned as she probably should be that he remembers this so well. Although, he’d also gotten detention with her because if Swan isn’t going to dissect the frog, then I’m not either. “Ingrid was furious,” Emma says. “She said we were challenging authority and couldn’t I have just done what I was supposed to do for once in my life.” “I always thought that was a little heavy-handed. What did the frog ever do to you that it deserved to get cut up like that?” “Died, apparently.” Killian hums, the conversation drifting dangerously close to topics they absolutely cannot discuss in front of Graham. “That was awfully rude of him to do that.”

“Maybe. I’m not sure the frog would agree with that, though.” They stare at each other for a moment – metaphors and metaphorical dances of the conversational variety and Graham coughs pointedly when they don’t do anything else. “Anyway,” Killian says, a forced brightness to the word that makes Emma’s jaw clench. “Swan refused to cut apart the frog, Ingrid was very upset about it, as was the teacher, God, what was her name?” “Ms. Feinberg,” Emma answers. Honestly, Graham does not appear to be breathing at this point. 

“That’s right. That’s right. She wore that ridiculous fur coat in the winter and—” “—We thought she could control the animals with her voice. Some kind of ridiculous magical thing that made a lot of sense when I was eight.” “Does it not make sense now?” Emma shrugs, not sure how she manages to stay upright when it feels as if the floor shakes under her feet. “How’d you get coffee?” “I’m absolutely incredible in unfamiliar situations,” Killian grins. He leans forward as he says it, another test of fate that Emma can’t voice and he knows she can’t voice and she’s going to have to give Graham an entire week off for subjecting him to whatever this might be. It feels like flirting. Again. “Also your coffee maker does not require me to be a rocket scientist, love.” Graham sounds like he’s choking. 

“You ok?” Emma asks as he continues to sputter on oxygen. 

“Yup, yup, yup,” Graham nods brusquely. “I’m fine. Totally fine. So, uh...you two knew each other when you were younger then? What was Emma like when she was a kid? Aside from the weird science thing.”

“It’s not weird to refuse to dissect a frog,” Emma hisses. “I was a kid. I liked animals.” She wishes she could come up with another phrase then kill him because that feels a little insensitive and Emma clearly doesn’t want to kill Killian, but he keeps laughing and pouring more coffee. He twists around, opening a cabinet he shouldn’t know is there and offers Emma a mug. 

“I don’t know how you take your coffee, Swan,” he says quietly.

Emma reaches out slowly, careful not to touch his fingers and it’s as weird as possible – gripping the mug from the top while Graham’s actual head snaps back and forth. “Cream and three and a half sugars,” she says. “If it’s not espresso.” “You don’t have an espresso machine?” “It’s not that kind of restaurant. Espresso is way too new wave.” “New wave,” Killian echoes, but there’s nothing even resembling teasing in any of the letters. He says them as if he’s chasing them and they’re both still holding the goddamn mug. 

“Yeah. I’m not...great at change, really. Like. At all, you know.” He lets go of the mug. 

She doesn’t drop it. So, points to her or whatever. 

“Wait, wait, wait,” Graham says. He waves both his hand through the air, as if that will clear it or make any of this make sense and maybe Emma should just give him two weeks off. “I am...very confused. I thought you knew each other. You…” He glances at Killian, blinking quickly. “I don’t know your name.” “That’s because I never told you,” Killian says. 

“And?” “And...what?” “Ok, you’re really not going to tell me your name? Are you...Em, what the hell is going on right now?”

Emma shakes her head, not sure where to begin or how to explain and Killian is pouring her coffee. As if that’s a normal thing that is allowed to happen and the urge to run is almost overpowering. That’s always been her thing – even when she was eight years old and refused to follow the rules of a science class that was almost too dependent on rules and a classroom that smelled like formaldehyde no matter what they happened to be studying that week. 

Emma does not do conflict. She does disappearing acts, her own personal brand of magic that’s served her and her slightly patched-together heart very well for the last twenty years, but that same heart is really only patched together because it was forced to run away from the man in front of her who, once upon a time, wouldn’t let her get in trouble by herself. 

So she doesn’t run.  

She swallows instead, biting back words and explanations and the very real desire to just scream as loud as she’s capable of. 

“You want to double check on the napkin dispensers?” Emma asks, not actually looking at Graham and that does admittedly feel like kind of a dick move. 

“I’m sorry, what? Was that the answer to the question? Seriously who the fu—” “The napkin dispensers,” she cuts in sharply. Emma turns her whole body when she speaks, hopeful that her face betrays the regret she feels festering in the tips of her fingers. “Just...you know make sure that they’re full.” “Are we expecting some kind of mad pie rush today?” “God, I hope not. Also, why are you here early?” Graham’s expression shifts – tremulous and clearly concerned about Emma’s immediate reaction to whatever he’s about to say. He glances Killian’s direction, but is only met with slightly interested eyebrows and a recently refilled coffee mug. 

“You heard her,” Killian mutters. It’s not quite a threat, although Emma can’t stop the shiver that drifts down her spine and lingers in between her hips, a flash of cold that makes her wonder if they’ve suddenly time traveled to the middle of December. 

He hops onto the edge of the counter when Graham’s mouth drops slightly, eyebrows still as high as ever and hackles almost visibly raised. 

Emma has no idea what hackles even are. 

“Hey,” she says, waving a dismissive hand as close as she can get to Killian without ensuring disaster. “What…” Emma trails off when she realizes she can’t formulate that question either, another head shake that makes her neck ache. “Alright,” she continues. “I want a straight answer Humbert. What are you doing here so early?”

Graham shuffles on his feet again. “Ruby called me. Late last night. Which, honestly I thought you were dead, but she promised you weren’t, just that you might be and—” “—I’m sorry, I might be?” “Emma, if you keep interrupting me, I’m never going to finish the story and I’ve got a jam-packed schedule of refilling napkin containers.” “Are they that empty?” “Emma!” "Fine, fine,” she grumbles, shooting a glare Killian’s direction when he dares to laugh at what may be her very real mental breakdown. 

“I didn’t say a word, Swan,” he grins. 

Graham coughs again, but it also sounds a bit like a groan and three weeks of vacation seems almost exorbitant. “Ruby called me,” he repeats. “Was certain there was something going on with you and that you were acting shady after you guys left here yesterday morning. She said she’d been doing some research and some names had come up and—” “—Wait, what kind of names?” Emma interrupts. Graham throws a strawberry out of the closest bowl at it, the fruit bouncing off her left hand and landing at her feet – rotten, again. 

Killian slides off the counter. 

“Do you mind giving us a couple of minutes?” he asks, stepping in front of Emma like he’ll be able to block her from the threat of the one waiter she employees. She has to dig her nails into her palms to resist touching him again, those ridiculous and inconvenient magnets proving particularly problematic once more. 

She doesn’t hear whatever Graham says in response, is far too busy trying to figure out what the buzzing in the back of her head is. It sounds a bit like flies, or maybe a little more like bees, a hum and a sound that isn’t quite distracting, but feels a little powerful. 

The noise grows the longer she stays in one place, as if it’s getting stronger or more intense, knocking at the edges of Emma’s consciousness. It feels a bit like a memory she forgot, but is desperate to remember and that doesn’t make any sense at all. It’s déjà vu, a familiarity and a reminder and it almost feels warm, like it’s wrapping its way around her shoulders and holding her tight and Emma doesn’t think it’s a threat. 

She’s got no idea what the hell it is, but she doesn’t think it’s trying to hurt her. 

It might be trying to help her. 

Or remind her. 

And she nearly jumps out of her skin when Killian tugs on the side of her shirt. 

“Holy shit,” Emma growls, stumbling backwards. “What the hell were you thinking?” “You’re going to have to be more specific, Swan.” “What time did you get down here?” He shrugs, an air of nonchalance that’s far more frustrating with the noise that’s starting to ebb in between her ears. “Not long before you got here.” “Was Graham down here?” “No, he showed up in the middle of my quest for coffee. He’s fairly desperately in love with you, you know.” Emma blinks. “Ah, shut up,” she says before she can come up with a better retort and, that time, Killian’s answering laugh is almost warranted. 

“Did you just tell me to shut up?” “Yes. You can’t...you can’t do, like, any of the things you have done in the last hour.” “I wasn’t aware of the rules.” “Well there are rules,” Emma snaps, and she knows it’s not his fault. He was dead yesterday. And now he’s not and that’s got to be messing with his head, no matter what he tells her. Even if he keeps staring at her that very particular way, as if she’s some kind of magical being descended from on high to...do something. Emma isn’t sure what yet. 

Killian moves back towards the counter, grabbing the strawberries along the way. The whole thing is ridiculous. “And they are?” “You can’t come down here. Not...not without telling me or when Graham is down here and—” “—And just who exactly is Graham, Swan? He seemed quite interested in figuring out who I am.” “Because you aren’t supposed to be in the kitchen!”

“No, I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s because he’s hopelessly, inextricably head over heels in love with you and he made several different assumptions as soon as he saw me. Do you not often have men in your kitchen, love?” “That’s not even clever.” “And that’s a very pointed attempt at not answering the question.” 

Emma huffs, crossing her arms, but that only serves to twist up her shirt and Killian’s eyes dart towards the suddenly obvious patch of skin above her right hip bone. “No,” she mutters. “That’s not...this has never happened before.” Killian eats another strawberry. 

“And Graham, he doesn’t...he’s not a partner in your side endeavors?” Emma shakes her head. “He knows that sometimes I take elongated breaks that usually require Ruby to arrive, but other than that, no. He’s got no idea. No one does.” “Why not?” “Why not?” Emma balks, voice rising of its own accord. Killian’s face doesn’t shift, but she can see his tongue press on the inside of his cheek and that might be one of his tells. “No one can know that,” she presses. “It’s...that’s way more power than anyone should have. Life and death and—death.” “You said that twice,” Killian points out. His own voice drops, like it’s trying to balance out Emma’s near-shriek and she probably shouldn’t be taking comfort from it, but she can still dimly make out the buzzing in the back of her brain. 

“I left Storybrooke and I got shipped around the country. I bounced around from group home to foster homes and houses and no one was ever even remotely interested in actually adopting me. One family tried to use me as a tax break, but that was as close as I got and it was never...it was never Ingrid. It was never you.”

She has to take a deep breath to stop herself from crying and Emma isn’t sure how the words keep coming, but Killian Jones is in her kitchen and everything seems to fall out of her without much concern about her set of rules. 

“There was never anyone,” Emma continues. “So I learned to keep to myself and figure things out on my own and it’s better that way, don’t you think? No chance of making a mistake or doing something wrong and I’ve managed to rationalize the whole thing with Ruby.” “Justice being served, huh?” Killian asks knowingly. 

“Yeah, exactly that.” “I can’t just stay in your apartment forever, love.” The endearment switch catches her off guard, a trend that Emma should really start expecting at this point. Nothing seems like it’s on even ground anymore. 

“People know you’re dead,” Emma argues. “There were news reports and, well, you heard it. Your name was there and there were graphics and—”

“—All of that seems a little tacky, don’t you think?” “I’m not here to debate the merits of journalism with you.” “Then what are you going to do, Swan? Because I’m not going to stay cooped up forever. I can’t. I did that for a very long time and I won’t—”

“I told you,” Graham announces, turning towards the wide-open door of the restaurant where a fuming Ruby appears to be doing her best impression of carved marble. “Doesn’t he look just like that dead guy on the news?”

Emma drops the coffee mug in her hand. 

“He looks exactly like that dead guy on the news,” Ruby seethes. She stands in the doorway for a few more moments, likely considering where to dump Emma’s body when she inevitably kills her, but then the clack of her heels moving towards the kitchen sounds impossibly loud and Emma regrets not getting dental insurance. 

She’s got a feeling she’ll need it sooner rather than later. 

“That’s super weird,” Graham continues, stuffing a handful of napkins into the container at table six. “Didn’t he die under suspicious circumstances?” “They don’t know,” Emma bites out. She chances a glance at Killian who, it seems, has also frozen, fingers wrapped around another strawberry. 

Ruby’s laugh is distinctly lacking any humor. “Or so the reports go.” “I heard some rumors there was some shady stuff involved,” Graham says. Emma’s head is going to fly off her neck. That would be for the best – then she could ignore the whole situation entirely. 

“What kind of shady stuff?” Graham shrugs, dropping the container back onto the table and every noise sounds magnified. Emma has to glance down to make sure there aren’t sparks shooting out of her fingers. There are not. That’s almost disappointing. 

“Well they didn’t find anyone else there, did they?” Graham asks. “At the scene, I mean? Usually there’d at least be a suspect or something.” “Maybe you should be the PI,” Ruby drawls. 

“Yeah, yeah, you’re hysterical, Lucas. I’m just saying. There should be DNA or something right? And they said he lost his hand. But...no hand at the crime scene.” “What?” Killian snaps, looking only slightly affronted when Ruby glares at him. “Where did it go?”

“Do you think I’m aware of dead peoples missing limbs?” Graham asks. 

Emma’s never had an actual heart attack, so she can’t be entirely certain of what the symptoms are or what it actually feels like, but she assumes it sort of feels like this. Her arms feel too heavy for her body, hands like weights dragging her into the kitchen floor. Bobbing on her feet, she tries to dispel the extra energy she’s suddenly flush with and that can’t possibly be medicinal.

No one notices at first – Ruby far too busy asking Graham where he’s getting his sources and Graham snarking back and it’s not a surprise when Emma feels Killian’s gaze move back towards her and her tiny vertical jump. 

“Swan,” he starts, leaning forward. “What…” “Oh, no, no, no,” Ruby shouts. Her hair hits the side of her face when she shakes her head, eyes bordering on dangerous and possibly tinted as red as the highlights in her hair. “No, no, you did not call her that. Is that...Humbert, you need to get out of here.” Graham drops another napkin container. “What? I work here, Lucas.” “I don’t care.” “You are not my boss.” “Get out of here, Humbert!” He lifts his hands in frustration, clearly waiting for Emma to object, but her jaw is stuck mid-clench and there is something wrong here and a heart attack probably shouldn’t last this long. “Fine” Graham growls. “Fine. You guys want to play secret and not act like this is the first time Emma has acknowledged there are other human beings on this planet, that’s fine with me.”

He’s gone in a huff of napkins and knocked over chairs, the bell on the door ringing loudly as soon as he slams it behind him. 

And for half a moment Emma is almost hopeful they won’t say anything else. They’ll just stand there until the end of time when the meteors come and dinosaurs return or however the world is going to end and she’ll be able to avoid this particular brand of conflict. 

“Emma.” No such luck. Killian is still staring at her. 

“So, guess we’ve got some things to talk about, huh?” Ruby asks, more forced calm that’s almost worse than screaming and shouting and throwing fruit. 

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” “The truth would just...blow my mind.” Emma sighs, closing her eyes and trying to come up with something that’s even remotely possible and everything sounds worse than the last lie. “I couldn’t,” she whispers, staring at her shoes. Her shoes are less judgmental than the other two people in the kitchen. 

“He is kind of dreamy. I think it’s the hair. Or the earring.” Emma lifts her head – Ruby grinning knowingly at her because Ruby knows that other rule and they’ll have to deal with that eventually. Preferably when Killian isn’t within hearing distance. 

“I think my uncles thought it was a joke,” Killian murmurs, tugging lightly on the jewelry and the wisps of hair that curl just behind his ear. “I looked this morning. Just to make sure I wasn’t taking on any zombie-like characteristics.” “You’re not a zombie,” Emma groans. He grins at her. 

“No harm in double checking. But I noticed the earring and that’s definitely Nemo’s, so...in the grand scheme I suppose it’s nice.” “Who’s Nemo?” Ruby asks, grabbing a pie off the counter and two forks. She hands one to Killian. And they’re all taking this surprisingly well. 

Emma may be the only one who isn’t. 

“The aforementioned uncle,” Killian says. “This one is good too, Swan.” “All Emma’s pies are good.” “Are you two bonding right now?” Emma demands. “Because that’s...Ruby are you not furious?” Ruby nods, tugging the fork out of her mouth slowly. “Oh I’m super pissed at you, but you’re currently exercising three of the five tells, so I figure you’re doing a really great job of beating yourself up already. Also I’ve got some news and, like, eighty-thousand questions.” “Only eighty-thousand?” Killian asks. 

“At least. Don’t try and play cute with me though, Jones. I’ve got some very strong suspicions about you.” “Such as?” “You weren’t as naive about the situation as you told your girlfriend.”

Killian’s grip on the fork noticeably tightens and Emma should really clean up the puddle of coffee at her foot. It’s starting to seep into her sneaker. Maybe she should buy new sneakers. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, and Emma’s breath catches because she’s incredibly familiar with that particular tone. It’s the same exact tone it was when he was seven and trying to convince Liam he’d only had one slice of pie at Ingrid’s. 

And the tips of his ears go red. 

Ruby shakes her head. “Incorrect. And as much as I hate to admit Humbert is ever right about anything, he does bring up a good point about your hand. What do you remember about that?” “Not much,” Killian lies. 

“Nope, try again.” His eyes dart towards Emma’s, tongue flashing between his lips and it’s as if they’re standing on a tightrope above several dozen crocodiles or alligators, whichever are more dangerous, and there’s probably rain involved too. Just to make everything as slippery as possible. 

