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butchcarmy · 7 months ago

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ALEXITHYMIA CH 5: detergent, thrifting, and cake

Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader

Chapter Rating: T (11k)

ao3 link, ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4

Chapter Summary: It’s his roommate’s birthday this week, and Carmy doesn’t find out until it’s a couple days away. Once he finds they’re unluckily spending their birthday alone, he makes it his mission to make their lonely day better. It’s the least he can do. Little does he know how much more he has to discover about them and about himself.

Tags: reader having trauma, carmy having trauma, toxic families, domesticity

A/N: It’s time… it’s time. I said last chapter was the longest…just kidding. THIS ONE is the longest, and it was hardest to write so far. The duo gets to have a lot of fun this chapter, though! arguably the most so far! A lot of domestic goodness and good food and shopping! Until… :)

also HUGE shoutout to @justaconsequence on tumblr for being my beta reader for this chapter! she was so kind and so helpful. this behemoth of a fic is too much for me to proofread on my own. anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy! can't wait to hear what y'all think!

Typically, by this time on Monday morning, Carmy's usually three cigarettes deep into paperwork, urgently (and poorly) calculating the sales the restaurant needs to make this week to stay afloat. Because even though it's a Sunday closing activity, he never seems to find the occasion to get around to it, and by 10 pm, he doesn't have the capacity to be crunching numbers.

Not that 8 am is much better. At least he's not dissecting the debt this morning—he's studying detergent prices.

“Why is this one, like, almost 20 dollars?” Carmy stops reading the price tags and glances over at his roommate, who's squinting at products on upper shelves. The lights are always too bright in this place. “And for such a small bottle…”

“Pre-mixed organic sulfate-free 100% vegan bleach,” Carmy reads dully.

“So stupid.” They shake their head. “Does grocery shopping ever depress you?”

“Usually,” he replies dryly. “Inflation is pretty depressing.”

“Don’t even get me started. Capitalism in general depresses me.”

“Hm, yeah. That too.” He sighs through his nose and tries to refocus. He's having a hard time processing all the numbers and letters today. “You see any unscented detergent? Somethin’ mild?”

“Um…” They crane their neck up and down, and then they crouch on the ground. They pick up a white bottle. “How's this? It's like, 8 dollars. It's not name-brand, but…”

“You know I don't care.” He kneels with them, huddling in close. They smell faintly of a sweet, yet musky perfume. He reminds himself to focus on the detergent, not the way they smell (even if it's far more interesting). “Yeah, this looks good. Thank you.”

“For your vintage denim, right?” They stand up to put the detergent in their shopping cart, which is barely separated with his stuff vs. theirs. He doesn't understand why his face grows warm at their comment, but it does.

“Uh, yeah. It is.” If the blush shows on his face, they graciously don't comment. “Although I'll admit I don't get around to washing them as much as I should.”

“You're not supposed to wash jeans that often anyway, right?” They lean their elbows onto the rickety cart as they push it, and he ambles along next to them, matching the slow, relaxed pace of their walk.

“Yeah, but I really…” The implications are clear. They fail in suppressing a laugh, and it makes him smile. “And I’m supposed to hand wash them, so.”

“Oh, so what you're saying is that you never wash them,” they tease.

“That is not at all what I'm saying.” They make an unimpressed face. “I do laundry, it's just…”

“Not often,” they supply helpfully. He tries to come up with something, but he's got nothing. “It's okay, I understand.”

“I promise I wash my clothes,” he mumbles, wilting.

“I know.” There's that new smile he's grown to recognize more clearly. It's this mischievous one they get when they’re teasing him, and it's so cute he doesn't have any room in him to get even a little irritable. “I've seen you do laundry maybe once or twice.”

“Hey,” he says, warning, and they laugh and run ahead of him, the squeaky wheels of the cart giggling alongside them.

After the night he almost burned down their apartment, he had felt different. It was like a switch being flipped, light abruptly filling up a dark room, and he's been squinting, struggling to adjust. But as he walks with them today, grocery shopping lit by blinding white fluorescents, he finds that he can see them rather clearly.

The connection between the two of them is tangible, palpable. It's workable pasta dough that's been kneaded to uniformity. The dough is malleable, clean, and when he touches it, sticky, glutenous residue doesn't cover his palms. When he catches at them peeking over their shoulder to make sure he's still following them, he chases away the urge to pull them into his arms. He throws the desire into boiling water in hopes that enough pressure will change those feelings into something more palatable. He's not sure if it's working.

Something happened when he hugged them that Saturday night. He doesn't dare name what that “something” is, but it's rising from where it's sitting at the bottom of the pot, just about to hit the surface—

“Hey, I gotta get some stuff in this aisle.” Carmy snaps out of it and follows them as they veer the cart to the left. He raises his eyes to read the categories on the sign.

“You bakin’ somethin’?” They both move out of the way for an oncoming cart.

“Yeah, was thinking about it.” They halt to a stop in front of the boxed cake mix and step back to fully peruse the shelves. He stands next to them, and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye. “You’re not judging me for getting box mix, are you?”

“Not at all,” he answers honestly. “Food is always better when made from scratch, but box mix has its uses. Besides, I’m not a baker.”

“That’s true, but I’m sure you still make an insane cake.” Carmy’s aware he can’t make them unsee his flash of a smile, but he still shrugs. “Sure, stay humble.”

“I try. What’s the occasion?”

“Ah, nothing much. It’s just my birthday.”

“Oh, okay.”

…And he's about to move on, just as casually as it came, but then the processing finishes.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” They ask confusedly.

“Is it your birthday today?”

“No, um, it’s this Thursday.” He exhales in palpable relief.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hates at how worked up he sounds.

“Um…” Their face is twinged with guilt. “...There was never a good time to bring it up?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be getting upset.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I just feel like I should’ve known, I guess.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I never brought it up. Um…” Their hands are fiddling with the edges of their sleeves. “I just have complicated feelings about my birthday.”

“Ah, I see. I get that.” That, he can understand. “Is it all the gifts and stuff?”

“Kinda. It’s a part of it.” They lean down to grab a box of devil’s food cake, and that makes him remember that they’re in a grocery store. Not quite the best place for a personal conversation like this. They’re being vague, but he won’t press. Not right now.