“You said you’d already done the cooped up forever thing,” Emma whispers. “And you wouldn’t do it again. What did that mean?” “You ran and I stayed put, Swan.” “English, Jones.” The twist of his answering smile is enough to make Emma’s heart stutter against her rib cage. He tugs the pie plate out of Ruby’s hands, taking another exaggerated bite – eyes never leaving Emma. “Seriously, you should be winning awards for this,” he mutters. “And I didn’t actually lie to you before. I have no idea who actually killed me.” “But?” “But,” he repeats. “I’m not exactly the kid you remember.” “Who are you then?” Killian inhales, only to exhale even sharper and—”It’d really be much easier if I could hold your hand.” Ruby gags. “That’s not a line,” he promises. “That’s...it was always easier that way.” “Start at the beginning,” Ruby commands. He salutes again. 

“My brother died when I was ten years old and it changed my entire life,” Killian explains. “For awhile I thought it ruined my entire life because it meant Emma was gone and, you know no one ever moved into your house, Swan?” She shakes her head, not sure what the right response to that is, but some twisted part of her is almost glad. “They didn’t,” Killian continues. “It was just there, forever, taunting me of what was gone and what wasn’t ever actually coming back. And, well, Shakespeare and Nemo were used to being on the road, but the acting troupe they’d be in for the decade before they got saddled with me...it was on its last legs. There’s no money in it and they sort of stumbled into guardianship without much prep or guidance and they didn’t...they sat in that house and they’d both seen so much already. 

“You know Nemo’s ship was attacked once, that was part of the reason he wanted to avoid the bars on that port leave when he met Shakespeare and they’ve both dealt with so much shit from the world. They weren’t really….they weren’t really interested in the world anymore.” “But I bet you were, weren’t you?” Ruby asks, tugging on the plate again. 

“Not at first. Well, no that’s a lie. I was a shit kid as soon as Swan was gone, always getting in trouble and blowing off class and I think I tried to run away no less than sixteen times before I actually turned sixteen.” “How would you get out of town?” Emma asks, hating how soft her question sounded. 

Killian smirks “I never made it very far. You know Storybrooke, love, eyes everywhere and people gossiping even more. I think Cora Mills caught me trying to sneak out of my house even more than my uncles did.” “Oh she always gave me the creeps.” “You’re going to want to remember that in a second.” “Can you please put a pause on the flirting for, like, point two seconds so we can get on with the story?” Ruby groans. “Time, as they say, is a-slipping.” “You’re not very patient are you?” “It’s a family trait,” Emma mumbles. “You should meet her grandmother.” “Hey,” Ruby cries. “My grandmother taught me every PI trick I know. She’s the reason we’re going to find Jones’ killer and collect both rewards.”

Emma tenses. “Both rewards?” “Yeah, now you’re interested, aren’t you? Keep going Jones. This is almost interesting backstory.” “Almost interesting,” Killian chuckles, and they really should have each gotten their own pie. “Alright, alright. So Cora Mills—the mayor of Storybrooke,” he adds at Ruby’s questioning expression. “She’s been mayor since the dawn of time really, and she’s known I’ve been trying to get out Storybrooke for years, but I never did.” “Why not?” Emma asks, Killian’s hum of confusion feeling as if it lands between each one of her ribs. “I mean...couldn’t you?” “Eh, I’m sure I could have if I put my mind to it. But at some point around high school graduation, which was never entirely a guarantee for me, I realized that Nemo and Shakespeare were done with the world. They were tired of fighting it and tired of trying to find their place in it and—” “—You couldn't leave,” Ruby finishes, a note of sympathy in her voice that stuns Emma more than just about anything else that’s happened. 

Killian hums again. The disappointment and regret in the sound is bitter on Emma’s tongue, and maybe she should be taking some adult-ed science classes because she’s clearly got no idea how any of this works, but she’s never seen that look on his face before. 

As if the whole world has passed him by and left him in the metaphorical dust. 

“They’d given up their whole lives for me,” he mumbles. “And we were good. For a very long time. I...well, I figured out how to make money and I had books.” “Books?” Emma repeats. “You had books?” “I like to read.” “Are you a nerd now?” “I wouldn't go that far. It’s a...hobby, possibly some kind of obsession depending on who you ask. Don't ask my uncles.”

“I promise.”

He smiles at her again – slow and genuine until that replaces the whatever in between Emma’s ribs and she feels as if she breathes normally for the first time since she woke up. Ruby sticks her entire tongue out. 

There are berry stains on it. 

“Is this going to be a thing now?” she shouts. “The flirting? Are we going to flirt our way through several different crime scenes?” Emma tilts her head. “Are there more than one crime scene?” “There might be if Jones doesn’t get better at telling us his goddamn life story. Also, the less sarcastic answer is maybe because I’ve got news, but seriously the life story. If you were good with the shut-ins, why did you leave?” Killian doesn’t answer immediately, and the tension in between his shoulder blades is almost too obvious. Emma isn’t sure she hears him at first. And then she’s not sure she wants to. 

“Nemo got sick,” he says. “Suddenly and...badly? Is that the right word? It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t great and so I was trying to figure out a way to get some money and an opportunity presented itself.” “How?” “Remember creepy Cora Mills?” Emma hates that her jaw drops, but she can’t stop it and she knows this is not a good story. She didn’t expect it to be a good story and it is, somehow, even worse. “What could she possibly offer you?” “Money,” Killian shrugs. “And the chance to get out of Storybrooke, which given the situation paints me in a particularly asshole-light, but that’s always been kind of my MO too and—” “That’s not true.” “You haven’t known me for a very long time, Swan.” “I don’t believe that.” Melting certainly isn’t the right word for whatever happens to Killian’s expression. Emma doesn’t care. It’s the first word her mind comes up with and latches onto, in some misplaced effort to maintain control of a decidedly out of control situation, and she wishes she could hold his hand. 

Too. Or still. 

Or always. 

Honestly, whatever. 

“Thanks,” Killian mutters. “I promise it’s warranted in this situation. I was getting desperate. I never went to college and I couldn't figure out what to do or who to ask.” “No girlfriend to help, then?” Ruby asks archly, ignoring whatever noise Emma makes at that particular question. “What? First of all, that’s a genuine question. Because if there is a girlfriend, then we should probably prepare ourselves for her arrival in defense of Jones’ previously discussed very dreamy face and, second of all, if there is a girlfriend, she probably should have helped him rob a bank or something.” “Are we advocating bank robbing now?” Emma fumes, her anger having nothing to do with the sanctity of the American banking system. 

“No girlfriend,” Killian says. Emma wrings her hands together. So, naturally, Ruby notices. “Anyway, Cora found me one day and told me she had an opportunity if I was interested.” “And were you?”

“I didn’t see any other option, really. It made sense when she explained it. I had to get on the ship and—” “—Wait, wait, there was a ship involved?” Ruby asks. 

“Yeah, a cruise. To uh...shit, where was it to?” “We weren’t on the ship.” “That wasn’t the important part that’s why,” Killian mutters. “It was Tahiti or something. But I was told that I wasn’t supposed to do any of the onshore stuff they do. You know, zip lining and...swimming with sharks or whatever.” “The thought of that always freaked me out,” Ruby muses. 

“Yeah, me too actually. They say it’s safe, but—” “Can we focus, please?” Emma exclaims, met with two wide-eyed expressions for that especially emotional outburst. “Sorry, sorry, just...what were you supposed to be doing on this boat? Oh my God, are you some kind of drug mule?” Killian makes a face, ridiculous enough that Emma has to dig her heels into the ground to make sure she doesn’t try to do something absurd like kiss it off. The rules of the universe can suck it, honestly. 

“Are you kidding me?” “You’re the one who said I didn’t know you anymore!” “I was not a drug mule,” Killian sighs, dropping his fork so he can run his fingers through his hair. “I was...a water mule.” “What does that mean?” “Cora said that once we got to the island, there’d be some people getting on the ship who had something for me. I was supposed to bring it back.” “Did you meet these people?” Ruby asks, business-like and Emma knows she wishes she had a notepad of some kind. She pulls her phone out of her jacket pocket. 

“Yeah, that was kind of the problem.” “How so?”

Killian doesn’t shudder, but it’s awfully close, a nervousness to him that doesn’t match up with anything Emma knows about him. “There was a whole group of them. Each one of them shadier than the next and they all spoke in grunts, I swear.” “Sounds like lackeys.” “Yeah, probably. They didn’t know anything about Cora though, so the orders were coming from higher up and that’s kind of when I realized I’d gotten into something I wasn’t particularly interested in.” “What do you think that was?” “I don’t know exactly,” Killian admits. “But one of the goons handed me a vial of something that was, maybe, filled with water, demanded my immediate and complete silence and told me his boss was expecting me when I got back to New York.” “New York?” Emma asks. “That’s where the ship left from. I asked this guy what exactly it was I was supposed to be moving and how I was supposed to get it through security.” “I’m sure he didn’t appreciate that,” Ruby chuckles. 

“He did not, actually. He told me to shut my mouth and do my job and that, this is where it gets weird, his master wouldn’t be pleased if I deviated from the schedule.” Ruby’s eyebrows pull low. “He switched from boss to master?” “Weird, right?” “Super weird. And incredibly creepy. So what did you do after that?” “I told him that I thought there was a mistake,” Killian says with a laugh that sounds full of a slightly different brand of regret. “And that I wasn’t interested in shipping whatever product they were trying to move. I don’t remember much after that, but I do remember the vial falling and breaking. Goons one through six were not very happy about that. There was a lot of moanful grunting about it.” “There were six of them?” Emma breathes, not nearly as confident as she’d like to be. She rocks backwards on her heels when Killian slides off the counter, ignoring whatever Ruby is doing with all of her limbs as she steps into her space. 

There haven’t been very many moments in Emma’s life that stick. She’s made sure of it, run from the thoughts and the feelings and the relationships for years. This moment, however, seems determined to linger and fester and that second word is absolutely wrong. 

It doesn’t fester. It grows – the buzzing returning until it sounds like someone’s turned the metaphorical volume up as high as it will go on Emma’s life and soul and, possibly, the magic she’s done her best not to acknowledge for the last twenty years. 

None of that, however, holds a candle to whatever look settles on Killian’s face. It’s not quite understanding – there’s still that pesky rule hanging over their heads and she’ll tell him the truth at some point, eventually, she will – but for right now, this moment, she wants to memorize every shift of his face, the twitch of his lips and the turn of his eyebrows, hair falling almost artfully across his forehead when he tilts his head slightly. 

He doesn’t look scared of her. And, really, that’s what makes all the difference because Emma’s been a little scared of what she can do and terrified of what everyone else will do if they find out about her, but Killian just takes another step towards her and smiles as if everything is normal or could be normal and—

“I’m fine, love,” he promises. “I’m very good at surviving.” Ruby scoffs. The moment ends – with Killian’s hand hovering just a breath away from Emma’s side. “Right, right,” Ruby mumbles. “Sure you are. That’s all very well and good and everything, but you’ve thrown a very large wrench into a case that already makes a negative amount of sense. Plus, you know...you’re supposed to be dead.” “I think we’ve covered that several times, Rubes” Emma mutters. 

“And I don’t think Jones died in Storybrooke.” Emma is very glad they’re not open until ten. Ruby’s proclamation rings out in the empty restaurant, bouncing off walls and tables and half-filled napkin containers. It hangs there, taunting and teasing and it can’t possibly be true. 

It can’t possibly be...not true. 

“I think you died on that boat, Jones,” Ruby adds, rolling her eyes when Killian mutters the technical term is ship under his breath. “And I really don’t care about that. But I think the goons killed you then and there and moved you to Storybrooke because you were some kind of very dreamy recluse who, if we’re keeping up appearances, should be dead in your hometown.” “But then why is Cora the one with the reward money?” Emma counters. “She’s the one who set this whole thing up.” “Unless she doesn’t really know who she was working for. Or she didn’t expect Jones to show up dead. Or she’s a little nervous about her own safety because Jones did show up dead. There’s plenty of reasons. All of which I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to answer when we go pay her a visit.” Emma does her best to form actual words. She does. It does not end well. And Ruby snickers at her. “Five figures, Em,” she says, pausing between each word to really drive her point home. “And whatever the uncles have offered now.” Killian jerks his arm back to his side. “They did what?” “Oh yeah, it’s not as much as Madam Mayor, but it’s a good amount and I think they’ve got some suspicions about you and your little jaunt to the...what water is Tahiti in? That doesn't matter. What does matter is that there’s more money being floated around and that means that more eyes are going to be on this and it’s in our best interest to figure it out.” “Don't you think that’s dangerous?” Emma asks, fighting the itch to start mixing something. 

“Oh, I think it’s incredibly dangerous. Except we’ve got a living, breathing dead person in this kitchen who’s involved in some kind of shady something and those same shady somethings will probably be very interested in him being alive. So solving Killian Jones’ murder seems to be our only option at this point.” Killian smiles at Emma – as if he’s won a competition they absolutely were not staging. She groans. “This is not a victory for you,” she hisses. “This is...how do you expect to just go outside? Graham knew who you were.” “He suspected,” Killian corrects. “And I’ll wear a hat. And sunglasses.” “Your ears look ridiculous in a hat.” “I hate to be that person, but I don’t think we should be all that worried about the fashion choices of the dead here,” Ruby says. 

“And you’re very worried about your own fashion choices.” “Ok, that’s rude. I am worried about you. Incredibly so, in fact. Because we’ve got a good thing going here and I...well, I am worried about you. That’s the headline.” It’s not a particularly impassioned speech, but it may be the most emotional Ruby’s gotten since Emma ran into her perp in an alley. Her heart strings are, effectively, tugged. And the guilt in the pit of her stomach churns. 

That’s less pleasant. “Fine,” Emma snaps, like she had any chance of convincing either one of them otherwise. “Fine. Let’s all solve a goddamn murder then. It’s not like I had pie to bake.” “Should be award-winning pie,” Killian adds. They’re definitely flirting. “And I’m serious about 30-30-40. Except from my uncles. That’s...there’s got to be a line, you know?” Ruby stops pouring the coffee Emma hadn’t realized she’d started pouring. “What exactly does that mean? Exactly?” “You said that twice.” “I’m going to get Emma to touch you.” “God, Rubes, that’s dark,” Emma grumbles. She’s run out of coffee. 

“I think I should get the forty percent of the reward because I died,” Killian says, easy as well, pie. “And we’re not taking money from my uncles. Nemo’s still sick. There’s gotta be some kind of morality clause in your familial PI code, right?” Ruby considers that for a moment before bursting out into a laugh that is so loud Emma glances at the walls to make sure the paint hasn’t been chipped. She’s still doubled over nearly thirty seconds later, body shaking and tears in her eyes and it’s a little concerning, but also kind of nice because it sounds real and Killian is still standing far too close to Emma. 

Like he can’t bring himself to move. 

“Yeah, yeah, that does seem fair actually,” Ruby nods, laughter still clinging to her words. “It wasn’t in the original instruction manual, but I doubt Granny was really prepared for people coming back from the dead.” “Magic’s got a way of sneaking up on you like that.” “I guess it does. And I guess we’re going back to Storybrooke, huh?” Killian hums, a barely visible shift of his weight that’s really a dismissal without the words. Ruby almost looks impressed. “I’ll, uh...I’ll give you guys a second.”

Emma needs to take the bell off her door. 

It’s far too loud, particularly when she can’t hear Killian breathing next to her. He turns on the spot, quick enough that Emma feels like she has to blink to make sure it’s really happening. It is. He’s still there. 

Looking at her. 

“Are you alright?” she asks, desperate to say something before he can. She’s a great, big, giant coward really. 

Killian’s mouth quirks up again. “Still as fine as advertised. And you stole my question, actually.” “There’s not anything to be worried about.” “With you or the situation in general?” “Me. Always.” “That’s a decidedly depressing mindset, Swan. I’d very much like to worry about you, at least for the time being. And I know there’s something you aren’t telling me.” Emma startles at the certainty there, the distinct lack of blinking or confusion. He’s positive. And he’s right. She makes another absurd noise. “I don’t know anything about you,” she points out. “It’s...we’re in the middle of something here and I just, well—”

“Why is it a minute?” 

“Why is what a minute?” “This whole magical side of you,” Killian says. “A minute seems incredibly arbitrary. It’s not a lot of time to do anything productive.” “You’d be surprised.”

He chuckles, tongue doing something incredibly unfair again. “You know I haven’t often been jealous of other people, but it seems to be a trend for me this morning.” “That’s ridiculous. Graham is not...we’re not like that.” “You may not be, Swan, but he certainly is. And I can’t say I blame him.” “That felt like flirting,” Emma accuses. 

“It was absolutely flirting. Was that not obvious? That’s frustrating. I am, admittedly, out of practice though, so...” “That’s surprising actually.”

“Is that a compliment?”

Emma nods, taking a step back to try and maintain her sanity. It seems to be slipping through her fingers the longer they stay in that kitchen. “I’m kind of out of practice with the flirting thing too,” she admits. “But, yes, it was meant to be. And, again, there’s no reason to be jealous. I’m talking to dead people.” “And then dead’ing them again.” “Usually.” “Alright, so we’ll work on the flirting then,” Killian promises, and Emma resents whatever her pulse does at that. He certainly hears it. “But why the minute? Did you decide that?” “A minute is a very long time. Plus, the longer someone is alive who isn’t really supposed to be alive, the more likely something is going to go wrong and people get very preachy when they realize life and death is in the balance.”

“I’m still here though. You’ve avoided kissing me on multiple occasions.” “That’s what you're worried about?” “Not in the way you’re thinking. Well, partially in the way you’re thinking, but mostly in the way that you said you’ve never done this before, right?” Emma nods. “And you don’t have some boyfriend aside from the love-struck waiter.” A less enthusiastic nod. Killian’s smile widens. “So,” he continues, leaning around her to grab something she can’t possibly be bothered looking at. “My main question before we dive into the seedy underbelly of the world is...why me?” “I told you that already,” Emma whispers, and she is not emotionally prepared to deal with this many emotions this early in the morning. Or ever. She can’t believe she still has so many emotions about Killian Jones. She desperately wants to brush his hair away from his eyebrows. 

“No, you did a rather horrible job of avoiding the question. So, I’ll ask you one more time, love, why didn’t you let me go?” Emma opens her mouth – certain I couldn’t will come spilling out of her, again and on loop, but she meets his gaze and it’s all too much and not enough. He’d know if she was lying anyway. 

“I just thought it made more sense,” she says. “To have you there. I...I thought my life might be...better if you were in it. You know, again.” He’s infuriatingly quiet or a moment, gaze penetrating. That’s not altogether uncomfortable either. Emma doesn’t blink. 

And, that, that, eventually seems like the turning point because it’s in that moment she realizes what exactly Killian is holding. 

Saran wrap.

He moves quickly, leading with his head so as not to touch her with anything else. The saran wrap isn’t perfectly tight between his fingers, a strange balancing act with only five fingers, but Emma’s too stunned to worry about that for too long and then she’s too amazed to be stunned and she’s wanted to kiss him since she saw him. 

Again. 

She moves forward, the taste of plastic on her tongue when she presses her lips against his. Her arms twist behind her, determined not to give into the metaphorical magnets that feel as if they’re yanking on Emma and begging her to card her fingers through Killian’s hair. 

She fists her hands, but she doesn’t pull away. Part of her is stunned, toying with fate and fire and the rules of the world, but the rest of Emma is screaming out in triumph, desperate to press her mouth closer to Killian’s, to breathe him in until he’s found his way back into the middle of everything. 

It feels impossibly easy. 

It always felt like that. 

Emma makes a noise, almost a groan and possibly a sigh and she can feel Killian’s smile through the twisted up saran wrap. Their noses bump.

“I can’t believe you did that,” she mumbles, not moving her head away. His laugh times up with the buzzing in her ears. 

“Consider it a well-executed science experiment.” “What would you have done if it didn’t work?” Killian shrugs. “I was pretty confident it would work.” “That’s not an answer.” “I really, really, really wanted to kiss you.” 

He bunches up the saran wrap before Emma can object, another quick press to her cheek that isn’t really to her cheek and she feels like she’s floating. She’s not sure she’s ever felt like that.

Ruby groans when she walks back into the restaurant. 

“Oh my God,” she sneers. “Is this our new normal? Because if it is, I’m taking my own car. Or that bus. It wasn’t really that bad.” “You made her take the bus, Swan?” Killian asks, tossing the saran wrap in the trash. Emma probably shouldn’t regret that. 

“I was trying to figure out how to get you away from your own coffin.” He beams at her. Ruby throws several napkins across the restaurant. 

“Can we go solve a murder, please? I’m sure Madam Mayor is very busy.” Emma takes a deep breath, glancing at a still-smiling Killian and the slight flush to his cheeks. She’s a little proud she put that there. “Yeah,” she nods. “Let’s go solve a murder.”

[notbang]

funny when you wager how you feel

nathaniel & heather, during 4x17. inspired by heather’s affiliations in the 4x16 betting pool. also on ao3.

“Dude, I was rooting for you. You owe me five hundred dollars.”

“Excuse me?”

He wants to ask how she even know where he lives, but Heather pushes right on past him into the apartment, not bothering to acknowledge the question or wait for a formal invitation.  She makes it over to his bookcase before she spins on her heel to look at him.

“The betting pool? The dates? I emptied both of my piggy banks for you. That was my hot tub savings. You basically owe me a hot tub.”

As she stops to properly survey her surroundings for the first time, Nathaniel feels an embarrassed flush prickle up the back of his neck at the state of his living room. Since Rebecca left he hasn’t exactly been expecting company, but things aren’t anywhere near up to his usually impeccable personal standards, either.

“Wo-ow. So, I can’t believe this is your apartment. Aren’t you supposed to be, like, a fancy senior partner at a law firm, or something? And this is how you live? Is this what you think of yourself?”

He rolls his eyes, swinging the door shut when it becomes apparent she isn’t planning on leaving any time soon. “Ha ha. I suppose I deserve that.”

“It’s just that, I don’t know—people that respect themselves usually don’t usually throw their fast food wrappers on the ground when they’re done with them. Or, like, when they’ve had a single mouthful and remembered they don’t eat bread or cheese,” she amends, nudging the abandoned burger gingerly with her toe. When she glances back up at him her face softens unexpectedly into a sympathetic grimace. “You’re like, really bummed, huh? I’ve seen you throw fries on the floor once before.”

He hand waves the disaster zone. “I started to deal with my very messy, human, Rebecca-related emotions the only way I usually know how. And then I decided I don’t want to do that anymore.”

“Okay,” Heather says, humming, eyes narrowed in playful suspicion. “Then what are you gonna do? Because not to be insensitive, but there may or may not still be stakes riding on the fallout of this whole giant mess, and I’d really rather not wait around until you’re sixty five to find out.”

“Huh?”

“Ugh, don’t worry about it,” she’s quick to dismiss with a long-suffering sigh. “I don’t want to get forced into a forfeit for interference. But for what it’s worth, I lived with Rebecca for two years. I’m not sure I understand the hype, personally. She never empties the dishwasher and she flushes her tampons. I think you dodged a bullet.”

She throws herself down on the couch so forcefully she bounces with the momentum of it, leaning deep into the cushions as if to test them and stretching her long, muscular arms out across the backrest.

“By all means,” Nathaniel says. “Make yourself at home.”

“Oh, I will.” She swings her feet up onto the coffee table, glancing pointedly at the pizza box they’re resting on when he opens his mouth to protest. “Seriously though. Are you okay? I feel like maybe I should ask if you’re okay, since you’re like this brand new person with all these emotions and stuff.”

“Honestly?” he asks, and she gestures in the affirmative. “I don’t know. I’m not really sleeping well. I can’t focus on my work. I thought it was all the indecision, and that it would go away once I got an answer, but…” He massages his forehead. “I don’t think it’s because of Rebecca. At least, not entirely. I don’t know how else to describe it other than I feel… restless.”

“Maybe you should get out of town while this whole thing blows over and people go back to minding their own business. Book a vacation, or something. It kind of seemed like you were always trying to run off to Rome or Hawaii or wherever else it is they have hotels I can’t afford to, like, breathe the lobby air of.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t actually want to go to Rome, or Hawaii. I’ve seen all those places before. I just wanted to be with Rebecca—I wanted to spend time with her.”

“Okay, well, that admittedly very sweet option is sort of off the table now, but there must be someplace you would like to go, or that you haven’t been.” Her eyes widen and her mouth forms an ‘o’ shape that he thinks must be her version of excited. “Do you want to throw darts at a map of the world? I totally have darts.”

Almost as quickly as her interest flared, her attention is back on his bookcase again, and Nathaniel sighs as she pushes up onto her knees, the eyelets of her boots scraping the leather as she leans across the arm rest to reach for a spine that’s caught her eye. She flips disinterestedly through one of his law books before discarding it beside her and replacing it with an expensive pictorial on Cuban architecture.

“When White Josh broke up with Darryl he went to Mexico to, like, hammer out all his feelings,” she says, smoothing out the dust jacket. “And then he came back with a dog. Maybe you should do the same.”

“Well, I do hablo español,” he concedes.

Heather raises her eyebrows. “Enhorabeuna. I also attended high school. Most of the time.”

He shakes his head. “No, I’m… reasonably fluent, actually. A little rusty, probably, but more than enough to get by.”

“Well, that’s a start. And since you clearly don’t have much experience with flights of fancy, I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Google.”

“Google?” he echoes, dubious. “I’m not convinced that’s a secret.”

“I’m serious. You gotta start Googling.”

“Googling what, exactly?”

“Whatever pops into your head. Like, after I watched The Hunger Games, I thought about J-Law looking all fine in her post-apocalyptic outfit, or whatever, and I said to myself—I could work a bow. So I opened my laptop and Googled ‘how do I become a champion level bowman in the short period of time before the Ren Faire arrives?’ which led me to discovering the archery unit at my community college, and here we are. It’s kind of like rapid-fire association, but you have to fully commit to going down the rabbit hole. And then you just keep clicking, and searching, and researching things obsessively until suddenly it’s three days later and you have seventy two tabs open and a new Pinterest account because you forgot the password to the last one. It’s Wilbur,” she adds. “The password is always Wilbur.”

“Sounds chaotic,” Nathaniel quips.

“It is, but it’s also very therapeutic.” Heather stretches, catlike, and pushes back up onto her feet. “I want to give you some secondhand advice here, but I don’t want to mention the name of the person it originally came from, because your face is going to start doing the drippy thing again, so I’m just gonna call them… Hebecca.”

Nathaniel raises his eyebrows. “Darryl’s daughter gave you advice?” he asks dryly. “Wow. I wasn’t aware she was forming sentences yet.”

“Uh-huh—she’s super advanced for a baby, and I’m giving my womb all the credit for her infinite wisdom.” She pats her stomach, and he can’t help it—he huffs out a laugh as she carries on. “When Paula was feeling dissatisfied with how things were going down at her fancy new job, Hebecca told her she should ask for more. That she should bet on herself.” Heather’s mouth twists. “You should bet on yourself.”

“I did bet on myself,” he points out. “Both of us did, remember? And we both lost. Hundreds of dollars. Thousands, even.”

She tilts her head at him. “Okay, so I’ll admit that probably wasn’t the best phrasing to use, in retrospect. But I don’t mean, like, literally bet on yourself. I mean, you have to decide you deserve the things you want. But not in a gross, rich, white privilege way—in a way that means you have look inside yourself and make some tough decisions about what you want your life to look like, whether certain people are in it or not. You can’t control what choices other people make. But you’re the one that has to live with yours.”

He glances over at the couch she just vacated, where Rebecca had sat across from him only yesterday, quietly apologetic but simultaneously so self-assured. He remembers the way he’d felt at peace with it before she’d even started speaking. How strangely calming it had been, seeing her settled and suddenly sure of herself, in the midst of all this pervasive indecision.

“That is… a solid assessment, actually. You only get one life, right?”

“For the record, I charge by the half hour and accept payment in the form of hot tubs.” Heather considers him for a moment longer, then crosses her arms over her chest. “Do you want to get out of here? I could take you for a spin in my new Honda Civic. You’re basically its honorary godparent, or something.”

“Like a date?” he asks wearily.

“Ugh, dude—gross, no. I’m married,” she says, flashing her ring finger at him. “You were there.”

He rolls his eyes. “I was being facetious. But no thanks—I’m good. I need to clean up in here. Open some windows.”

“That,” Heather says, eyes sweeping the room, “is probably a wise decision, because it smells like the Home Base back room in here and not in a good way.”

“Is there a good way?”

“Well, yeah. I’m surprisingly still partial to when they’re cooking chilli fries.” She leans over, extending her arms in their entirety and keeping her body as far away from his as possible while allowing her palms to rest on his shoulders. “You are valid, kiddo,” she says, squeezing him awkwardly and thumbing his nose in a way that makes him scrunch up his whole face and flinch. “For things other than your bank account and strong jawline. Just in case nobody’s ever told you that. But also, I will be expecting reimbursement for your romantic shortcomings, so the bank account is a definite plus.”

Once Heather is gone he thinks about the person that never told him that in so many words but certainly made him feel it, and after flicking it open and closed a few times he shuts the ring box, rubs his thumb along the velvety seam one last time and pushes it away.

He pauses with his fingers over the keys, then hesitantly types in animals AND law AND spanish into the text box; just because he’s being self-indulgent doesn’t mean he has to completely abandon Boolean operators.

The returns are fairly broad so after a moment's consideration he amends the search to zoo AND law AND spanish speaking countries.

He hovers the cursor over the link to the San Diego Zoo’s donation page before his gaze catches a couple of results down on a site for zoology and wildlife internships, and suddenly, for the first time in awhile, finally something clicks.

[matrixaffiliate]

Salient

Chapter Update! FFN and AO3

Can I just say thank you to all of you who were interested in my very obscure ship?! Because I am just so very grateful!

Next chapter goes up August 3rd (it could go up the second but my plans aren't final yet).

Chapter 2

Al quickly shoved his experiments into their bag and grabbed his things. He was running late today, but he had tried something that seemed like it could work and had lost track of time going down what had ended up being a pointless rabbit hole.

It had been three weeks since he had met Ellie, and Al had felt like maybe he was making more progress in his experiments than he was with getting Ellie to trust him. Al brooded a bit about that as he walked the five minutes to get his omelet and his few moments interaction with the most amazing woman he'd ever had the chance to lay eyes on.

Only when he walked in the door, he didn't lay eyes on her.

Al sighed and took his normal seat at the bar watching the kitchen door expectantly. He was very confused when the door opened and rather than seeing Ellie, an older woman strode out and began making her way to him.

"What can I get you?" She pulled out her pad and Al stammered a moment before repeating his usual order.

"Be right up," the woman moved to refill a patron's drink before going back into the kitchen.

Al pulled out his phone to check the day. Did he perhaps think it was Tuesday when it was in fact Monday? His phone assured him it was really Tuesday... Perhaps Ellie would come out momentarily?

But the older woman seemed to be the only one serving. Al ate his food, thrown off by the lack of consistency, and his mind raced to find the reason for it.

Was she ill? Did she have to change her schedule? If she did, why wouldn't she have said something when he was there Thursday? Or had something happened in the four days that had passed and had she needed to return to Canada? Had she thought to leave him a note? Maybe if he asked, that would signal the woman to pass on a message?

It was completely outside of Al's comfort zone, but the thought that something had happened to Ellie was enough to push him over the edge.

"Beg your pardon," Al said to the woman as he handed her his card, "but where is Ellie today?"

"Eliza?" The woman shook her head. "Silly girl got called yesterday to have some paintings put up in some building today and so she begged to have us switch her shift. I told her I'd handle it."

"Thank you," Al took his card back and nodded to the woman. "Have a good rest of your day."

Al had his phone out before he hit the door as he searched for art galleries that might possibly have an artist named Eliza or Ellie in them. He should have tried finding out her last name but that was probably pushing things into the creepy stalker phase more than he already was as he scoured the internet.

When his internet searches came up with nothing, he changed course from his flat to the university. Maybe he could talk to someone in the art department?

That had required more internet searching, as Al realized he had absolutely no idea where the art buildings were. Then he had to scour their university page to figure out who might be the right person to ask. He settled on three professors and then tried to think up a plausible story. Finally settling on his lie, he approached the first professor's open door.

"Excuse me," he tapped lightly on the door frame.

Professor Mirdha looked up from her computer and smiled, "How can I help you?"

Al took a deep breath, "I'm looking for a particular student to do a commission piece. My mum likes a certain style of painting and when I explained to a friend what I wanted painted they mentioned a painting by an artist named Eliza they'd seen that would match. My friend didn't recall her last name though so I thought I'd ask around here and see if I could find her and see if she's interested."

Professor Mirdha laughed, "I know exactly who you're talking about." She stood and moved to a filing cabinet, rummaging through before pulling out a small canvas.

"I assume this is the painting your friend saw, we had a select few student pieces on display not too long ago."

Al felt the air in his lungs get lodged in his throat. The painting was of a bear, but as Professor Mirdha moved in the light, it switched between being a black bear and a white bear. Ellie had even managed to paint the faces in a way that melded the two facial structures, tricking the mind into pulling the correct features out based on the color it saw more of on the bear.

"It's amazing," Al resisted the urge to reach out and take the painting from the woman holding it.

"You're in luck, Eliza was asked to showcase a few paintings in a gallery this week, I believe she set up today and should still be there." Professor Mirdha wrote in loopy handwriting on a sticky note before handing it to him. "This is the gallery, even if she's not there, she is supposed to have her cards there and those will have her preferred contact information on them."

"Thank you," Al looked down at the address before jumping at the sound of the clock bells chiming.

He glanced at his watch and nearly had a panic attack. He was going to be late for class if he didn't run.

After finding a secluded spot he summoned his books and then booked it to his first Tuesday class. But he might as well have not gone for how much he got out of it. His eyes kept straying to the sticky note stuck to the back of his phone case.

"Al," Craig kicked his foot, "Come on mate, I'm not letting you have my notes if you don't even try to pay attention."