“You shouldn’t be baking for yourself on your birthday,” Carmy mutters. They smile at that, but it’s different. It’s heavy with melancholy.

“It’s alright. I’m gonna be celebrating with my friends this weekend, just not on my actual birthday.” His conflicted expression persists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a day. It’ll be enough of a present to not have to go into work.”

“Put that back,” he blurts out. “I’ll make you a cake.”

“Don’t you work?” Their eyebrows are arched in surprise. “You really don’t—”

“I know I don’t. But I want to. I do work, yeah, but I’ll, I’ll get someone to cover me.” He’s never said those words before in his life, and now that they’re out, he can’t take them back. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to take them back. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Of course,” they reply quickly.

“Then let me do this. Please.” He has no idea where this courage is coming from. “I want to. I know I'm always working, but I really…” Their eyes are wide with wonder, yet watchful. It shouldn't make him falter, but it does. His heart stutters and whatever bravado briefly gripped him fades away. “I’m…probably being too pushy right now. Tell me to fuck off?”

“I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off for wanting to bake me a cake,” they laugh, easing his worries like they always do. “C’mon, Carm.”

“So, uh, is that a yes, or…?”

“Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to ask you to take off of work for my birthday,” they start carefully, “but I wouldn’t object to it. So, yeah. It’s a yes.”

“Okay.” He can’t help his giddy smile. There's someone saying you look stupid like this, but he’s with them, and it makes everything else silent. “Okay, good.”

“You’re…being super sweet about all this.” He doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s the way they say it—but hearing that makes his neck go hot.

“I mean…friends do stuff like this, don’t they?”

“Only the good ones.” They beam beautifully at him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their affection, he thinks, but the feeling of their smile is so warm. He can’t resist soaking in it.

He's glad that lady luck blessed him just enough to stop their birthday from passing him by. He's been itching for an opportunity to repay them for all the bullshit they've had to take from him as of recent (although he knows if he brought it up, they would say it wasn't anything worth repaying). They deserve something good from him for once, not panic attacks and nightmares.

He just wishes he could figure out why they were going to spend their birthday alone. He knows them a lot better now, but there's still so much left shrouded. He wants to know them inside and out—he wants to learn what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, what makes them happy. He wants to know all of it in its entirety, to fill in the gaps in the puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for.

He has some of the pieces. He understands that their relationship with their family to his—distant, strained, and difficult. Unfortunately, that’s about it. He doesn’t know any of the specifics. It’s not like he’s talked to them about his family outside of the off-handed bitter remarks, just as they have, but he finds that this fact leaves him dissatisfied.

He just hopes that they'll let him in. He's not sure if they will, but…he's gonna try. He has to. He's sick of not trying.

. . . . .

“You want to take off?” Richie’s staring at Carmy like he’s grown a second head. They're taking a smoke break in the back. “I don’t know what sort of doppelganger bullshit this is, but if you’re trying to pretend to be Carmen, you’re doing a shit job.”

“Very funny, jackass,” Carmy mutters. “I’m being serious. This Thursday.”

“All day?” Carmy grimaces, but he nods. Richie shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Really fuckin’ weird.”

“I know I shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, but—”

“Cousin, no, that’s not at all what’s goin’ on here,” Richie interrupts, and Carmy’s at a loss for words. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”

“What?” Carmy squints at him. “Are you being serious?”

“‘Course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” Carmy decides not to comment on that. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you off this ship for just one fucking second?”

“As the owner of this place, you’ve tried way too many times,” he replies dryly.

“Uh, as the original co-owner of this place, you don’t listen to me enough.” Again, Carmy decides not to elaborate on that one. It’s not worth it. “Take the day off. I was running it fine before, and I’ll keep running it.”

“No, no, we’re not saying that, it was not fine,” Carmy starts, but Richie’s already flipping him off.

“Whatever, I already know, new fucking system and all that. Don’t get anxiety or whatever over it, that’s why you got Syd hustling shit your way, right?”

“Uh.” Carmy didn’t realize that Richie had even been paying attention to the new hierarchy in the restaurant, let alone respecting it in any capacity. “Yeah, she is.”

“Then it’s fine.” Richie blows smoke in his face, and Carmy swats it away with a glare. “It was fine when you came in an hour late today, wasn’t it?”

“You guys knew I wasn’t gonna come in until later,” Carmy argues, defensive (although he’s not sure if there’s actually anything to argue about).

“Exactly.” Richie sighs all of a sudden, a long one that sounds like it’s bone deep. “Carm. Let me be straight with you. You need to do this. Okay? No backing out of this one.”

“Why’re you sayin’ this? What are you sayin’?”

“It’s ‘cause of your roommate, right? This Thursday?”

“...Yeah.” Carmy pales. “How did you—?”

“Fuckin’ knew it,” Richie says, grinning. “It was obvious.”

“No way. I didn’t say shit.”

“You didn’t need to.” Richie flicks the ash off his cigarette. “They’re changin’ you, man. We can all see it.”

“...” Carmy can’t deny that. He doesn't have time to ponder on that right now. “Is it really okay?”

“Yeah, you could stand to have an attitude adjustment.”

“I wasn’t talking about that, asshole. I was talking about Thursday.”

“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s completely fine.” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, solid in its grip. It makes Carmy’s eyes snap to him, mostly in confusion. “So what’s the occasion? Must be important.”

“It’s their birthday. I mean, I could just go home early that day, but—”

“Yo, if you’re gonna take off, don’t halfass it—”

“That’s not what I was gonna say. When I’m here, I can’t seem to find my way out. This place…it just has a way of trapping you in.” He doesn’t expect Richie to nod, but he does. “I know if I don’t take the whole day off, I’ll never get out of here in time. Not until it’s too late.”

For some reason, that makes Richie laugh.

“Yeah. That's it.” Richie shakes his head as smoke trails out of his mouth. “That’s just it, man. You have to make time for the things that’re important. Even the recitals where you have to listen to five year olds play twinkle twinkle little star 20 times. You can’t miss shit like this. Because once you miss it, it’s gone.”

“Rich.” Carmy wants to say something to make that haunted expression leave Richie's face, but he doesn't come up with anything in time.

“Don’t give me that look.” Richie’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from fucking shit up. They actually seem like a good person.”

“Y’think so?”

“I do. You?”