Al shook himself and tried to focus again on Professor Randal's lecture, but the sticky note was like a siren's song and he kept going back to the major question burning through him.

Should he go to the gallery?

At the end of class, Craig pulled out his phone and started taking pictures of his notes. "It's a good thing we're friends because if I didn't know better I'd say you've lost your marbles."

Al sighed as his phone lit up with Craig's texts. "I'm just distracted today. I'll be alright by Thursday."

Craig shook his head, "You've been a bit off for the last month, today is just worse than most days. What's going on?"

"Nothing that's really all that interesting," Al dodged, hoping to get his friend off the scent.

"If I didn't know better," Craig paused and squinted at Al. Then his eyes went wide, "I bet you have!"

Al shook his head and let out a nervous chuckle, "What are you on about?"

Craig nudged him with his elbow, "I think the question I should be asking you is who are you on about, eh?"

Al shouldered his bag and headed for his next class, "What do you mean?"

Craig waggled his eyebrows, "I mean that you've met someone. You're completely off your game like I was when I got my first girlfriend in A-levels."

"I don't have a girlfriend," Al said it with just a bit too much bitterness in his voice and immediately regretted it.

"Ah, so you have met someone and you haven't managed to make the right move on her!" Craig's excitement mirrored his excitement from figuring out how to securely lock down a database last year he and Al had built while the rest of their class struggled to build the database itself.

"I bet I can help you," Craig grabbed his arm to stop him at the point they usually parted for their separate classes.

"I don't think so," Al shook his head carefully. Craig wasn't really into building relationships at this point in his life, and Al was only interested in that when it came to Ellie.

"Just listen," Craig shook his head, "If you want the girl to like you, first make sure she knows you like her."

Al sighed, "Thanks, Craig. I'll see you tomorrow in class."

Craig nodded, "Make sure you focus, I can't help you in the hardware realm."

Al flipped him off but laughed as they parted ways and he moved on to the next class, forcing himself not to let his mind drift for too long to the gallery address currently in his pocket.

It wasn't until after he'd grabbed dinner with his IT study group that Al finally had a chance to decide if he was going to go to the gallery or not.

He sat with the address opened on his Uber app, sorting through all the options.

If he went, and she was there, he'd have to explain how he tracked her down, and the more Al went over what he'd done to get the gallery address, the more he felt like it came out of a True Crime episode. But if he didn't go, then he'd agonize over not seeing her and not seeing her paintings. If the one he saw of hers was any indication, he would be missing out on seeing something incredibly special.

After nearly an hour of going back and forth, Al finally bit the bullet and requested the ride.

The gallery was small, and according to the sign on the door, Al only had about fifteen minutes before they closed. The curator smiled warmly and directed him to Ellie's paintings in the far corner. There were five in total. Four of them were paintings of wildlife in habitats that Al guessed were of her home in St. John's, but one of them was of a beautiful woman. She looked very similar to Ellie, but her skin was darker and where Al had only ever seen Ellie's hair up, this woman's hair fell long around her shoulders. But what caught Al's eye was what was in the woman's hand.

A wand.

The very hairpin that was always pinned up in Ellie's hair was painted in this woman's hand, held in a way that only someone who had held a wand could paint it.

The woman held the wand over a fire, and the picture glowed with a second light, a light that Al was sure came from whatever spell the woman was casting in Ellie's painting. He wondered if the painting was a magical one. Trying to look as though he was examining it closer, Al stepped right up to the woman and whispered.

"Your wand is a work of art."

He held his breath, hoping the woman would move, or answer, or do anything, but the picture remained perfectly still. He stepped even closer before trying again.

"I too am a wizard," he tried again, but the woman did not move.

Al sighed. He should have known better than to think Ellie would paint a wizarding painting to put in a Muggle gallery, assuming she was capable of painting a wizard painting at all. He thanked the curator and picked up one of Ellie's cards on his way out. After requesting his ride, he looked down at the card in his hand, admiring the perfect otter pup she had chosen to use. He turned it over and looked down at her name, Eliza Battiste. Her phone number sat directly under her name.

Al shook his head as he climbed into the car that pulled up; if anything happened to Ellie he was going to be suspect number one.

[frogsandfries]

Finding my style

Obviously, wanting to find some degree of success on WebToon, I thought it would be prudent to learn about the platform from others who've been using it longer than I have.

This of course, has led me down a bit of a like, creative self-improvement rabbit hole.

Now, here's the thing. I really like to look at art that is cute and fluffy and pastelly.

But the art that I make is, I think it shows its Disney/Don Bluth roots. My use of saturated colors, almost straight out of the crayon box, I think shows a confidence in building color palettes, but if you knew I struggled to use the color finders in the art programs I use, you'd also see that.

So anyway, I'm procrastinating right now because I'd like a nap and I just cleaned up like four frames yesterday and already colored two today and what I wanted to do heading into this second issue is make the lineworks a little more complex, more props, more environment, more dynamic poses and shots.

My lineworking brain was fine with this.

My coloring brain feels like the switch was too abrupt. I need more practice.

Anyway.

Heading down this rabbit hole, I watched a video recently that went from "artists act like your style is bestowed by a higher power", to literally telling aspiring artists "step one: gather art that you want your art to be like; step two: study and copy this art; congratulations, you now have a style".

🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️🤦‍♀️

First, I have never heard anyone claim their style came as a gift from the heavens or whatever. Styles are hard earned. The reason you might look at my work and feel a bit of Disney, or you might look at the way I draw strong emotions and maybe see a bit of Ghibli is, those were things I was heavily influenced by as a kid.

It gets me to thinking, with some salt, if I really wanted badly enough to change my style voluntarily, to make it more squishy and pastel, I totally could. But first, would it still be my style? And second, I'm actively working on a graphic novel. I believe if I set my mind to it, I could change my style in about a month. It would be totally jarring for anyone who ever reads my graphic novel.

Now that's not to say that I don't want to grow as an artist. I think there was a lot of growth from issue one to issue two, and even more from issue one to issue three. I want to be better at choosing my colors (I decided to cheat at this and use Google so instead of fighting with the color picker, I can choose an existing color from a swatch). I want to include even more dynamic poses. And a personal goal of mine, I want to be better at drawing clothing folds.

What ever happened to just being yourself?

When you look at some of the oldest art that I'm still able to look at, you can see my style beginning to emerge. I'm sure if you could look at the stuff I was making in high school or middle school, you'd see hints of it.

There is no magic three-step program to magically find your style. There is only making--whether you draw or write or sculpt or whatever, it's one piece and another and another, stacked on top of each other.

On the other hand.......

When it comes to making web comics, I do feel a little left out. I don't think my art looks enough like CalArts or anime/manga to fit in. But that's mostly just because my work is surrounded by the rest of this stuff that's trying to look familiar enough to people to reel them in. I think kind of in isolation, my style is fine. It's very visually clear, it's pretty consistent, my characters are also very distinct. I hope the text is clear--I think it's better when I have the opportunity to space out my letters, but I have yet to get any kind of feedback on that.

At this point, I'm just kind of waiting for my audience? I'm not really sure what else to do. There's not enough material even in the lineworks to make any kind of merch. There is such a slog between where I'm at in the story and anything that would really keep readers' attention, if I'm totally honest.

But anyway, I've been working for literally years to build my style. You can't just purchase a style out of a catalog. Or if you try, you'll only be disappointed when you can't draw exactly like the artists you admire. My style isn't even fixed where it is. It changes by the line--which is why, when creating a graphic novel, persistence and consistency are so important.

[fantasticworldoffanfics]

PETER/STILES

                                            ——— (part 3) ——–

Fandom: TeenWolf

Even longer list of fanfics :)….

top favourites, more top favourites, part 1, part 2

The Devil You Know

Author: Triangulum

Summary: Hell is busy and Peter is understaffed. There are too many evil people being sent down below and there are only so many demons Peter has to torture them with. He needs to reorganize. They don't utilize group torture nearly as much as they should. Stiles probably has some ideas on that.OrPeter is King of Hell, Stiles is his second in command, and Talia summons them for a favor.

Can I Keep Him?

Author: Therapeutic_Steter

Summary: Let's try... Red Panda stiles? looove red panda stiles!

I’m Not Your Nephew

Author: Therapeutic_Steter

Summary: "Derek! Guess what!" "What, Stiles?" "I can call, you nephew now!!" "What. The hell. Are you talking about." "Didn't you listen? Peter and I are together!" 

Words Upon Skin

Author: Therapeutic_Steter

Summary: Soulmate words were treasured. People spent their whole lives waiting for their treasured phrase, that magic moment.Stiles had spent his whole life plagued by his words. He wondered just what he could do, to disappoint his soulmate so completely in their first meeting. He had approximately ninety nine self-confidence issues and they were all because of those damned words, printed in elegant script across his heart.‘Words cannot describe how pathetic you look.’

Let Me Hold You, Forever

Author: lavenderlotion

Summary: It was too much. To loud and too quiet and too, too much. He had to get out, to get away and just be somewhere different. He couldn’t - he couldn’t keep watching her like that, watching her lay there as she did.He needed a break.And he found it, with Peter Hale. Peter who was scarred skin and blank eyes. Peter who he sat with for hours a day, reading and ranting and just being with. Peter, who over four years he fell in love with.

A Spoonful Of Sugar

Author: Twisted_Mind

Summary: He blames Lydia. He would never have even considered this if she hadn't mentioned it like it was legit. But short of falling down the rabbit hole of student debt, he doesn't have a whole lot of options. So, whatever, he can try the sugar baby thing. No one has to know.Of course Peter has to go and ruin everything.

Across Your Skin, My Love

Author: lavenderlotion

Summary: Stiles knew he had a soulmate - had gotten his mark when he was fourteen like everyone else. He just - he just didn’t think he would meet the man for years to come. he knew the statics, knew that most people didn’t meet their bonded until their early-mid twenties.So he was really not been expecting to his name on the arm of his hot new English teacher.He had to admit it turned out pretty amazing, though.

Don’t Come For His Family

Author: lavenderlotion

Summary: In the three years Stiles had been with Peter, the man had only talked about his family a handful of times - and as far as Stiles knew had never once spoken to them. So he wasn’t exactly excited to see the mans family, even though that’s exactly what they were about to do.It does not go to plan.

You Wouldn’t Believe Me

Author: gryvon

Summary: The Hales are famous. Their emissary is infamous.

Wrong Number

Author: SushiOwl

Summary: "What do you and your coven desire from the dark?" Sometimes he liked be cheesy. Humans were into it, otherwise they wouldn't put it in their insipid (but wildly entertaining) TV shows.The witch boy finally set down his reading material. Peter had thought it was a book, but it was actually a plastic folder with photocopies of pages from a book. Peter would have to decided if he was insulted later."No coven, just me," the witch said, closing his folder. There was a Batman symbol on the front, so Peter was certainly insulted.He was not about to put on such a show for one human either. He let his mist drop and gave the boy an unimpressed expression that included a lifted brow and lips tilted down at the corners. "Alright then, just you. What deal are you looking for?""Will you take my virginity for bragging rights?"

Boy Who Cried Wolf

Author: ladypigswagon

Summary: Peter is hungry. It’s a raw ache, the kind that drives Peter to hunt almost desperately. His paws pound against the earth, kicking up black dirt and fallen leaves as he runs. It’s early afternoon, sunlight streaming through the gaps in the canopy, dappling the ground. Peter can hear a herd of deer a few miles west, but deer are tricky. There are too many variables, too many antlers and hooves. He could probably pick off a few with a pack.

The Fourth Prince Of The First Realm

Author: RebaK1tten

Summary: “My god, Peter, only you!” Derek whispers. “You didn’t rescue just any old fairie, you rescued their Queen!”“Am I supposed to apologize? I didn’t ask for credentials before I helped her, you know,” he hisses back. “See, this is what happens when you do something nice, it just bites you on the ass.”** Peter rescues the fairie queen and as a reward, he's told he'll marry her son. It's not an option.

The Snake And The Otter

Author: Therapeutic_Steter

Summary: When Stiles was born, a black snake appeared into his crib on the first full moon and never left.Claudia, whose soulmate animal was a lion, hadn't even flinched, smiling and cooing at the little snake in welcome. It flicked its tongue at her, beady eyes sparking blue, and let Claudia gently stroke it's head. John, whose soulmate animal was a bear, just shook his head, wondering at what kinds of trouble his son and his soulmate would get in to.

If I Were ‘A Were’

Author: syriala

Summary: Stiles knew that he wasn’t the most subtle person to ever grace this earth. But compared to the Hale’s he was a fucking ninja. He couldn’t believe that no one had figured out yet that they were actually werewolves. Real, actual, honest to god werewolves.That no one knew about.Stiles really started to question this town’s intelligence.But Stiles was determined to find out how many dog/wolf related puns he could make before someone caught on to the fact that he actually knew.

I’ll Watch Anything As Long It Is With You

Author: Sage_Speight_Trickster_In_Training

Summary: Ever since Stiles was a kid and first hear his parent's story about how they met with their soulmark he couldn't wait until his showed up. He would always marvel how some day he would look down and see the first words his soulmate would say to him. His best friend Scott got his words when he was eight and ever since those words showed up he would carry at least four pens with him everywhere he went, waiting for the moment when someone asked him to borrow one. The prettiest girls is school, Lydia, got hers when she turned ten and Stiles felt his first heartbreak when they weren't his words. That was also the year his mother got sick and the words on his father's lower left knee , written in his mother´s hand writing, began to fade. Stiles knew that when soulmates faded that that meant their soulmate was dead. That same year he went with his father when he went to a tattoo parlor to get his mother's first words tattooed onto him so they would stop fading.

Naked Terror

Author: Bunnywest

Summary: Peter's only here to inspect the fire extinguisher. The last thing he expects is for a naked man to come charging at him, swinging a baseball bat and screaming.

Kiss Me Once, Shame On Me

Author: yesterday

Summary: “I don’t care about tradition, you try and get me to kiss you under the mistletoe and I will punch you,” Stiles said.“Where is your holiday spirit, Stiles? This is for charity; it said so outside.” Peter was smirking. He was right. Stiles set the sandwich board out there himself this morning— “For every smooch under the mistletoe, one dollar will be donated to Beacon Hills Children’s Hospital!” 

Forget everything Stiles ever said about Christmas cheer. He officially hated the holidays.

The (Sometimes) Happy Holidays Series

Author: Potrix

Part 1: (Not So) Silent Night

Summary: “Santa Claus, 42, looking for a sweet angel, 18+, with big or small Christmas ornaments for not so silent nights together. Tree stand available and ready. No Santa hat, no action.”Several people swivel around to glare at Stiles, but, really, he can’t be held responsible for this. Sure, a waiting room isn’t the best place to suddenly burst out laughing, but it’s totally the fault of whoever laid out the latest issue of Bella Diva. It’s not like Stiles normally makes a habit of buying and reading women’s magazines.Apart from the occasional Cosmo. The quizzes are always hilarious.

Part 2: (Annoyingly) Happy Valentine’s Day

Summary: “Welcome to the Beacon Blossom!” the saleswoman behind the counter chirps happily, and Peter watches, a little dazed, as the blinking plastic hearts attached to her headband bounce back and forth. “What can I do for you on this fine day?”Peter deposits the bouquet of red roses on the counter, and nearly drops his wallet when the woman coos—actually coos—and says, nodding her head, “A classic. Your wife will absolutely love them, I guarantee it.” She swipes Peter’s card when he hands it to her, then points it at a basket stuffed full with some of the most garishly pink teddy bears Peter’s ever had the misfortune of seeing. “Now, since today’s a special day, if you buy a bouquet and one of our Sweetheart Bears, the cheaper item is 50% off.”It takes some effort, but Peter manages to bite back his initial, sarcastic retort about the bear clashing with his furniture. Or anything else not absolutely, horrifyingly hideous, for that matter. “Just the roses, please.”

The Holly Bears A Berry Red As Any Blood

Author:  ladypigswagon

Summary: Stiles swears as the car hits another pothole dead on and he goes flying out of his seat, hardly restrained by the seat belt, smacking his head on the roof.“Language,” John says mildly, turning the page of his newspaper. Stiles grumbles, rubbing the back of his head. He can feel a lump developing.“Every year,” Stiles says, “every goddamn year, the Hales send their craziest driver to pick us up. Every year we hit every pothole and every year I get a lump on my head. In the same place! How this hasn’t damaged me permanently I don’t know?!”

Winding Roads To Flowering Fields Series

Author: Tahlruil

Part 1: Deserving Him

Summary: Scott couldn't even seem to live comfortably in his world of black and white absolutes. He could understand why the Lahey boy had broken with Derek, he supposed - his nephew was never meant to be an Alpha, and that had always been painfully obvious. What Peter didn't understand was why he'd then put himself deliberately in Scott's pack. He didn't understand why anyone would align themselves with someone so pathetic when it came to leading others. He didn't understand why new betas, humans and other supernaturals alike flocked to him, an Alpha who had no true understanding of what it meant to be pack. Peter didn't understand why Stiles - beautiful, intelligent, deadly Stiles - chose to call Scott his Alpha.'Peter has been watching Stiles for quite some time now, and he has trouble understanding why Stiles chooses to align himself with Scott. The McCall Alpha doesn't even seem to notice that his best friend is still reeling from his encounter with the Nogitsune... or that Peter is the one trying to soothe that hurt.Stiles, Peter is sure, deserves better.