“Yeah.” Carmy doesn’t bother hiding his smile, even though he can already sense Richie’s teasing coming from a mile away. “They’re a really good friend.”

“Friend. Sure.” Richie snorts.

“Don’t push it,” and for some reason he adds, “they were gonna spend it alone.”

“Huh. Sociable guy like them spending it alone?”

“I know. I didn't ask. Maybe I should've.”

“Maybe. I dunno, cousin. Everyone's got their secrets. Especially the ones that try to act like they don't have any.”

“You're strangely full of wisdom today.”

“Fuck right off,” Richie responds in regular Richie fashion.

“I think they're like me. Like us.” Carmy's not sure why he's saying this on a Monday afternoon at work out of all times, but the truth bursts out of him beyond his will. Richie's expression shifts into something more solemn, something recognizable. “Y'know what I mean.”

“...Yeah.” Richie claps his hand on Carmy's back again. “Shitty parents club.”

As Carmy stands there in the back, feet sore and tobacco in the air, he sees his childhood in flashes. He's five years old again and is following Mike around with scuffed sneakers and untamed hair, although he supposes that unruliness never truly changed with time. There's warm sunlight filtering through green summer leaves. He hears his mother behind him, somewhere, but maybe he doesn't.

He thinks of home, of his bedroom, and it is cold. He has homework he’s failed to complete again. It's sitting on his desk, on top of all of the other shit he can't finish. There's screaming, and he's not listening.

He blinks. He’s 30, and he hasn’t talked to his mom since Michael died.

“Shitty parents club,” Carmy repeats hollowly.

. . . . .

When Thursday morning arrives, Carmy ends up greeting his roommate with flour in his hair and eggs sizzling on the pan.

“Um,” they say, just as Carmy goes “G'morning.” They both freeze, brief awkwardness circling between them before it dissipates with their breathless laugh.

“Good morning. I didn't think you'd actually take off,” they admit.

“I said I would,” he replies quietly, but it's not accusatory. How many times had he said he'd be home for dinner just for him to arrive when they're already asleep? He tries not to make empty promises anymore. Nonetheless, he understands their surprise. “Um, I'm almost done with breakfast. I didn't get to the coffee yet.”

“Am I supposed to be offended?” They laugh. “That's the least I can do, with you doing all of this.” They sluggishly shuffle behind him to reach down into some kitchen cabinets. “It's a special day, so I'll even make us pour overs.”

“That's true. It is special.” He peeks over his shoulder, pausing from basting the eggs in brown butter to see them setting up on the kitchen island. They gently place the hourglass-shaped glass onto the counter with a light clink. He silently switches the button on for the electric gooseneck kettle to his right. “Am I allowed to wish you a happy birthday, or should I not?”

“Hm, I don't mind. Just don't overdo it, which I doubt you will.” They pull out a bag of coarse ground coffee and a filter. As soon as they open the bag, he can smell the sweet scent of the light roast floating towards him.

“Okay. Then, happy birthday,” he says as casually as he can.

“Thanks, Carmy.” He studies their expression, searching for annoyance in their content expression, but he doesn't find any. “That's not even really what I meant by today being special, though.”

“How else did you mean it?” The eggs are done. He reaches over the hot pan to cut the heat.

“Well, y'know. I dunno if we’ve ever had a full day off together.” They're carefully scooping grounds into the filter fitted on top of the glass, creating a small hill. “I think I managed to catch you coming home early on my off days sometimes, but never a full day.”

“Huh.” Carmy has to take a minute to think about that one. “Yeah, I don't know either. I think you're right.”

“Then, like I said. It's special.” They seal up the bag of coffee grounds, and then they frown. “Shit. I forgot to turn on the kettle. Can you—”

“Already did it,” he reports, pleased, and his sense of accomplishment only doubles at their sigh of relief.

“Thank god.” There's the familiar clicking sound of the kettle reaching the perfect temperature. “Just in time, too. Can you hand it to me?”

“Yes, chef,” he says, because it always makes them laugh. Today is no exception. He slides the metallic kettle over to them.

“So what delights did you whip up over there?” They ask. They begin pouring the almost boiling water over their coffee grounds in a slow circle, gradually inching towards the middle. “It smells amazing. I want the full break-down.”

“The full break-down, got it.” On two circular plates, he's carefully placing a fried egg, thick cut bacon, and a slice of toast with jam and butter. “Uh…it's nothin’ special, just stuff we had in the fridge. We've got a, uh, brown-butter fried egg with a little paprika, sage, pepper, salt…”

“Oh, just an egg made with liquid gold, no big deal,” they imitate.

“Cut it out,” he snips back, but he's smiling and they know it. “There's honestly not much to it. This thick-cut bacon was in the back, so I cooked the rest of it. And the toast is just brioche with salted honey butter and blueberry jam.”

“Carmy. C'mon. That's nothing special to you?”

“I mean.” It's not quite nothing, he thinks. “I can make nicer breakfasts, is all.”

“That's what you said when you made me garlic bread, and that fucking blew my mind.” They set the kettle down with a thunk. The glass is full of dark coffee. Prepped next to them is their favorite glass mug alongside Carmy's. He's not sure how they knew that it was his favorite, but he doesn't question it.

“I'm just letting you know that you should wait to be really impressed.”

“Too fucking late, man.” He's turned around and placed the two breakfast platters on the kitchen island, and they gawk openly at it. “Holy fuck.”

“It's ready,” he says, surprisingly meek. He can't comprehend why anxiety's hitting him now of all times. He's served acclaimed food critics, top-security government officials, and celebrities more times than he can count. Before that audience, he never faltered, but in front of his roommate in their crumpled pajamas, his heart stutters.

“Oh, wow…” They regard the food with undeserved softness. Like a punctured balloon, his anxiety immediately begins deflating. They're staring at the food like it's a painting in a museum. “You seriously didn't have to do all of this.”

“I know. I just wanted to.” He feels heat on the back of his neck. “Is…is that okay?”

“It's more than okay.” Suddenly, he notices their eyes are puffy, like they were crying. “Goddamnit, get over here.”

He only registers what's about to happen for one second before they're hugging him. Their palms are on his back, and the top of their head tucks under his chin perfectly. He makes a small, surprised noise.