Part 2: Not An Idiot

Summary: Maybe in some places an idiot could get elected Sheriff - not in a town like Beacon Hills. Dumb deputies (or just very unlucky ones) tended to die before they got the chance to try to move up the ranks. So John Stilinski isn't an idiot even if he (on occasion) chooses not to see the whole picture. Stiles is getting better and he's grateful - he just wishes that maybe it was someone else getting his kid get there.Even though it's not the smartest move, he calls a friend about it.He's not an idiot, okay, he's not. He just... needs a little help, and who better to help with a werewolf problem than an Argent?

Part 3: Ground Me

Summary: "...this is not 'guard duty', you idiot. This is pack - the way pack is supposed to be." Stiles probably should have been freaked out or maybe turned on by the way Peter pressed his nose to the crook of Stiles' neck and breathed in deep. He definitely should have felt one of those things when Peter dragged his cheek upward and then skimmed it over Stiles' jaw. He didn't though, not with what he knew about werewolves; all he felt when his wolf scented him was a sense of comfort, belonging and home. "And you don't take 'nights off' when it comes to being pack."

Part 4: Coming Home Is Something Strange

Summary: Two weeks into living under John's roof, Chris realized that all four of them were settling into a routine that was decidedly, disturbingly, domestic. He and Peter banded together in the fight to keep the Stilinskis healthy, and half the time they seemed to end up doing the grocery shopping together. So long as they only talked about things like how many apples they should get and if they needed to pick up some detergent, things between them were just fine.They'd only tried to discuss the deeper things once. It had ended in a bloody nose for Chris and a knife laced with wolfsbane sticking out of Peter's thigh. Neither Stilinski male had been happy about it. Their reactions forced Chris and Peter into another unspoken truce, and that was... okay. Maybe they didn't need to hash out everything between them. Things had been a fucking mess between their families for centuries; their best bet seemed to be to let sleeping dogs lie.

Part 5: A Surprising Visit

Summary: "No! It's not... it's nothing like that. Hi Stiles. I'm sorry for just, you know. Showing up like this? But I thought that if I called or texted you might not. Uhm. Open the door. I still should have texted. I'm sorry. It's just that you mentioned watching Mulan and I really love that movie. And we've all been being really bad friends except maybe you and I weren't friends? Because with everything that happened I feel like I never got to know you, not really. And then I guess I got caught up in trying to get to know Scott. Have I mentioned I'm sorry?""Couple times," Stiles said, blinking a few times as he tried to process what was going on. "So you came over to hang out?""You sound surprised," Kira said quietly. She looked kind of sad, which he didn't completely get but whatever. "Which means I'm a terrible friend. But!" Kira reached into her bag and pulled out a DVD - it was Mulan, and Stiles felt something warm and sort of gooey unfurl in his chest. He already had a copy, but that she had brought one meant that she really had come to watch it. She had come just to hang out with him without pack business forcing her to, and that was pretty awesome. "I'm going to try and change that."

Part 6: When I Have A Pack, Things Will Change

Summary: "Well it is a grocery store, Scott," he said without looking up from the package of steak in his hand. John had been having a difficult time at work with all those pesky disappearances and Peter thought the man deserved a treat. He had to weigh that against the knowledge that Stiles would be upset, however, which had him debating if he shouldn't grab the 'extra lean' cut instead of going with the regular kind of lean. "Even us deviously evil masterminds must eat and the takeout in this town is deplorable."Peter heard a subsonic growl leave McCall's throat and let himself smirk with satisfaction. Frustrating the so-called Alpha was different than pissing him off, surely...

A Match Made In Hell Series

Author: JPA

Part 1: Marked

Summary: Stiles is eleven when he gets the courage to look into the mirror and see what his soulmate mark reads.

Part 2: I Wish

Summary: Peter had been born without a soulmark.

Part 3: Revelations

Summary: “Ah, Stiles,” Peter says, eyes gleaming. “It’s so nice to see you again.”

Rant-A-Thon

Author: Ragga

Summary: So Stiles may be having a bad day. Or a week. Or a semester. But he knows he just needs to blow off some steam and then he will be better than ever. And accosting a random guy and blurting out his entire life story? That sounds like the perfect idea!And as it turned out, it was. OR Stiles rants a lot and then Peter feeds him. And soulmates.

Merry Christmas, Dude!

Author: lostwithoutmyanchor (mysourwolf)

Summary: The beat was pressing down on Stiles in a pleasant way, pushing out some of the worry and tension. It was the last week before finals and Stiles just couldn’t take it anymore. He’d been studying non-stop for three weeks and had felt like his head would explode. Even the promise of going home to spend Christmas with his family was barely holding him up. Also with it being his last year of college and completely packed, he hadn’t had time to get laid at all. Which was totally unacceptable. OR, the one where Stiles has mind-blowing sex with a hot stranger.

Cookies & Mates

Author: withinmelove

Summary: Stiles doesn't expect to enjoy pretending to be Peter's mate. Surprises are in store for him.

Shifter Criminal Investigative Service Series

Author: Heather_Night

Part 1: Vanilla

Summary: Cutie startled violently, crying out, and Peter’s wolf demanded he take care of the creature.The vanilla scent meant being in close proximity wasn’t a hardship so Peter lifted the lightly squirming body into his arms and shushed him.Thank the moon neither his nephew nor niece could see him now as he was pretty certain this qualified as cuddling.Peter did not cuddle. Ever.

Part 2: En Garde

Summary: Usually it was the third date when things went to hell for Stiles. Maybe he tried too hard or maybe he just wasn’t that likeable but usually after meeting up one-on-one for the third time the person he was interested in either gave him the ‘let’s be friends’ speech or they lost his number.This time felt different but Stiles tried to tamp down on his soaring hopes. Peter was an off-the-scales out-of-his-league level of hot, and he was also smart, accomplished and older. What did he see in a spaz like Stiles?

Part 3: Transformation

Summary: Now was not the time to lose his focus as the Shifter Criminal Investigative Service was in the midst of a big investigation regarding a new series of seemingly connected homicides. Unfortunately his wolf, and his human side for that matter, wanted to see Stiles and make sure the younger man was okay.

Part 4: Unfettered

Summary: “It’s what? You obviously don’t want me in Beacon Hills. Is it that you think your dad will disapprove of me because of our age difference, your alpha will disapprove of me because I’m not good enough, you don’t want to be seen with a werewolf or what exactly is the issue here?” Peter’s tone was as bland as the expression on his face. The more upset Peter became, the more dispassionate he appeared.Not good. It was time for damage control. Check that; it was time for the truth. Stiles gathered his courage. “I don’t want you to see me the way everyone in Beacon Hills does. There, are you happy?”

Black Fire

Author: Green

Summary: Deaton is all about the balance of the universe, about order. Stiles's new magic - gifted to him from the Nogitsune - is the complete opposite of that. Deaton calls Stiles's magic "dark" and seeks to imprison him in Eichen where he's no threat to the balance. Peter and Stiles go on the run - but they can't run forever.

When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Escalate The Problem

Author: Julibean19

Summary: “I didn’t tell you because I knew what you were going to say,” Stiles hedges, shrugging his shoulders.“And what am I going to say?” John challenges, raising his eyebrows.“That he’s too old for me and you hate him.”Peter pushes the screen door open with one hand, the other balancing a perfectly browned quiche. He’s dressed in a dark blue cashmere sweater and grey slacks. To Stiles, he looks like a dream. To his father, he’s sure to look like his worst nightmare.“He’s too old for you and I hate him,” John says immediately.

Ink And Unanswered Questions

Author: Callidostreet

Summary: Talia was always covered in marks from her soulmate: reminders to feed the dog, interesting words-of-the-day, random stick doodles. They didn't meet face-to-face until middle school, but they'd known each other inside out long before then. When Peter is old enough to understand what the word 'soulmates' entails, he can't wait until he finds his."Are you there?" Is the first thing Peter writes on his body, his excitement is practically tangible.He won't get a reply for another 10 years.

See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil (Doesn't Mean There Is No Evil)

Author: syriala

Summary: Stiles knew that something was wrong. He had a very perceptive eye for evil and things that were going wrong and something in his life was going very wrong. But when neither Scott nor Derek believed him it was up to Peter to keep Stiles safe.

Could Frame Thy Mortal

Author: orphan_account

Summary: "It’s normal. Spending every waking second watching Hale is normal. In many ways, Hale is his whole universe: tracking his movements, waiting for what he does next, wondering what he’s thinking. The only outside stimulation he gets otherwise is the shower visits, and even then it’s only when Chris is the one taking him that he gets any engagement. Stiles knows Hale like he knows the water pipe. The sixty two bars that line the side of their cage. Like the minute of cold water that hits Stiles’ skin before the heat finally comes in the shower block. "Held in an Argent facility, never knowing who he can trust, Stiles pays for his survival with the only currency he has.

more fics: part 4

[sussex-nature-lover]

Sunday 24th October 2020

More Views and Vantage Points 

♦ words in bold type are outside links

First things first, did you remember?

We’ve still got loads of things where the clock doesn’t automatically update itself so I have my rounds to do. Luckily I hadn’t bothered cracking on too soon because we had an unscheduled power cut this morning for a couple of hours. My goodness it was so dark that I lit a candle and breakfast with bacon morphed into a cheese topped bap with some cheddar, onion and tomato. It was still tasty but once you’ve had bacon on your mind...

Scotney Castle, Lamberhurst

Back on topic. I call this A View with capital letters. Whatever the weather, you could just drink it in and that leads me to a family ‘quip’ My OH was talking about Scotney before we visited last time and we were trying to orientate ourselves. He referred to ‘The Gin and Tonic Bench’ It took me a while to catch on, but oh yes, I can get on board with that idea.

The little sign asks people to respect social distancing if the bench is already occupied - could have done with one of those at Bateman’s when we’d nabbed a prime spot. By the way, that metal barrier fencing off the Ha Ha seems to be a fairly recent addition, same as the NT have roped off some trees for safety reasons.

On the subject of views we have another long running family ‘in joke’ about the gardens and grounds of the big Stately Homes and National Trust property Estates and how everywhere we go, it seems ‘Capability’ Brown had been before us. At Scotney Castle, however, a totally different idea of landscaping is demonstrated

The Picturesque style of landscape gardening was an eighteenth century movement to enhance gardens and landscapes and turn them into a vista worthy of being painted – The Garden as Art.

“Here hills with vales, here woods with water vie;

Here art with nature strives to feast the eye”

The leaders of the Picturesque style were Richard Payne Knight, Uvedale Price, William Sawrey Gilpin. And, as he progressed in his career, the landscape gardener, Humphry Repton.

Ruins and newly built classical temples as garden follies were all considered ‘a picturesque view’, especially when they could be admired at a slight distance, surrounded by greenery of tree covered slopes, and valleys cradling a rushing river.

One of the earliest Picturesque landscape gardens was that created at Rievaulx Terrace in Yorkshire in the mid eighteenth century. Situated on an escarpment overlooking the Medieval Cistercian Abbey of Rievaulx, the walk gives tantalising views of the abbey by a careful arrangement of  observation points through the tree covered hill.

At his estate of Foxley, Uvedale Price created a landscape garden to meet his ideas of flowing natural planting, in the style of the painter Claude Lorrain. It was a very different garden design to that espoused by Lancelot Capability Brown; Price believed in keeping old, gnarled trees and winding paths.

Richard Payne Knight expressed his feelings for the Picturesque by designing a rugged, castellated mansion and romantic garden in his estate at Downton.

William Sawrey Gilpin created Scotney Castle garden for the Hussey family in 1834. The azalea collection in the quarry garden is the epitome of a Picturesque  landscape style garden.

Note: Kalmia Latifolia also known as Mountain Laurel and yes, they do grow apace don’t they. The flowers are particularly striking on the Kalmia but it’s understandable that there comes a time when a lot of cutting back is the best course of action.

I do like this style of design. There’s a place for the long ranging, open views and the gardens-as-a-room-by-room we see at the great gardens like Sissinghurst and Hidcote, but the lie of the land here and the meandering paths which lead you up and down the grounds are so easy to walk and hold delight after delight. One of the grass paths has already been restored and cuts off a corner if you want a shorter stroll. I can imagine children rolling down the  lawned slopes in the dry weather too filling the air with cries and giggles.

Artfully ruined

I’ve spotted two or three sundials dotted around the grounds

No inscription or planting but a handsome piece in a nice setting

I’m not so sure though about deliberately ruining existing buildings just to create something more ‘romantic’ to look at. The amounts of money spent on grand gestures like that must be astronomic - a well placed urn is probably more to most people’s budgets.

The ruins on a sunny day

The tiny bench I pictured yesterday is located on the right hand side underneath that lower archway.

The various aspects of the Old Castle are probably one of the most photographed amongst the National Trust’s properties. I went a bit crazy trying to find my best shot. 

Every angle’s very fairy tale, but I’ve plumped for this one taken from the West Glade and across the bridge. You could be anywhere within continental Europe really.

Attractive Oriel Window overlooking the water

Views of the new house enhanced by Autumn colour

One feature I would love to have in my fantasy home, along with the much coveted walled garden is a boat house. Scotney’s is particularly charming - it’d be a Gin and Tonic Bench view for sure, especially at this time of year.

Spot the Boathouse

and from further away on The Spring Walk

Historical Notes:

♦ On my first Scotney blog I recommended you remember the name of Richard de Ashburnham and today I’ve fallen down a massive rabbit warren reading about the Ashburnhams and their local history. This LINK is absolutely fascinating and shows lots of historic houses and their alterations, developments and incarnations over the years, which ties in with the life story of Scotney. The point for us, being that Betty Hussey went to the big sale at Ashburham Place and purchased furniture for Scotney. Quite a lot of other furniture is from her family home. 

Elizabeth (Betty to family) Hussey, the last occupant of Scotney, was a debutante whose parents were Peter Kerr Smiley and Maud Simpson - Maud being the sister of Ernest Aldrich Simpson who became well known as the second husband of Wallis who divorced him to progress her relationship with King Edward VIII (after the abdication known as the Duke and Duchess of Windsor) That’s what I mean about the rabbit holes and warrens, once I start investigating I’m fascinated about the facts that turn up.

For old times’ sake on the off-chance people are as interested in history as I am here a link to a Hussey visiting album scrapbook

Christopher and Elizabeth Hussey made seven visiting albums over a period from 1936 to 1968. The first four albums are a record of visits mostly within the United Kingdom. This is the first album covering the year 1936

♦ outside links in bold type are not affiliated to this Blog

[evanvanness]

Annotated edition of May 10 Week in Ethereum News

I’ve started thinking of the annotated version as aimed at Eth holders.  There’s a large group of people who hold ETH who want to stay up to date on what is happening, but also have jobs outside of the industry and may not understand all the tech nuances nor have time to spend.  So the annotated edition will try to give you more narrative, more context, some opinion, maybe some 🌶️, as well as pointers to what might you want to read

Fun fact: you can find the #MostClicked and #MuchClicked on Twitter by just searching the hashtags. The usual caveats apply: the things most clicked are the things people hadn’t otherwise seen (not necessarily the most important), and my tweets auto-delete after a month or two, so the data only goes back a couple months.

Before clicking send, I knew for sure which would be the most clicked item this week.  I was right.

How did I know it would be the most clicked?  Because even among Ethereum enthusiasts it’s an undercommunicated thing how low eth issuance will be.  It is planned to sustainably be so low that it might at some points go negative (and perhaps be negative over long periods of time, which worries me a little!).  Perhaps part of the reason we don’t communicate this that loudly is because we just aren’t there yet.   But unlike Bitcoin which has no path to long-term sustainability, Eth has a logical plan to have very low issuance.  

As I said, I forgot this last week, but if I were clicking a few things this week:

chart of ETH issuance over time

A review of hardware for eth staking

MyCrypto’s history of Eth hard forks to celebrate 10m blocks

I might also check out the stuff about personal tokens, because personal money is an interesting subject to think about, even if you’re skeptical like I am.  The idea of “what is money” can take you down some fun intellectual rabbit holes: 

75 interesting uses of social money by Roll 

Personal tokens were the topic du jour, check out this overview from Dan Finlay

A little light this week on the high-level stuff.  The chart of Eth issuance I already discussed.  The hardware for Eth staking is a worthwhile jumping off point if you’re planning on staking.   And the hard fork history is worth knowing, or if you know it, then it’s a fun trip down memory lane.

Eth1

Step by step guide to running a Hyperledger Besu node on mainnet

Nethermind v1.18.30 query the chain and trace transactions within minutes with Beam sync

A primer on block witnesses

Installation guide to running eth1 nodes (or eth2 testnet) on RaspberryPi4

So this week we have a guide to running the ConseSys’s Besu client (part of Hyperledger) which is a Java client aimed at enterprise, but which can run mainnet.   More Nethermind and Besu nodes are good for client diversity.  So is OpenEthereum (formerly known as Parity), which had a release yesterday.

And if you like running nodes on RaspberryPi4, check that out.