“I, I'm glad you like it.” He links his arms around them, allows himself to rest his chin on their head. With their face turned to the side, their ear's pressed up against his chest, and he's instantly struck with the paranoia that they're gonna hear his rapid heartbeat.

“I haven't even taken a bite yet, and I love it.” They lean back then, arms still wrapped around him and head craned upwards to look at him. It's far too intimate for what they are, and Carmy hates how his heart beats even harder. “Thank you for doing all this. Seriously. I…”

“The breakfast's just a side thing, I'm, um, still baking you a cake.”

“What? You're doing this and a cake?”

“Um,” Carmy repeats intelligently.

“Carmy. Carmy, Carmy, Carmy.” Their words ooze affection, but surely he's just imagining it. Their hands are crawling up his back. “God, I could just ki—”

“There's the timer,” Carmy blurts out, because his phone's ringing and so are his ears. At the sound, they let him go, and he grabs two towels to retrieve the two circular cake pans from the oven. A toothpick poked through the middle comes out clean, so he sets them on a wire rack to cool.

He needs to focus on the cakes. That's the most important thing.

“Oh my god.” They lean in close to the cake and take a deep breath. “Is this—”

“Devil's food cake, yeah.” The heat searing his face is surely from opening the oven.

“You—how did you—” Their smile is luminous with joy. “You really pay attention to every little thing, don't you?”

“Sometimes. When it counts.” He fidgets awkwardly, nails picking at the sides of his fingers. “Wanna eat by the window, or…?”

“Fuck yeah I do. Can you bring the plates over? I'll have the coffee over in just a second.”

Carmy sets up at their little table first, placing the plates just right across from one another. The morning sun casts a cozy glow through their speckled window, streaking planes of light across the floor. He patiently waits and watches them pace from the fridge to the counter, splashing cream into their mugs. Through the transparent glass, he watches the white fizzle into the dark coffee, blending into a warm brown.

“Just a tiny spoon of sugar for you, right?” They peek over their shoulder, catching his stare, and he nods. He's also not quite sure how they know that, either. They've had coffee in the morning maybe a handful of times before.

He supposes they also pay attention sometimes, when it counts.

“Alright, here we go.” They bring a mug in each hand and set them delicately down on the table. He notes that his coffee is the perfect color. “Oh, thanks for waiting. You didn't have to.”

“I, I guess so, yeah. It's just, uh, you always wait for me, so…”

“That's—that's true.” An odd tension sets in their face, but they laugh it off, and it disappears. “I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”

A part of him wants to ask further by what they meant by that, but they're already taking pictures of his food so dutifully. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he eats.

It's nice to have a solid breakfast for once. He had taken their advice from the other night and had been drinking milk with protein powder. It was nice not to feel like he was teetering the edge by lunch time, but truthfully, it was a bit unsavory. This breakfast platter is much more palatable. It also helps that his stomach pains aren't active today.

Time rolls by slowly this quiet morning, and Carmy recognizes the oddity of it immediately. It's clear to see when by this time, he's usually already done at least ten laps through the restaurant. An irritating signal in his brain is telling him that he needs to get up and do something, not sit around and eat, but for once, he doesn't want to listen.

A memory from roughly two weeks ago (or was it one week?) unearths all of sudden. He was up early, drinking shitty coffee and sinking into dissociation. Mornings were lonely, as he was usually the only one up, but not that day. His roommate came stumbling into the kitchen, awake from a restless night. They chatted before he had to head out, and he remembers wishing he had more time in the morning to spend with them.

He imagined a morning just like this one, with pajamas, food, and messy hair. He daydreamed about having all the time in the world, and he thought about getting to spend it all with them. Now he’s sitting in that moment he imagined, except that it’s real. They're across from him in their wrinkled pajamas and bedhead, contentedly mowing through their food. There's a smear of jam on the corner of their mouth. He takes a sip of his coffee, and it's perfect, just as they made it for him.

This amount of good should scare him, needs to scare him, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. He wants more than nightmares, cigarettes, and floating just above the budget. He wants this.

He tastes his coffee and reminds himself that he’s still here. The moment hasn’t passed him by.

“Is it good?” He asks quietly. It’s a rhetorical question, it always is, but he can’t help himself. He wants to hear it from them.

“So. Fucking. Good.” They have to finish chewing before they answer. “You always knock it out of the park. If this is the prelude, I don’t know if I can handle what’s next,” they say, gesturing towards the cooling cake.

“It won’t be ready for a while yet. You have time to prepare yourself.” That makes them smile. All according to plan. “Got anything in mind for today?”

“Nothing glamorous. I was just gonna go out for a little. Go thrifting, maybe watch a movie later. Smoke a joint.” They shrug. “Just my usual sort of thing.”

“Mm.” He dusts off crumbs from the toast off his fingers on his pants. “Sounds like a good time. You still wanna go?”

“I do, yeah.” They stare at him for a moment, as if processing his words. Or just him. “Do you…wanna tag along, or…?”

Whenever they ask him if he wants to spend time together (whether it’s grocery shopping, smoking, or watching a show), they usually offer it with an air of nonchalance. Carmy’s assumed it’s been out of politeness, restraining their expression as to not put any pressure onto him. That’s the person he’s used to, not this uneasy anxiety, someone afraid to ask him to spend time with them.

It reminds him of himself in every way.

“I’d love to tag along,” he answers easily, just as they’ve always done for him. “I’ve got the whole day off, after all.”

“Right. ‘Course.” He watches their little smile double in size. “I promise to not make you watch me try on clothes for too long.”

“I wouldn’t mind. I like thrifting, y’know.” And you, he thinks to himself.

“You do? Oh, of course—” They make a contemplative noise to themself. “Vintage denim. I always wondered how you managed to have so many pairs.”

“Once you know where to look, they’re pretty easy to find. I can help you find some, if you want.”

“I’d love that. I realized the other day that I don’t have any dark wash jeans, so—actually, the truth is that I do have a pair, but they’re so fucked up and old that I never wear them anymore. Anyway, I need new jeans. Think you could find some dark wash blue jeans for me?”

“If you’re willing to hit up more than one store, then definitely,” he replies, just a smidge cocky.

“I’m willing to hit up even two more stores.” He pretends to gasp, to which they nod confidently. “Yeah. That’s right. Maybe even three.”

“We won’t need three,” Carmy promises. “I’m better than that. Probably won’t even need two, but…” He shrugs. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”

“Okay, Mr. Confident over here,” they tease. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

They head out after they both clean the kitchen and freshen up. Carmy gets the flour out of his hair and rewets his hair to revive some of his curls. He silently thanks his past self for showering the night before. With the passage of the morning cold and the rising sun, the afternoon weather’s become brisk and pleasant. However, the weather’s barely a factor in how he’s dressing.

Is this too much? Is this not enough? He’s switching shirts and pants in the mirror like he’s about to go on a date. He knows he’s not, swears to himself that he’s not, but he’s put product in his hair and cologne on his wrists and temples. It’s not a date, but he can’t fucking decide what to wear.

He sucks it up and settles on a gray sweater, light wash blue jeans, and white sneakers. From under his collar and at the bottom of his sweater peeks out a brown button up. It’s probably too much, but this is his sixth outfit change. He’s fed up with it and himself.

After adjusting the gold chain that got hidden under his collar, he steps out.

He finds them already waiting by the door in this thick knit cardigan and fitted plaid pants that makes his heart stutter. When they hear him approaching, their head snaps up from their phone, and their skin sparkles with touches of makeup.

“You look really nice.” He has no idea how he let that slip, but he’s more shocked that he didn’t stutter once.

“Ah, th—thank you,” they stammer, fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. He’s not sure if it's their makeup or their skin that’s doing the blushing. It’s nice to see them being the one tripping over their words for once. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”

“Oh. Um.” Handsome? It echoes in his head. He instantly feels self conscious. So much for being the more suave one for once. “Thanks, uh…I just didn’t wanna wear my work clothes,” he lies in an attempt to ease his embarrassment.

“I gotcha.” He’s glad they don’t challenge him on it. “Shall we head out?”

“Yeah. Where we headed first?”

They take the metro to their personal favorite shop a little up north. The metro’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but the crowd forces the two of them to be huddled next to each other. They’re both standing close to a pole by the window, each with one hand wrapped around the metal.

As passengers come and go, they step closer to him to move out of the way. Eventually it just gets to a point where they’re standing nearly pressed up against his chest. He tries not to dwell on how that makes him feel, but he can smell the fragrance they put on, and it’s very distracting.

Luckily, the ride is short. Any longer on the train, he might’ve put an arm around their shoulder, god forbid.

“If we can’t find what I’m looking for here, maybe you can show me one of your favorite spots to go thrifting,” they say as they enter the thrift store. The interior is decorated, clean, and lovely, and unlike the metro, it’s not packed to the brim with people. It smells faintly of incense, and there’s local art framed all over the walls for sale. It oozes warmth and excitement, much like them.

“There’s a ton of shit here, so maybe we won’t need to after all.” He finds himself intaking everything at once, eyes flickering from sign to sign. “I’ve never been here before. This is really cool.”

“It’s my favorite place to find new clothes.” They trail down the racks, finger flitting between clothes. “I hope you can find something you like here, too.”

“I’m sure I will.” He’s already walking to their denim section and immediately spots some contenders. “I think I already have.”

He’s not sure if they mean to spend hours in there, but he certainly does. There’s more than just clothes to look at, although that’s what takes up most of his time. There’s dishes, furniture, cds, vinyls, books, even electronics. He goes back and forth with them, clothing articles piling up in his arms as they sit on battered couches together and peruse scratched cds. Everywhere he looks, there’s just more, more, and more.

“Okay, I’ve gotta cut myself off,” they say as they leave the furniture section. They’ve sat on nearly every chair in that place. “I already have so many clothes to try on, and that’s not even including the jeans you’ve picked out for me.”

“If it helps, some of these are mine.” Carmy flips through the layers of hanging jeans that have built up on his forearm. “If you can believe it, I even found some stuff that isn’t denim.”

“I’m not sure if I can, but seeing is believing.” They thumb through some long-sleeves he’s carrying that are seeping out from under the jeans. “I’m just glad you were able to find some stuff for yourself, too. Not that I was that worried.”

He hands them the jeans he’s found for them, all dark wash and in their size. To his surprise, they also hand him an article of clothing for him to try on.

“I thought you’d look good in this. You’ll have to show me when you try it on,” they say, and it’s innocent, completely meaningless, but as soon as Carmy agrees and rushes to hide in the changing room, he views in the mirror and sees his flushed face.

Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. Stop getting in over your head.

He tries on his items of choice first. The first is a dark green henley that looked better on the rack than it did him, so he puts it in the reject pile. The second is a dark blue long sleeve that fits just right. It’s cheap, too, so it’s an automatic purchase. He presumes the way to word it is that it hugs him in all the right places, but he’s not sure. The rest are jeans, of which only one he decides to buy. A bit pricey, but for the brand and year, it’s worth it (although he basically always uses this reasoning with himself).

Now, for the piece of clothing they picked out for him. It’s a dark brown t-shirt that seems like it’s just the right length. It’s a muted, yet warm brown, a bit rosey in hue. He doesn’t realize it’s a v-neck until he gets it over his head and down his shoulders.

“I’ve never worn a v-neck before,” he calls out to the room next to him.

“Oh, are you trying it on? Do you like it?” Their slightly muffled voice calls back to him.

“Um…I’m not sure,” he admits with a shaky laugh. The collar is lower than he’s used to. It dips below his collarbones, and between them dangles his chain. “Should I show you?”

“Yes! Hold on, lemme get some pants on. …Okay, I’m stepping out!”

He hears their door open alongside his. When they see him, their expression snaps into what he believes is surprise and delight. He’s sure he looks somewhat the same.

They’re wearing one of the vintage jeans he picked out for them—dark blue Levi’s. Although they’re rolled up a couple times at the bottom, it seems to fit them just right. As he stares, he’s reminded of his many pairs of Levi’s, and it’s more or less like seeing them in his clothes, which is. Which is. Uh. Yeah.

“I knew that would suit you,” they say with a grin, to which he realizes he can’t hide his blush.

“It’s not weird?”

“Not at all. It looks good.” They tilt their head to the side as they openly look him over, hip cocked. Something in their gaze is making him hot. “No pressure to buy it, of course.”