This newsletter is made possible by Celer!

Celer has just released a new state channel mainnet upgrade enabling everyone to easily run a layer-2 state channel node and to utilize the low-cost and real-time transactions enabled by Celer. Game developers with no blockchain knowledge today monetize their games through CelerX gaming SDK that leverages the underlying layer-2 scaling technology with ease. Celer has also released the world’s first skill-based real money game apps where players can join multi-player game tournaments and win cryptocurrency prizes, Follow us on twitter, blog, discord and telegram.

Yay, thanks Celer! 

Eth2

Danny Ryan’s latest quick eth2 update – bug bounties doubled, latest IETF BLS standard

PegaSys’s Teku client is now syncing the Schlesi testnet – which has been much more stable than expected

Latest Prysmatic client update – reducing RAM usage, slashing protection

SigmaPrime’s Beacon fuzzer update, struct-aware, bugs found in Teku and Nimbus

Latest Eth2 networking call, gossipsub v1.1. Ben’s notes

Python notebook to simulate a network partition

Apostille, an Eth1x64 variant

Scoping what is necessary to port eth1 to an eth2 shard and turn off proof of work

Lots of talk of go-live this week. Is it July, q3, or q4?  We need to get audit reports and have multi-client testnets running long-term, though last I checked the Schlesi testnet has been quite stable.  And since publishing the newsletter, now PegaSys’s Teku client is fully validating on Schlesi.

Layer2

Demo of Synthetix on the OVM includes paper trading competition with 50k SNX prizepool. The details of how the Optimistic Virtual Machine enables EVM-in-EVM

Gods Unchained building an NFT exchange with StarkWare

Exit games in state channels

Celer Network’s Orion upgrade makes it easy to run a state channel node

I’m going to set up a Celer node later this week if I have a chance.

Also check out the Synthetix trading competition and help stress test the OVM.

Stuff for developers

Solidity v0.6.7, EIP165 (standard interface detection) support. Also survey results on what devs love and hate about Solidity

Solhint v3 – Solidity linter removes styling rules and recommends prettier Solidity instead

Open Zeppelin ethers.js based console

Etherplex: batch multiple JSON RPC calls into single call

Time-based Solidity tests with Brownie

MythX now has 46 detectors

Quiknode has an online tool to test endpoints

Reading Eth price from Maker’s medianizer v1

Build an app with Sablier’s constant streaming tutorial

Building a bot using MelonJS to automate your Melon fund

StarkWare found a vulnerability in Loopring’s frontend where passwords were being hashed to only 32 bit integers

Even the frontend bugs can get you!  

Ecosystem

A chart of ETH issuance over time. The best I’ve seen

Ethereum Foundation’s q1 grants list

A guide to bulk renewing your ENS names

ethereum.org looking for Vietnamese, Thai, Danish, Norwegian, Hungarian, Finnish, or Ukranian translators

A review of hardware for eth staking

A reminder that many ENS names have now expired and need to be renewed! There’s a 90 day grace period, but do it before you forget.

Enterprise

PegaSys’s Hyperledger Besu suite available on Azure Marketplace and Microsoft’s blockchain devkit now supports Besu

Quorum v2.6 – breaking database schema changes, update to geth v1.9.x

Microsoft continues to make the Ethereum dev experience better, with their VScode extension. 

Governance, DAOs, and standards

How to start a MolochDAO

Options for delegated voting in KyberDAO

EIP2633: Formalized upgradable governance

EIP2628: Header in StatusMessage

I oppose any sort of “formalized upgradeable governance” and I think most do.

Application layer

Use POAP for sybil-resistant voting or to determine Discord channel access

Yield: a revised implementation of Dan Robinson’s yTokens for fixed rate, fixed term loans that give a yield curve

Comparing total value locked in DeFi to unique active addresses

75 interesting uses of social money by Roll

Personal tokens were the topic du jour, check out this overview from Dan Finlay

Strike: perpetual swaps with 20x leverage

POAP as a quasi-KYC layer is pretty interesting to me.  Seems like there are some good uses in Ethereum land.

i’m excited to hear that DeFi will get a yield curve!

Tokens/Business/Regulation

Nic Carter: are stablecoins parasitic or beneficial?

OpenRaise: a continuous offering fundraiser for DAOs

dxDAO’s kickstarter using OpenRaise sold out before public announcement – though the curve is still live, plus a secondary Uniswap market

dxDao’s token is an interesting bit.  Most of the token supply goes to the DXDAO, but it’s an interesting experiment in building completely decentralized apps as a Dao with a community that lately has been burgeoning.  It’s also a bit of a check on rent-seeking because it is a credible threat to excessive fees.

One fun note is that the Uniswap market occurred almost immediately and (almost by definition) trades at a substantial discount to the main market.

General

Aggregatable Subvector Commitments, the future may not involve Merkle trees

This week, Ethereum mined its 10 millionth block.

Here’s MyCrypto’s history of Eth hard forks to celebrate 10m blocks

IPFS releases Testground suite for p2p networking tests

PayPal blocked tokenized real estate startup RealT despite a lack of chargebacks, so they’re switching to Wyre

10,000,000 blocks of Ethereum mainnet!

Capricious censorship in web2 and payments!  I’ve been in PayPal’s shoes managing a card not present merchant account, and so I’m somewhat understanding to them.  You’re trying to keep your fraud rate down in a system that sometimes seems rigged against you.  In RealT’s case, they likely also had large amounts coming through which combined with crypto seems scary to Paypal, even with a low chargeback rate.  

It’s not really anyone’s fault.  The system sucks, and this is why Ethereum matters.

Final note that you can see below in the calendar: RAC’s $TAPE dropped yesterday.  It’s a tradable ERC20 token sold on Uniswap (ie, a pre-set price curve).   Of course the price went from $20 to $1000, as the token is redeemable for a limited edition cassette tape of RAC’s new album Boy.

Housekeeping

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Permalink: https://weekinethereumnews.com/week-in-ethereum-news-may-10-2020/

Dates of Note

Upcoming dates of note (new/changes in bold):

May 11 – RAC’s $TAPE

May 12 – MakerDAO Sai shutdown deadline

May 22-31 – Ethereum Madrid public health virtual hackathon

May 29-June 16 – SOSHackathon

June 17 – EthBarcelona R&D workshop

[bs-dogs]

Reason Living

CH 2

Chuuya wakes up with the same empty feeling in his chest, like a beast clawing at something broken and void. It’s bright and musky, his limbs unbelievably tight, and…  yup, there’s the headache he was waiting for.

Wait, musky? Bright?

He groans as he opens his eyes, wondering why his black-out curtains aren’t doing their jobs and if he needs to send them back to the company because they’re faulty.

And that’s where it all starts.

For one, the ceiling’s not the same. He’s spent a lot of sleepless nights to know how much mysterious stains and cracks are on his ceiling. The sight leaves him disoriented before he fully sits up and—

“What the fuck?”

His voice is scratchy, probably from bawling his eyes out too much. That and the fact that he just woke up and his morning voice is absolutely horrible; like a broken record on loop, or something scraping on a chalkboard, or something. Chuuya swallows, hoping to erase the dryness from his mouth and takes his time to take in everything.

First, it’s bright. Those aren’t black out curtains, and the scenery outside is a far cry from the park back in his apartment. He spots a couple of potted plants on the window sill, which just proves that this isn’t his apartment because he could never trust himself to take care of another living being. He’s doing poorly with himself as is, thank you very much.

Then, there’s the issue with the smell. Chuuya spots a shit ton of canned food and bottles scattered about everywhere, almost toppling over where they’re stacked upon each other. There are also dirty clothes on the floor, and Chuuya is tempted to clean everything.

Where is he? Did Poe suddenly kidnap him and bring him somewhere? Is this a dream? Is he dead?

“Wh—”

And then he stops, something niggling at the back of his head. Something’s wrong, his gut says, and his gut is never wrong.

It hits him. Hard.

Aside from the obvious fact that he isn’t in his own apartment, something else bothers him. His limbs feel like lead, his chest constricts in an unfamiliar way, the way he sat up was different— taking longer, like some additional weight was slowing him down. He felt like a stranger in his own body, which isn’t something he is a stranger to, but today the feeling was hitting him full force. Chuuya may very well still be drowsy, but he is alert and observant enough to know that something is wrong.

His voice is different. He’s sure of it because he most certainly did not drink himself to sleep last night. He went home with Poe and had a deep conversation, and he thinks he cried himself to sleep but he can’t really recall. All that’s left now is the thought that it’s the first time he’s cried while smiling. Plus, his voice— is it even his voice? He listens to himself monologue daily and this is definitely not his voice— is smoother and higher and not his. He tests out a hypothesis.

“Hello?”

He’s halfway to having a vein burst and his lungs failing him when he sees the bandages.

Inhale...

Exhale...

Inhale...

Now count from ten.

Ten…

Nine...

Eight...

“Fuck! What is happening?” He screams, a tremor making its way up to the surface. His hands starts to quiver and he really, really, really struggles to try and remember how and why he needs to breathe.

This apartment is not his. The voice is not his. Nothing is his. Not the bandaged body, not the messy sheets, not the poor imitation of the Leaning Tower of Pisa via canned foods, not the potted plant. Nothing. Suddenly, he feels the world turn and the walls close into him and he—

“Okay, Chuuya,” He says, “You got this. Let’s do the breathing exercises again and try to stay calm.” And so Chuuya tries again and he almost perfectly succeeds. He’s dazed and confused and scared of what’s happening, but at least he’s calm and rational. All that’s left are the slight shaking but he can finally breathe again.

With a clearer mind and a no-longer-beating-erratically heart, he is able to assess his situation and conclude facts:

Fact 1, he is not in his apartment, nor is he even in his body.

Fact 2, the apartment reeks of garbage, crab, and cheap alcohol and it pricks at his nose.

Fact 3, the view is different from up here.

Inference 1, he is no longer Chuuya.

Inference 2, this is why he can’t remember the day before yesterday.

He tries to stand up, feet making contact with the sticky floor and he wobbles slightly but no one’s there to see him. He’s taller, he realizes, and thinner. The bandages extend all the way to his legs, and it makes Chuuya question if the man he’s— co-habiting? Borrowing? Possessing  — is severely injured or just a very dedicated cosplayer. Judging by the fact that he’s not feeling any soreness from injuries, he’s betting on the latter.

Chuuya (not-Chuuya?) takes a breather, standing up taking more energy than he expected, before continuing on his quest to the bathroom. He has to see it for himself; has to see if he really is not-Chuuya or if he somehow got into an accident and now he’s taller and wrapped in bandages. A whisper of a thought goes to the forefront of his mind and he grimaces at the thought that this might not be a dream.

Once inside, he formulates Fact 4, he is no longer Chuuya.

This man, whoever he is, is the total opposite of him. Tall, lanky, gorgeous and it really is unfair. He knows his hair is pretty— Ane-san tells him that all the time and it was one of the few things that made him confident because it made him look like he really was biologically related to the woman— but he doesn’t think he can compare to the man’s unruly, brown locks. It’s a little disconcerting to be staring back at brown eyes rather than his own dull, blue ones, though.

The only thing he recognizes is the same tired and miserable look. Brown or Blue, the eyes still look dead and empty. Briefly, Chuuya wonders if that’s him or the other person that’s making such a beautiful person looks so sad, but is cut off when an annoyingly cheery ringtone blares from somewhere inside the apartment. Chuuya takes one last look before turning away to hunt down the device.

“Hello?” Chuuya says, trying to keep his voice from trembling. He uses a neutral tone because he doesn’t really know how this person normally talks, and he is too tired and overwhelmed to even try to keep up a guise right now.

The speaker is shocked, as far as Chuuya can tell, “Dazai-san! You picked up quickly.” The person says, voice high pitched, “Kyouka and I might be running late later, so we’ll try bringing some food.”

“Uh, okay?” It sounds more like a question, “Sure.”

There’s silence and for a moment, Chuuya thought he fucked up and the caller hung up already but is proven wrong when he hears someone else speaking.

“Ask him if he’s okay, he doesn’t sound like it.” The other person whispers, sounding suspiciously young.

Chuuya tries to be assertive, because he doesn’t really want to be at the tail-end of questions right now— especially ones he doesn’t know the correct answers to, “I’m fine. What time will you be coming around?”

More shocked silence, which just proves even further how this person is the complete opposite of Chuuya. Fuck, maybe he should’ve stayed silent.

“Uh, maybe around 4? I’m sure Kunikida-san told you about the stake-out mission, but we’re fine we can handle it.” And then he hangs up just as the sound of a gunshot rings through the speaker followed with static.

Shit, did he get stuck in the body of someone suspicious? Maybe that’s why he as bandages all over, as a cover to hide anything that can identify him. But wouldn’t that be counter-productive? And why wear them to sleep? Chuuya has a lot of concerning questions, and he tries his best to get the answer.

He fights through another impulsive decision to just break down and cry as he sets the phone down with a shudder, grabs some pen and paper, and starts writing.

“Let’s get to work, then.”

-

It’s almost 4 in the evening, and Chuuya has already ticked off all the bullet points on the to-do list he made earlier that day.

Clean apartment, check. Take a bath, check. Try to search for more information and snoop around, check. Cook something for the guests, check.

Chuuya lost track of time, mind finding the to-do list as a welcome distraction from whatever the fuck is happening to him right now. Tension lines his body as he tries his best to will them away by throwing himself into the “state” he knows best: working. Maybe it works, maybe it doesn’t— point is, being productive never hurt anyone, and at least he managed to keep himself from slipping down the rabbit hole that is his mind.

The apartment is sparkly clean, stemming from the fact that Chuuya is an absolute monster when it comes to cleaning. When he first came to the teahouse, he worked menial jobs and cleaned around which is where he got the skill. Ane-san would threaten to kick him out if she saw so much as a speck of dust tucked away in a corner somewhere, so he did his best. He didn’t want to be a bother to the one kindly took him in, after all. Furthermore, cleaning is almost second-nature to him now and he thinks it may be because of something that happened in the past, way before the fire incident.

He takes pride and contentment in the way he walks smoothly on the floors now, a complete 180 from the sticky flooring a couple of hours before. It also helps that he’s now out of the bandages, hair soft, and skin scrubbed to clean perfection. He tried to be careful with the stranger’s— Dazai’s— body, delicately cleaning himself after he spotted the scars that lined the expanse of his body. It feels rude to be seeing them, like he’s hearing a secret, but he thinks ‘Hey! Dazai is going to see the scars on my body too, anyway.’. Or at least Chuuya hopes he does, because if he doesn’t then that means he didn’t bathe Chuuya’s body and that’s a no-no in his books.

It wasn’t as awkward as Chuuya thought it would be. The way the warm water hits him instantly relaxes him as he tries not to think about the fact that he’s taking a bath in someone else’s body. He doesn’t make a huge deal about the nakedness; more concerned about how the dents and carvings reach even to the back. Once done, he’s careful to pick a long-sleeved top because although Chuuya’s not comfortable with the bandages, he’s considerate enough to acknowledge the fact that Dazai probably wouldn’t want anyone to see the scars.

Admittedly, the hardest part is cooking. Chuuya would’ve thought it was going to be the snooping around but no, this person just had to have a useless refrigerator and cupboards. There was a sad amount of consumable things, his fridge consisting mostly of beer and canned crab that’s standing precariously on a line called “expired”. Chuuya tried, he really did, but all he could manage were some cold soba, some mapo tofu, and a few udon. Considering the circumstance, he guesses it’s not the worst he could’ve done.

Now, onto the snooping part. His name is Dazai Osamu, he’s 21 centimeters taller than Chuuya, is addicted to beer and canned crab, and is miraculously living life as a functioning adult considering the fact that he’s fueled by alcohol and almost-expired food. There’s not much decoration in the apartment, aside from a few post-it notes and the plants— which Chuuya didn’t forget to water— by the window in his bedroom. There’s a few books on his bookshelf, one all about suicide and a draft named “No Longer Human ” that catches Chuuya’s interest. Both have an ungodly amount of notes in them, and Chuuya promises to read the novel if he continues being stuck in this lanky body. Chuuya’s almost embarrassed to be prying so much, but intel is the greatest weapon known to man and he’ll be fucked if he doesn’t go to this particular battle without being prepared.

Almost an hour was dedicated to trying to come up with a cover story, to unearth the secrets to acting like a man he’s never met. It’s hard, no shit, but it’s better than doing nothing. Judging from how the people who called him earlier acted around him, then Dazai is certainly not the assertive type of person. But he also seems like the type to go ahead and throw caution to the wind to help and rescue people, if the way the man reassured him that they were fine. He also seems like an incredibly busy, lazy person because his apartment was nothing short of a pigsty before Chuuya came around and cleaned it. The calendar has not even been updated since last year, for fuck’s sake! Damn, this man was a mess. His closet is filled with nothing but bandages, simple polos and the same kind of dress pants, so at least he has some semblance of presentation. With determination, Chuuya supposes he can do his best to act like the disaster Dazai seems to be.

Well, as much as a disaster as he can afford to be, since he did already clean and cook and took a bath. Fuck, he should’ve thought this more thoroughly.

Ding dong!