“It’s different from what I’m used to, but…” He looks down, smooths the fabric with his palm. “It’s kinda nice, something like this. Um, and what do you think about the jeans?” He needs to direct the attention off him quickly.

“Oh, I love them. The others ended up fitting not quite right on me, but that’s how it goes.” They move from side to side, almost twirling. It’s cute. “I love these, though. Just a little long, but I’m used to it.”

“That’s how it always is. I can hem them for you, if you want. I usually hem mine.”

“And he sews,” they say, seemingly to themself, but they’re looking right at him. Embarrassing. “If you don’t mind, that’d be amazing. Either way, I’m probably getting them.”

“Good. You should. They fit well.”

“Yeah?” They glance back into their fitting room, likely examining themself in the mirror, and then back at him. “Okay, then. Definitely getting them.” With that and a cheeky grin, they go back into their dressing room to try on the rest of their clothes. Carmy follows suit, grateful to hide his embarrassed face.

Carmy heads to check out with the dark blue long sleeve, a pair of jeans, and the brown v-neck. They’ve decided on the pair of jeans they showed him earlier and a little purple tank-top he wishes he got to see on them.

“Will that be all for you today?” The cashier asks him as he checks out first. Even the cashiers here are pretty nice, he finds.

“Oh, their stuff, too.” He nods to them, who’s standing right next to him.

“Carmy.” They glare at him.

“What?” He feels himself smiling.

“You can’t do this to me.”

“C’mon.” He nudges them gently with his elbow. “It’s my present to you.”

“Oh, so the present wasn’t the breakfast? Or the cake? Or helping me pick these out?”

“Why can’t it be all of them?” He decides to stop this in its tracks and takes the clothes out of their hands, sliding it onto the counter. “Just these two, and that’ll be it.”

“Just you wait until your birthday hits,” they mutter darkly, shaking their head. “Just you wait.”

“I haven’t told you my birthday.” He pauses. “Right?”

“I’ll ask Richie.”

“No, you won’t.”

“You’re giving me no choice.”

“You could also just, I don't know, not ask—”

“I wouldn't have to if you didn't force my hand—”

“You guys are cute together,” the cashier comments with a smile, surely a harmless, meaningless thing, but it shuts the both of them up. Carmy can already feel the impact of it on his psyche, and he decides to tuck away the surging emotions to unpack later. At least, he'll try.

“You really didn't have to get those for me,” they tell him when they're exiting the store. “But I guess I should just be saying thank you. So…thank you.”

“Sure. I mean, it would've been better if it was wrapped and stuff, but…” He shrugs. “Had to get you a real present, not just food.”

“Not just food, my ass.” That makes him laugh. “It'll be nice to have something to remind me of this day, though. That's one of the nice parts of getting gifts. Everytime I wear these clothes, I'll think of you.”

“Good. Yeah, that's…good,” he finishes lamely. He nods like their words haven't flustered him, but he's sure they can tell. They laugh, and he can tell it's because of his reaction.

“I'm sorry that the cashier said that,” they say out of nowhere.

“Why're you apologizing? It's not your fault.” Any embarrassment he was feeling before is immediately replaced with a new, more potent sort of embarrassment. He was hoping they wouldn't mention it.

“I guess that's true. I don't know, I just…” They trail off. “Just hope it didn't upset you.”

“Not at all,” he lies, and he prays they believe it.

. . . . .

The metro is less crowded on the way home. They sit comfortably next to each other and watch the city pass them by. A part of Carmy mourns the closeness they had on the way there, but the other part tells him to get it together and keep his distance.

“I'mma take a nap,” they say with a yawn. Their cardigan and bag have been tossed onto the couch. The new clothes have been thrown into the laundry machine, and there's the muffled sound of running water. “Maybe we could smoke and watch a movie later, though.”

“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He peers into the fridge to check on the cake rounds. Just as he left them. “Have a good nap.”

“Thanks, Carm,” they reply sleepily. “Wouldn't be a good day if I didn't get to have a nice nap, after all.” With that, they shuffle into their room and shut the door behind them.

Carmy spends the next two hours flying around the apartment, baking, cooking, cleaning. The sun slowly sets as he goes. He keeps his body and hands moving in hopes that his head doesn't have a chance to catch up, but it manages to keep the pace. It always does.

The crumb coat's fucked up on the left, his first train of thought says. He inspects the surface, eyes following the circumference of the cake. There's a little loose crumb. With the edge of his spatula, he tucks the crumb away.

The faint smell of chocolate wafts up from the cold cake rounds. He's hunched over the kitchen island, hands reaching between dark chocolate frosting and cake. The afternoon sun casts harsh lights onto the cake, and it glistens. He genuinely can't remember the last time he's made a layered cake. He's never been much of a baker, anyhow.

You're going to disappoint them, his second train of thought interrupts, running parallel to the other one at full speed. Who do you think you are? You don't make cakes.

He leans back, inspects his work. The crumb coats are perfect.

Fuck off, he thinks back, triumphant. Look at that shit. He runs his finger along the spatula, picking up congealed crumbs and frosting. He licks it off, and it's delicious. And it tastes good, asshole. So shut the fuck up.

You're being a nuisance, the thoughts continue. Carmy's pops the crumb coats in the freezer for a quick set. They don't actually like any of this. They're just being nice to make you feel better.

They seemed happy to me, he thinks, but he's faltering. He's washing the dishes, and the sensation of the warm water feels distant. They loved the food I made.

Couldn't you tell they were lying? He doesn't understand why these thoughts are rampaging through his head now of all times. It's not unfamiliar, but it's inconvenient. Keep this up, and you'll actually be surprised when they drop you.

Without warning, a memory hits him . As his hands drip with soap, he's reminded of playing with Michael and Sugar in the summer when he was five. Or six, or seven, he's never quite sure. They were outdoors at a local park, and the heat made the metal of the playground searing hot to the touch.

He was blowing bubbles, and the sticky mixture from the bottle was getting all over his hands. In his memory, Carmy watches the way the iridescent bubbles floated away and left little circles on the surface of the plastic slide. He can't remember why he wasn't playing with the others. He can remember the sound of their laughing voices in the distance, gleeful and delighted without him. He thinks he tried to join in, but it didn't work. It often just didn't work, and it was all his fault.

The memory ends, and Carmy's finished washing the dishes.