And apparently, Dazai one-upped Chuuya by having a working doorbell.

“Dazai-san! We’re here!” Shouts the voice Chuuya recognizes from earlier.

He does his best to operate with longer limbs and quickly open the door when he is caught off-guard by what he sees.

‘Atsushi and Kyouka?’

He recognizes them. He’s seen Atsushi around one of his co-workers in the publishing company, Akutagawa, frequently enough to have exchanged a few pleasantries when he goes in to submit his finished proof-readings. At first, he thought the two were in a business relationship or were best friends considering the fact that they were always fighting, but then that quickly changed when he caught them doing unsightly things behind the building when he was leaving.

On the other hand, he recognizes Kyouka from the teahouse. When he last visited Ane-san almost a year ago, he remembers seeing a recruit in the back kitchens. Ane-san told her she was also an orphan like most of them that worked there. He also remembers the girl coming up to him to ask a weird question, like “Do you remember?” or something close to that.

What concerns him is that these kids might be digging themselves into early graves by messing with the bloodier side of life. While snooping around, Chuuya didn’t find evidence that pointed to Dazai doing illegal activities, but he also didn’t find anything debunking it. As it stands, there’s an equal chance of it being either.

“I wasn’t expecting the two of you so soon.” He says, bringing his hand up to rub his neck, “Come in.” He ushers the two of them, offering to take the plastic bag in their hands. He takes a peek inside and smells chazuke.

Once he puts it on Dazai’s table, he turns around to see that the two of them have yet to come inside.

“Well?”

The two statues don’t reply for a long while, “Er, Dazai-san, are you sure you’re alright?” Atsushi asks.

Kyouka squints at him almost suspiciously, as if instinctively knowing that this isn’t the Dazai they know. Deep inside him, Chuuya can’t help but be proud of her, knowing Ane-san is raising another kid to do good things. But the feeling sours quickly when he remembers about the gunshot and dubious connection to Dazai.

“Don’t worry about li’l old me.” Chuuya says off-handedly and tries to smile at them, “I made some food. You two hungry?”

Said two share a look, a message passing between them before Atsushi turns to him and smiles, “Sure!” and that’s how Chuuya just knows that he’s fucked up. Big time.

-

He wonders how it came to this., with Chuuya on the ground and apprehended by two kids. Fuck.

They were just talking about the stake-out mission. Apparently, there was someone kidnapped and the guys let out a few bullets to taunt them. Chuuya’s so conflicted and confused that he couldn’t even react accordingly when Atsushi suddenly jumped on him and secured his limbs, disabling him with practiced ease.

It’s that asshole Dazai’s fault. He doesn’t have enough muscles and stamina. Plus, fighting coordinately with unfamiliar limbs is awkward and hard as fuck. So now here’s Chuuya, with his arm twisted behind him and Atsushi’s knee digging into his back as he tries to struggle without actually dislocating his shoulder. He gives up after a few futile tries.

Really, if he wasn’t so fired up and angry, Chuuya’s 100% sure that he would be sniveling pathetically right now.

“Yeah, we got him. Sure. Thanks.” Is all he manages to make out of Kyouka’s conversation with someone on the phone before he tries to strike on of his own with Atsushi.

“Won’t you just— fuck— let go of me? I won’t do anything stupid.” He growls, sounding weaker than it would have been if he had his actual voice. He never thought he’d ever miss his gravelly voice but he does.

“I’m sorry, not-Dazai-san, but I can’t.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

Before he can continue his round of expletives, the doorbell sounds again and Kyouka’s already in the process of opening the door.

Four people enter, all of them dressed so distinctively that Chuuya wonders if they’re actually a group of cosplayers and not the crime syndicate he thinks they are.

“It’s fine now! Why? Because I am here!” The one with the detective get-up says flashily, striking a small pose. Chuuya almost snorts at the reference, internally labelling the man as ‘dork’.

Behind him, a woman with a golden butterfly pin follows while shaking her head, “Ranpo, if you keep doing that, I’m confiscating your laptop.” To which “Ranpo” gives an indignant yell before responding, “Try me, Akiko.”

The next person looks more normal. His soft features and clothing doing nothing to fool Chuuya though, because he just knows these people are dangerous. He yawns behind his sweater paws and fixes his hair clips, “What did Dazai do now?” he asks.

“Where the fuck is he?” says the last one of the odd bunch, his glasses askew as he frowns and stops his way inside the apartment. Once he catches sight of Chu— Dazai, he stops and stares. Chuuya notes the throbbing vein on his forehead.

“Yo.” He greets, “Can you tell them to let go of me?” It’s almost boring, now that Chuuya’s desensitized to the pain. He stares back at blondie and doesn’t back down. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tells himself not to panic.

The next one that talks is “Ranpo”, “It’s you again?” He asks, peering at him with hauntingly green eyes, “You told us you weren’t Dazai the other day too. Of course, Kyouka and Atsushi wouldn’t know because they were away on a mission.” He surmises, leaving Chuuya stunned.

He clears his throat, “Excuse me, what?”

Taking pity on him, blondie tells Atsushi to release him and he does. Chuuya sits up and stretches his elbow, nodding at Atsushi who looks sheepish.

“Chuuya, right?” It’s “Akiko” speaking now, “Kunikida over here,” at this, she points at blondie, “stormed your apartment after you were late for 5 hours. Then you told us you weren’t Dazai, and now here we are.”

“I…” Chuuya opens his mouth several times, trying to find the words, “I don’t remember, but it explains something weird that happened to me recently.”

“Let me guess, someone you know told you that you were acting weird but you can’t remember what happened.” Ranpo says, sitting on Dazai’s couch beside Akiko. The others continue to stand by the door, excepting Kyouka and Atsushi who are on the floor with him.

“Ah—”

Fact 5, this is why he can’t remember the day before yesterday.

Ranpo doesn’t even let him finish before speaking again, “Called it, pay up.” He presents his hand palm up towards Akiko and the woman slaps a 1,000 yen note on his open hand while grumbling. Chuuya’s mildly interested about the whole circumstance about their bet.

“Um,” It’s the soft boy’s voice, sounding almost like Poe, “Chuuya-san, do you really not remember anything? At all?”

“No.”

Finally, “Kunikida” speaks up, “Every problem I have comes from that man.” He sighs and massages the bridge of his nose, “What’s your name, age, occupation, anything.”

“Why would I reveal information about myself? I don’t even know you!” He shouts, ire rising as it finally sinks that this is an impossible situation and he misses his small apartment and his friend. And his bed. He really just wants to sleep for a very long time.

“We are a Special Detective Agency, under Director Fukuzawa. We assure you; we aren’t here to harm you.”

He raises his eyebrows sarcastically, crossing his arms and lifting his chin up to gesture to the two kids beside him, “Seems like they didn’t get the memo.”

Atsushi starts to bow towards him frantically, “We’re so sorry!” He keeps his forehead planted on the ground, and Chuuya stonily stares at him. Atsushi peeks at him through his white hair, almost shyly, and Chuuya can feel his defences crumbling down. He sighs.

“Nakahara Chuuya, 24, editor at Port Publishing House, and I haven’t talked to this many people in years.” He cuts Atsushi, the words like ash on his tongue. He almost feels bad about the dryness in his tone or the bland look he shoots the bowing, kneeling boy but he is just so tired.

“Hmm,” Akiko says, “Same basic profile, but last time you told us ‘Dazai is too tall’.” She says, eyes cutting deep into his soul as if provoking him, “So, you’re short and a recluse?”

“And tired. You forgot that one.” He says wryly, somehow enjoying the banter. Oh, how Ane-san would love her.

They hold a brief staring contest, before Akiko smiles sharply at him, “It’s him, alright.”

It’s strange. Being in Dazai’s body almost feels freeing, in a way. Like he doesn’t have to keep up pretenses, doesn’t have to force himself into talking like he’s not bone-deep dead. It feels nice.

“So? What gave me away?” He asks them, settling into a more comfortable position, “How’d you know it was me and not Dazai?”

“Well, to start off…”

-

The moon shines brightly overhead, silver beams flowing into the apartment as Chuuya finishes cleaning up. The agency left half an hour ago, leaving him with a list of their landlines and phone numbers just as a heads up if Dazai and him ever “switch” again. Half of him hopes so, while the other half still wishes this was just an overly realistic and detailed dream.

His mind entertains a lot of thoughts, but he focuses on Dazai. The man sounds… eccentric, to say the least. Always upbeat, frequently sings songs about suicide, asks women about doing a “double suicide” with him, actually doing yet failing at doing the deed— basically, the man clearly wants to die but somehow makes it into a huge joke.

Chuuya’s heart hurts at that. He knows what that’s like. Knows the need to cover everything up about yourself like you never want to be seen again like an old friend.. Knows how the intrusive thoughts gnaw at yourself until you give in. You always give in, one way or another, and there’s no way out unless you… Chuuya doesn’t really know the right answer to that. All he knows is that his heart hurts, and that he strangely feels like he’s known Dazai for all of his life.

He remembers the dead eyes and scarred arms and thinks, ‘It’s him. It’s not me, it’s him.’. He remembers the suicide book and the words of his co-workers as they look at him, ‘Yeah, Dazai really is something else.’ and their far-off looks and tight smiles could only tell him so much, but it’s more than enough to tell him that Dazai is also hurting like Chuuya.

He remembers “No Longer Human” and wonders if that’s how Dazai also feels like; his skin and flesh something like a rented costume, never feeling comfortable and like it just doesn’t fit. Feeling like a fraud. Yeah, Chuuya understands.

He wishes he could remember a time when he did feel human and comfortable and happy and ‘I’m Chuuya. This is me.’, but of course even that is not allowed. All he can remember is fire, and empty, miserable eyes staring back at him as they take him in and then sell him away so the other kids can eat.

He was a kid too. He needed to eat too.

He remembers flames licking at his skin, his hair blending so well with the burning mansion that he still catches himself thinking that maybe, maybe he really was meant to go down with the embers that night. He doesn’t remember before that, before Chuuya was 10 and before he was sold off to Ane-san’s teahouse. Believe him when he says he understands. It hurts him to know that Dazai might feel like that too.

They’re strangers, and everyone within a mile radius knows that he’s not the best candidate to be consoling and helping other people when he’s shit at helping himself. There’s still a shard in Chuuya’s heart that protests, though, and he almost stumbles back as he recognizes the inherent desire  to help. It’s wild how much his soul bleeds and cries out for that kindred spirit, despite having never met him once which is so strange because it really feels like he’s met Dazai somewhere before.

Everything around him is too much. He wants to help, but he’s scared because Chuuya can’t even help himself. There’s a want to erase the misery from Dazai’s sad face, but Chuuya doesn’t know where to begin. He’s been trying to erase his for years but look where that got him. How can he, useless and pitiful Chuuya, help this stranger when he doesn’t know how?

He suddenly remembers Poe, looking at him in his most vulnerable state and seeing him for the very first time. He remembers his words, ‘I’m doing this because you’re my friend, and because this is what I would’ve wanted to hear the most when I was in your position.’

His body moves on its own, his hands are scrawling messages across post-it notes with lighting speed. Messages like, ‘I cleaned, you’re welcome.’ Because the agency told him he doesn’t really bother to clean, and ‘Eat something else, for fuck’s sake’ because they also told him that he skips meals if it’s not canned crab. It’s not much, but he hopes it helps. They’ve never met each other, but he hopes he helps. Even if just a little bit.

That night, he lays down with Poe’s kind influence stuck on different places in the house and a new resolve growing beneath his skin.

For once, there’s a different feeling inhabiting his normally void chest.

[thepeppermintqueen]

PRESENTATION 007

Pepper was dressed in a latex catsuit with her hair in a high ponytail and a pair of really high heels for this exam. She had Robin dressed in some old clothes that wouldn't matter when she cut them off and she had her in some simple cuffs. She pushed Robin gently into the room as not to trip her as she did so. Once inside of the room, Pepper dragged out a armless wooden chair and led the girl there and sat her down. "State your name, age and mark now."

Robin was determined to follow each one of Peppers orders as they came feeling the most need to prove herself right now yes to her mother but also to pepper. She walked in, sitting in the chair as instructed. “Yes, Miss. Robin Sylvester, 22, submissive.

Pepper hadn't give Robinm any clues about their exam, mainly because it was definitely an exercise in trust for them. She was going to enjoy it. Humming as she answered, Pepper took out some leather cuffs before she pulled on some latex gloves. "And before you arrived, where did you live? Who did you live with? Since arriving at the school, who has been your roommate?" She asked, undoing the handcuffs before putting the leather cuffs on her wrists and ankles to the chair. Her legs were spread ad arms out of the way. Standing, she took some safety scissors and looked at the girl with a smirk before kneeling in front of her. "Who was your first sexual encounter with? How old were you and where did it happen?"

Robin tried to breathe evenly as Pepper began to strap the girl down. She was very nervous but she trusted the Domme completely. “Lima Ohio, Miss,” she answered, “with me mother, her submissive, two slaves and my brothers, Wyatt and Thomas Sylvester.” She wasn’t totally sure where Pepper was going with this, asking questions the Domme already knew the answers to. “Josephine Clarington, Miss.” the next one made Robin stutter because her mother didn’t know this story. She bit her lip and took a deep breath, eyes to the floor. “When I was 15, Miss. his name was Derek and he was second string safety for our football team. I snuck him up to my room when everyone was asleep.”

Pepper kept herself very poised as she got Robin into the position she wanted her in, her questions things she already knew and others she didn't. She knew it was something very hard for Robin to talk about in front of her mother, who probably didn't know these details. As Robin answered, the domme began cutting her clothes off,letting the safe side of the metal slide against Robin's skin. "Your first sexual encounter with a girl: who, where and how old were you for that?" She asked, cutting the side of her panties and Pepper ripping them away to join a discarded pile of cut fabrics. "And where did you go to high school? What grades did you get? What activities were you involved in?" She asked as she finished cutting away the clothes and tying the strap around her torso so she couldn't move. Standing back, she pulled a white board in front of Robin and began writing down her previous answers. "Now, I have a baseline of your honesty. Some questions will be difficult during my interrogation of you, but the only way to avoid my tazapper on a high setting is to be very honest. Do you understand?"

Robin could feel the excitement build as she watched the clothes get cut away and fall from her body. “Umm I think I was 17...no, no I was 18, Miss. It was senior year of High school.

Robin it was after our 4th consecutive National Cheer competition where we took first place and me and one of the other girls were flirting in the hotel room celebrating and ended up having sex in the jacuzzi tub.” She could feel her skin go red with embarrassment knowing her mother was hearing about all her sexual exploits in High School. “I went to McKinley High School in Lima, Miss. my grades were always straight A’s and I graduated with a 4.2 gpa,” she said a little proudly. “I just did Cheer and studying, Miss. had a lot of AP classes which took more time and dedication.” Tobin watched as the board came in front of her and her answers appearing in print. “Very honest...yes, Miss,” she repeated, giving a go at seeing how tight the bonds were and finding very little wiggle room.

Pepper stood back to look at Robin as she turned a delightful color of red during this question. It was interesting to hear these answers from Robin and she sat down the scissors, getting the tazapper out and listened to her talk. She turned the toy on a low setting before she wrote down some of the information, she was saying. She was proud to hear the girl had done so well, but she couldn't let her know her. She gave a short hum to her answers and then saw her testing the bonds. She brought the electro-stimulation toy against Robin, shaking her head. "You can't escape right now, little girl. But it's cute you tried. Next attempt will be taken more seriously." She told her before taking out the fleshlight. "How much do you weigh? How many people have you fucked? What sex toys do you own?”

Robin swallowed hard as she say the toy, hearing it buzz lowly. She looked up as Pepper still wrote, seeing all the truths in black and white. She gasped when the zapper came closer and her body instinctively tried to wiggle away before quickly settling after Pepper spoke. “I understand Miss,” she said softly. At the litany of questions, Robin tried notto focus on the zappe so close to her skin. “110 pounds. Umm...maybe about 15 people I think. I have nipple clamps, a hitachi, but plugs, anal beads, rabbit vibrator, dildo and a bullet vibrator.”

Pepper didn't bring the toy to Robin's skin just yet, letting it pass over it, very close, but not zapping her beautiful body just yet as she spoke. She saw her trying to wiggle away and then she zapped her with the toy. "I saw that." She told Robin, before she moved to her board and began writing more of the answers down. "Interesting answers. Have you ever done any drugs?” She asked, waiting for her answer. Depending on it was if she got zapped again, even if she was just disapproving on a 'moral' ground. “When was the last time you masturbated Tell me in detail about a fantasy you think about while masturbating”.

Robin yelped out when she felt the shock of the toy against her skin. It was probably similar to touching a doorknob on a dry day and getting a static shock. Overly not the most painful thing in the world but it still wasn’t a lovely feeling. Clearly, she needed to not move during this presentation. “I’m sorry, Miss,” she whimpered out between deep breaths. “No, drugs, Miss,” she said quickly. As for the masturbation on, that she stuttered with a bit. “I uh...not since last week,” she lied, “when you punished me for cumming without permission. I was playing with myself when I had to pee and i just went too far. I’m not sure that I was thinking about anything in particular.”