This is working, he thinks to himself. His hands are dried out from the hot water and soap. I swear to you, it's working. So just stop. Okay?

There's no response. Good enough.

He hears the door opening as soon as he's putting the finishing touches on the cake. With a damp paper towel, he carefully swipes away stray drops of frosting that fell onto the cake stand. He thinks it's best described as if a tiramisu was turned into a devil's food cake. It's not the best cake he's ever made, but it's definitely up there in terms of looks. All the components of the cake tasted good separately, so he hopes it makes sense in his mouth as much as it did in his head.

“Have a nice nap?” He asks before he turns his head. They're standing in the hallway, bed hair hastily tied back.

“Sorta. It was okay.” Their eyes are glued onto the cake as they walk up to the island. “Is this…?”

“This is for you, yeah,” he finishes for them. They take a seat on one of the chairs at the island. “It's a, uh, devil's food cake with vanilla mascarpone cream on the inside. The outside's this coffee buttercream…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say. He could mention the dutch processed cocoa powder, the expensive vanilla bean pods, or the endless sifting, but it feels too gratuitous.

“Wow…” They're still staring, as if it's not quite real to them. “I can't believe this is for me. It almost looks too pretty to eat, but you know I can't wait to tear into this.”

“We could, uh, have it now, if you, if you want,” he says hesitantly.

“I don't know if I could wait.” Their smile grows wider. “You even put candles on it?”

“We don't have to light them or anything if you don't want to,” he adds quickly.

“The candles are the fun part. I don't mind that. The song is…okay I guess, but…” They give him an expectant, excited look. “Were you gonna sing for me?”

“...Only if you wanted to,” he mumbles, suddenly stricken with embarrassment.

“Would that be okay? If I wanted that?”

“I wouldn't mind.” Not if it's you.

“Okay. Then, yeah.” They pull out a lighter from their pocket. “I’d really like that.”

Carmy cuts the overhead lights before taking out his own lighter to help them light the rest of the candles. One by one, the dark room gradually illuminates until it's filled with a warm, orange glow. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows onto their smiling face and reflect into their glossy eyes.

“Ready?” He asks quietly.

“I'm ready,” they whisper.

Carmy doesn't really need to clear his throat, but he does so anyway. He can't recall the last time he sang happy birthday to anyone, let alone by himself. This is the first time he's ever sung in front of an audience, too.

I can do this, he thinks to himself. I can do this.

His voice is awkward and scratchy. He never uses it like this, has never sang for anyone in his life. His ears burn, and he hates the sound of his voice, but he reminds himself to focus on their delighted little smile and warm gaze. The room is far too quiet for his voice, making the words painfully clear.

“Happy birthday to you,” he finishes singing, voice trailing off awkwardly. He's more than ready to finish singing now. “Uh, make a wish…?”

“Right.” The two of them sit in the flickering candle light for a moment longer, the silence thick. Carmy watches their face, their eyes boring into the candles with an expression he can only describe as longing. Then, they blow out the candles with a decisive blow, and the room goes dark.

He moves to switch on the lights. When he turns back to look at them, tears are streaming down their face.

“Hey,” he says softly. He props his elbows on the counter, standing across from them and tilting his head to the side. They're not meeting his gaze, glazed eyes boring into the dripping candles. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” they whisper with a sniffle, and it sounds like a reflex. Something about them suddenly seems so much smaller. “I shouldn't be crying.”

“It's okay. I don't mind.” That makes them smile, even if it's shaky. “Was the singing too much?”

“No, it wasn't your singing,” they say with a laugh. “Your singing was lovely. It's just—I'm so happy. You made today so special.”

“Yeah?” He fights the urge to reach over and wipe their tears. “I'm glad. I wanted to make it good. I…” He hesitates. “...I didn't like the idea of you spending it alone.”

“I didn't either. And I thought I was going to have to be alone…but then you—then you took off work, and you made me breakfast, you went shopping with me—even got me clothes—and now this—” Another rush of tears gushes from their eyes, and they hastily wipe at it with their shirt.

“You've done way more for me. This is the least I could do.” Before he can stop himself, his hand is brushing hair out of their eyes. They freeze for a split second, eyes finally flickering up towards him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“It's okay,” they whisper back. “Um…” They let out a shaky sigh, the sort of trembling sound that happens after crying too much. “I feel like I should explain.”

“You don't have to if you don't want to,” he assures them quickly, “but I…I'd like to know. If that's okay.”

“I want you to know. I, I do.” They open their mouth to keep talking, but shaky breaths continue to stifle them. It's hard to watch.

“Breathe,” he reminds them, quietly. He visibly takes in a deep breath, silently encouraging them to breathe with him. They follow suit, closing their eyes and taking a slow breath. Tears slip silently from their eyes. Gradually, their breathing becomes less of a staccato, evening out into something much more manageable.

“Thank you,” they murmur. He nods. They already sound a lot calmer. “I'm not sure where to start. I…I suppose I'll start with today.” Another deep breath. “I didn’t get a call from my parents today.”

“Ah…” The first missing piece.

“I knew they weren’t going to. But a part of me still hoped…” They stop and shake their head. “It's the first year that it's been like this.”

“What happened?”

“Uh…I went no contact with my family about a year ago.” Another pained, hollow laugh. The second piece. “I didn't even really want to—it was a complicated, shitty situation. My parents were being their usual shitty selves, and I just wanted them to apologize. It was over such a small thing, and, and I just…I don't know. I thought maybe I could fix things.” He's never seen them with such a heavy expression, etched with such weariness. “I just wanted them to apologize to me, Carm. That's all I wanted. And then they cut me off cold.”

Their voice is trembling again, and the tears are falling faster. The collar of their shirt is dark with moisture. Carmy hates that he doesn't know what to say. He hates just staring at them, silent as he tries to find the words.

Suddenly, he thinks of Michael.

“Michael never let me work in the restaurant,” he tells them. “That's why I went to culinary school. A big part of it, anyway. He just cut me off, didn't let me in no matter what I did, and it was…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “I felt insane. I was so fucking angry. I couldn't understand him. And I'm not saying that's anything like what you've been through, but…” He looks into their watchful eyes. “I'm sorry. I think I'm trying to say that I, that I understand. A little.”