Pepper knew the feeling wasn't pleasant in the least, but it wasn't on the higher setting, which was really mean. She smiled at Robin at her answer. "Good girl, such a good girl." She cooed as she wrote down her answers. There was a stutter on her words about the masturbation, which caused the dominant to look at her before she stepped closer, caressing Robin's face. "Last week huh, when you were punished?" She asked, turning the zapper two levels up before she pressed it again Robin's skin. "Are you sure that was the last time?"

Robin licked her lips. She should have known better that Pepper would catch her, but she'd gone too far now. "Y-yes, Miss. that was definietly the last time."

Pepper pressed the zapper against Robin's flesh, holding it for a moment before moving it back. "You're absolutely positive?"

Robin cried out louder this time. Still not the worst pain she'd experienced but definitely worse than the first time. Her fingers gripped against the rest of her hand beneath the binds, whimpering and panting heavily as the pain slowly subsided. "Okay! Okay! Yesterday, Miss. Yesterday in my room while I was alone. I truly don't remember what I was thinking about at the time."

Pepper knew she was going to get the answer out of her, it wasn't at the highest level but it was painful enough. She stepped back and waited, turning the toy back down as she clicked her tongue. "Lying is a sing, Princess. Such a naughty girl, did you forget your last punishment for that." She asked, taking the fleshlight and moving it to cover the girl's pussy, beginning to slide it up and down. "How I spanked your bottom and then made you come until you were absolutely exhausted." She reminded her before taking the toy away. "Since you can't remember about that time, describe in detail a sexual fantasy."

Robin groaned quietly, "Yes, Miss," she said, gasping when she felt the toy rub against her core, small moans vibrating out of her throat. "Y-yes, Miss. I remember," she said, whimpering slightly as the toy was gone. "Being a party favor for a party. Being bound and gagged with an open mouth gag so that all my holes can be used. I would be suspended, allowing for any position that a Dominant might want. Then they mingle and talk, ignoring me until they want pleasure, then using any or all of my holes to get it, Miss. That's my ultimate fantasy."

Pepper had chosen the Fleshlight because it brought a different pleasure than a vibrator. This required work from both of them, since it was traditionally for males. She nodded her head as she looked at blonde, hearing her answers as she randomly passed the toy over her core. "Good girl. And at this party, how many people do you imagine there? How many males, females? Do they all come on you, making you a mess? Do you imagine being able to come at all? And this is your fantasy, so it's not up to the dominants, it's all how you see it in you head."

Robin was still breathing a little heavy from the stimulation as well as her nerves and worry about getting shocked again. “I guess I imagine about 5 or 6. In my fantasy they’re all Dominants, miss and it’s an intimate socialization party. I’m not the reason they’re there, but I’m a fun activity to play with while they all talk and such. I think half and half would be nice so there are multiple cocks to fill me but there are also plenty of toys and things. I would love for them to fill me and cover me with cum because I love being a slutty mess. I only get to come if the Host or Hostess says I can. I’d love it if they didn’t let me cum at all because if I did then the Host or Hostess and only party goers could here me and tell me what a bad toy I am. Then punish me with canes and paddles until my body is naked up like a bad term paper.” The more Robin spoke about it, the more she got lost in the idea, her body heating up on its own just thinking about it. She moaned louder as she felt the toy pass over her again, attempting futilely to rub against it harder. “Please, Miss,” she begged quietly, “touch me, please.”

Pepper was not surprised as Robin got into the details of her fantasy, which is what Pepper wanted. To make the girl open up and bare herself intimately to her. She had turned the toy down to the lowest setting, the occasional touch to Robin's skin as she spoke but she focused more on the toy, the lightest touches as Robin talked. SHe agreed that would be a fantastic party and seeing Robin covered in cum and punished would be very tempting for the domme, but she kept that to herself. "Good details, girl. No, not yet." She told her when she begged. "Touches have to be earned and I'm not done gathering all the information I want." She rubbed the toy a little harder against Robin before taking it away. "Who are the 5-6 dominants you see in your fantasy? What are you 5 top kinks? How many times have you been punished since you arrived?"

Robin let out small whimpers when the toy touched her, the overwhelming need for stimulation outweighing the shock. Though, she was getting much better at staying still. She groaned as she was denied, but listened to the new questions. “In my fantasy? Well, you, Miss. And Sirs Hunter and Mateo. Miss Devyn and Stella. Oh, and Sir Daniel. But mostly because I’ve always wanted to fuck him.” She barely remembered that the headmasters were in the room so she was way more open suddenly, her only thought on the pinky little Miss that held Robin’s pleasure in her hand at the moment. Not to mention, the thing that kept shocking her so she wanted to make Pepper happy. “My favorite kinks are humiliation, ageplay, water sports, hypnosis and sex toying. Umm...I don’t remember...maybe about 12?”

Pepper: Pepper almost smirked but she kept her face straight as she heard the whimpers falling from her lips. She moved back to jolt down the basic bullet points of what Robin had said. Part of her was wanting to giggle at the Daniel because his father was right there and she knew Robin wasn't thinking. "All very interesting people." She said to her, a little smirk on her face. "Let's explore humiliation. Describe to me your ideal humiliation situation."

Robin looked up and licked her lips as pepper began writing again. “I don’t know how to explain it,” she whimpered, “probably being slapped and pulled around by a leash in public. Completely naked, of course, except to have degrading words written on me with arrows pointing to holes to be used. To be covered with cum and called a slut.”

Pepper hummed softly as she looked at her. "I'll help you with that." She told her, moving back to the girl, settling between her legs and holding the toy against her, not moving it. "Why being slapped, Princess? What words written over your body? Does it thrill you that strangers can take any of your holes, cum all over you and walk away without knowing your name? Without you knowing theirs? That's you're a pump and dump?" She asked.

Robin was deep into the slut headspace that she couldn’t think of anything but pleasing peper. Robins eyes were glazed over as she hazily looked up at the woman speaking to her. “Because being slapped reminds me I’m just to be used. That I’m just a plaything. Oh yes miss!” She exclaimed, “I love being a cum dump, marked with words like whore and slut and fuckmeat. Use me please! Use me and leave me a brain dead puddle and don’t bother with my pleasure! My pleasure does t matter!”

Pepper was timed out 5 hours ago

Pepper joined the chat 2 hours ago

Pepper liked when she could tell where Robin was in her headspace. She pressed the toy harder against the girl, moving it with purpose now. "It doesn't matter at all." She affirmed after her little rant, looking at the girl with a smirk on her lips. "Whose pleasure matters, slut?" She asked, taking the toy away briefly before pressing it back against her. "What place do you serve, little whore?"

Robin gasped, moaning wildly as the toy pressed against her again, her head a haze of want and passion. Her fingers scratched against the arms of the chair to avoid moving her body. "No, Miss, it doesn't matter," she drolled, eyes lust blown and near drooling. She whimpered as the toy was gone then immediately felt it again, now moaning in a more desperate manner as she felt it again. "Yours Miss!" she shouted, moaning as the toy rubbed against her needy core. "I serve you, my Queen. I serve at your feet and I'm here for your pleasure!"

Pepper kept playing with the fleshlight as she saw Robin desperately fighting not to move as she was desperate. Working the toy with the purpose of bringing Robin to an orgasm, or at least letting her think that. "Your pleasure doesn't matter, sluts don't get pleasure, they give it." She told her, listening to the sounds dripping from the blonde submissive. "Only my pleasure matters and what a privilege that you get to serve someone like me." She told her. "Now come for me." She told Robin, letting her begin to come before she pulled the toy away and shocked her thighs, ruining the orgasm.

Robin moaned loudly and breathed quickly, panting with need as Pepper continued to torture the girl's throbbing pussy, "Yes, my Queen, they only give it," Robin repeated. She could feel how wet she was and could hear the sounds of it the more Pepper moved the toy against her. "Yes, My Queen, my pleasure comes from serving you." At the sound that she could cum, Robin gasped, eyes wide as she looked up at Pepper, moaning loudly as she started to ride it out. But the moment she felt the peak - all sensation stopped. It was the most awkward feeling because she felt the pressure of the orgasm, but nothing ever happened, leaving her needy and over sensitive. "Queen No!" She cried out, whimpering as her body tried to move from the binds. "I'll do anything! Please please just let me cum, please!?" she begged loudly, tears of frustration rolling down her face.

Pepper knew what she was going, Robin's earlier answer about masturbating had signed her deal and some extra. Pepper took the fleshlight and put it away, a clear sign that she wasn't coming. She tapped the toy against Robin's knee with a smirk. "Oh Princess, it's not very nice when someone tells you something then does the opposite. I'm afraid you're not going to orgasm today, naughty girls don't get pleasure from their queens. You know the rule about cumming and you disobeyed. Then lied about it." She told her, the zapper still tapping the toy between her two knees. "Do you understand why you're not going to come?" She asked, walking to the white board so she could write it down in print for Robin.

Robin whimpered from frustration, crying out in pained exclamations as she felt the zapper toy against her body. "No, it's not nice Queen," she whimpered, though completley understanding the irony here. She'd done the same and now she was being punished for it. "I'm sorry, Queen," she finally said, looking up at Pepper with pitiful eyes, "Yes, I understand. I don't get to cum because I disobeyed. And naughty toys don't get orgasms."

Pepper watched her as she kept crying out as the zapper touched her. She turned the zapper off as she looked at the girl as she had pretty and pitiful eyes at the moment. "Good girl." She said as she wrote the information down. "Now, when I cut your restraints, I want you to drop to your knees and thank the heads for their time and crawl outside of the room, waiting for me on all fours." She told Robin, this time taking a knife to break her bonds.

Robin was breathing heavily again, her body calming from the zaps and the pain beginning to soften. “Yes, Queen,” she moaned quietly her body feeling a litany of things she’d never felt before. Robin watched as the binds were loosened by the knife and she slowly sunk to the floor, getting her body used to moving again. She kept herself in the headspace because having to speak to the heads now would fill her with embarrassment otherwise. “Headmistress, headmaster, thank you for your time.” Once she was done she crawled out of the room and waited outside the door as she was told.

Pepper watched the girl as she began doing what she had asked. She liked the way she moved and she watched her for a few moments before she began cleaning up and putting things right. She thanked the heads for their time as well before going out to meet Robin, where the ruined orgasm was just part of her punishment.

[mrsbenedictbridgerton]

This Unspoken Thing 1/3

A baby mini fic.

Emma and Killian were kinda enemies. Now they are kinda friends, but there is this unspoken thing between them. A pull and a want that they haven't yet given a name to. And stubborn Emma Swan just wont admit it...

(Inspired by GoTG 2!)

AO3/FF.NET 

Emma Swan was in no way avoiding Killian Jones.

Someone had to go rustle up some food for the impromptu birthday party that had somehow came about. And that someone may as well have been her.

The fact that she could hide in the kitchen for as long as she could get away with was just a bonus.

Really.

“Need any help?”

Emma jumped just about a foot in the air at the sound of a softly accented voice, her head narrowly missing the upper edge of the refrigerator. “Dammnit Killian, some warning please.”

She looked back over her shoulder to see her friend’s teasing smile.

Friend.

Oh that was a weird word to say when concerning Jones.

Friends. Amigos. Buddies. Pals. All very strange words for someone who only a few months earlier was, what some may have called, her enemy.

“Sorry,” he shrugged softly, letting the door close behind him.

He looked tired; the shadows under his eyes speaking of the lateness of the hour that had seen them leave the bar last night and the number of rums they had both consumed while trying to outdo each other.

That was what they did. Always competing. Kind of unavoidable when you are rival bail bonds persons.

Who could drink the other under the table? Who could tell the most outrageous (yet true) work related tale? Who could choose simply the best obscure little restaurant that their motley group of friends would just love so much?

Her stomach squirmed a little as she thought of the bottle of rum that they kept in the liquor cabinet. She was definitely sticking to beer tonight.

“Sure,” she quipped - perhaps a little too high pitched - before making to turn back to her search for food.

(Hoping he would take the hint.)

“But Emma-”

“Hmm,” she murmured as she picked a block of cheese and a - hopefully fresh - jar of olives from the shelves.

“Can we talk?”

“Little busy here Jones,” she said, shoving the block of cheese under her chin so she could grab a tub of guacamole.

“It’s about yesterday. And that dance.”

Slowly, Emma pivoted on her heel. With the block of cheddar still wedged under her chin and both hands occupied, she tried her best to look in his direction, hampered by the restraints of anatomy and dairy products. The little palpitations that had faded with her hangover, began to return.

She’d kinda hoped he’d forgotten about that.

(Really hoped.)

He gave her an odd look, before reaching out and taking the cheese from her grasp, his fingers swiping against the skin of her neck as she whispered, “Thanks.”

And then came the awkward silence she’d been dreading. The skin he had touched tingling with electricity as his blue eyes studied her - the way they had a thousand times before - with a mixture of judgement and curiosity that she couldn’t quite deal with right now.

“So you danced with me.”

“And you danced with me,” she retorted with a small shrug,  trying to look as nonchalant as she could with tupperware and a half empty jar of olives in her arms.

The muscles in his jaw flickered - the way they always did when he was frustrated (though, damn, she hated that she knew that).

She knew him better than most.

He knew her better than most.

Fuck.

He cleared his throat and took a step closer. “Aye I did. After you accosted me on the dance floor.” He paused and then raised a brow, “Swan, your arms were like that of an octopus. I felt violated.”

His voice had a teasing edge, which made a smile flicker traitorously at her lips - but she knew he was reaching for an explanation as to just why she had - yes she admits it - got down and dirty with him on The Rabbit Hole’s dance floor.

It all flashed back.

Grinding her ass into his crotch. Her hands balling into the damp material of his shirt. The flush on his cheeks as she’d slung her arms around his neck. The practically indecent way she had plastered her body against his on the sweaty, packed dance floor.

Oh holy hell, what had she done?

(Oh GOD she hoped no one else had seen.)

She took a deep breath and nonchalantly popped out her hip, doing her best impression of someone totally confident and not feeling completely out of their depth. “Are you complaining?”

Then he did that thing he does where his eyes rake over her and make her feel all tingly and sexy and-

(No. No. No.)

“Never,” he replied, his voice noticeably lower, cutting right through her.

She needed to break the moment.

Emma took the chance to empty her arms of their contents and then open one of the cupboards above the work surface to find the large bowl she needed for the nachos. If she had thought that that would have sent Killian away, she was wrong. Instead he sidled up beside her and took the bag of chips she had already gotten ready and ripped them open.

“You still haven’t answered me,” he sang a few seconds later.

He was persistent, as always.

(It’s what made him so good at his job.)

She needed to end this conversation- or at the very least steer it away from his inevitable assumption-

(That she had a thing for him-)

Dampening her lip with her tongue, she let the first lie that appeared in her head fall from her lips. “I was trying to make Graham jealous.”

“Graham?” he spat, as if the name was the most disgusting thing ever to pass his lips. “Why the bloody hell would you want anything to do with that tosser?”

“Hey!” she cried, jabbing him in the ribs with her elbow and then tossing her hair over her shoulder. “He’s a good guy. Decent. Hardworking.”

(That much was true. Graham Humbert was decent and kind and good and- well, all the things she should want in a man. So they say.)

“Your brother’s partner,” Killian offered, folding his arms and observing her with a disbelieving eye.

She turned her head and gave him a sarcastic smile. “Gee, I never noticed.”

His expression changed as their eyes met - softened somehow, his smile shifting somewhat. Their eyes fixed for a long moment, until he looked away and began opening a bag of tortilla chips. “Well, I’m actually surprised you’re interested in him. I thought you went for the more… rugged, roguish type.”

“Oh, like you?” she replied, so quickly the words had left her mouth before she could stop herself.

He took a quick breath. “Yes, actually.”

Wordlessly he poured out the chips and then crumpled up the bag, the crackle of the plastic wrapper occupying the silence their voices had left behind. Emma picked up the jar, running her hand over the lid as she waited for him to say something else.

Anything else.

Because there was a wordless tension brewing between them, and not for the first time. She heard him sigh.

She looked across at him; he was rubbing his hand over his stubbled jaw.

“When are we going to do something about this?” he asked quietly.

His words turned her heartbeat into a steady thud in her chest and she sucked in a deep breath.

“About what?” she replied. Going for breezy but instead it came out all strained and awkward.

A torturous second stretched out as the two watched each other.

Then he took the container of olives she was trying to open, his large, strong hands opening it with a soft pop. He placed it back on the countertop and her arms fell limply to her sides. No barrier between them, not even a jar of pickled vegetables.

“This thing between us,” he said, eyes searching hers until she looked away, not wanting to go… there.

“There is nothing between us, Jones,” she insisted.

Killian rested his arm on the countertop, leaning in towards her. “Emma, there has been an unspoken thing between us for months now.”

Furrowing her brow, she looked him square in the eye. “It was just a dance, Killian. Don’t read anything into it. I was drunk. You were drunk.”

She backed away from him, folding her arms, creating another barrier between them.

“There is no thing here. Unspoken...or otherwise.”

He looked like he was going to say something, but then thought better of it. Instead, he simply shrugged and whispered.

“If you say so.”

And before she could say any more, he left the room.

A/N: The next part is pretty much written so I’ll get it up asap...