“I…I appreciate that.” They give him a small, wobbly smile. He adores their smile, but seeing it through their tears twists something painfully in his chest. “He would've been lucky to have you. You're an excellent chef.”

“I am now, anyway.” He sighs. “Your family's missing out on you, too. You're…” Say it. Just say it. “You're a really wonderful person. I can't imagine…”

I can't imagine anyone looking at you and not loving what they see, he thinks suddenly, and he instantly realizes he can't say it. He can barely even comprehend that he just thought it.

He can't process this right now. This isn't the time.

“I keep trying to wrap my head around it all, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done better… Sometimes, the conclusion I arrive at is that I must have done something to deserve this. That I just, I don't know, that maybe I'm just this permanent fuck-up, and…” They run a tired hand over their wet face, through their hair. “My parents fucked me up real good, man.”

There's something familiar about their words, and Carmy realizes it's because it sounds like him. He would've never guessed that under their easy-going smiles was a reflection of himself. He recognizes himself in their self-deprecation, the bone-deep pain. There was always a sense of sympathetic connection between the two of them, but he had no idea. He had no idea how far deep the mutual experiences went.

A part of him still can't believe that this is the truth, that this is what lies at their core, but then he remembers. He thinks about the night they were throwing up into the toilet. They were sobbing, crying into his shoulder about how much they hate themself.

“You know you didn't deserve it. Right?” Carmy's not sure when they started leaning in so close to each other. He's looking at their wet eyelashes with startling clarity. “You did all you could.”

“You don't know that.” Their words are so soft-spoken, but it still catches him off guard. “You don't know what happened.”

“You—” Irritation prickles inside him, his instincts itching to snap back, but he doesn't. He sees himself in them, and he holds back. “You're right. I don't know what happened. But I know you.” The shock is on their face as clear as day. “At least, I think I do.”

“I want to think you do, too,” they whisper. “But this—this messy bullshit is also me. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't have to see all this. I…don't want you to…think any less of me.”

“I don't think there's anything you could do to make me think less of you.” He doesn't resist dragging his thumb across a stray tear on their cheek. To his surprise, they lean into his touch. “Y'know when I almost burned down the apartment?”

“Oh my god.” They smile, and he feels their grinning cheek against his palm. “Yeah. Is it crazy to say I remember it fondly?”

“A little bit.” They laugh. It's quiet, but it's real. “Remember that talk we had after?”

“I do. Why?”

“You're allowed to mess up on onions,” he says softly. “It won't push me away.”

They stare at him for what feels like a long time. Their eyes refill with tears, but they don't spill. With a clammy hand, they shakily place their hand on top of his hand that's still cradling their wet cheek.

“Fucking onions,” they say finally with a wet laugh. Fresh tears drip onto his thumb, and he wipes them away again. As many times as it takes. “God damnit, Carmy.”

“No one deserves to have shitty parents, let alone ones that walk out on them.” He thumbs away more tears. “You being an imperfect person like everyone else doesn't justify that.”

“There must be something more I could've done,” they whisper. “Something I did wrong.”

“Maybe. But they're your parents, not the other way around. It's not your fault.”

“I know. I know that. I do. There just has to be a reason, because—fuck—the truth would just be too fucked up.”

“...And that is?”

It takes a long, still minute before they can get their words out.

“...It’s—it's that—” Their cries are verging on sobs, increasingly more staggered and uncontrollable. “It's that s-some kids—are just—some kids have parents that will never—never love—”

They can't finish. Their sobs have overtaken their whole body. Their body's hunched over the counter, curled into themself. Carmy can't think of a time where he's ever seen them crying so hard.

Without another word, Carmy pulls them into a hug.

They cry for a long time. Through it all, fleeting condolences pass Carmy by in his head, but they all feel too cheap, too meaningless. So all he does is hold them tight, letting them grab onto his shirt and soak the fabric on his shoulder. It's all he feels he can really do.

After a while, the tide subsides. He feels them wilting in his arms, exhausted from sobbing so violently. He doesn't actually want to let them go, but their sniffling nose sounds like it's completely stopped up.

“I'm gonna get you some tissues, ok?” He says quietly. They make a quiet noise of acknowledgement, and they pull back. He snatches up a box of tissues from the coffee table. He places it in front of them before grabbing them a glass of water.

“Thank you,” they mumble, voice scratchy. Carmy stands and watches as they blow through several tissues. The water gets downed instantaneously.

“Better?”

“Yeah. A lot better.”

“Good.”

“...I think, deep down, I know I didn't deserve what happened. Or just having shitty parents in general.” They sigh. “It's just easier to think that I do. That I deserve it.”

“...Yeah.” That resonates with a part of him he's not quite ready to acknowledge. “You're one of the kindest people I've ever met,” he admits quietly. “If someone like you deserves a shitty hand in life, I'm fucked.”

“Carmy…” Their smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. I want to be able to genuinely believe that, one day. I'm going to try.”

“I know. I get it.”

“I know you do.”

That makes both of them smile, even if it's bitter.

“Thanks for telling me. About everything.”

“No, thank you for listening. For just being there for me.” They prop their chin in their hands, their elbows resting on the counter. “Y'know, this past year, I've been trying to find a sense of joy in all this mess. Sometimes it just feels so far away, like…like any happiness is just impossible. But I think I've found it. Rather, I've already found it.”

“Yeah?” Carmy looks at them expectantly, but he never expected this—

“I found you,” they tell him.

“...” He immediately fixes his shocked expression. He's at a loss for words.

Me?

“I never found a chance to mention it, but…my parents are the reason I decided to live with you. That's why I wanted to be your roommate, even though we were strangers.” They shrug shyly. “My lease was up on my last place. I was gonna go home, but then all that stuff happened at the last minute, and…yeah. I needed to find a place to live.”

“Seriously?” They just nod. “Damn. Uh…Yeah, that's fucking crazy. I had no idea.”

“At the time, I was miserable. I kept thinking to myself, ‘I can't believe how shitty this situation is!’ Don't get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but…it led me to you, so…it wasn't really all that bad, in the end. I got lucky.”

Fucking hell, he thinks to himself. Fuck.

“If you hadn't roomed with me, I wouldn't have been able to come back home for my brother's restaurant,” he says, mostly because he's so embarrassed that he swears his whole body's red at this point. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. “I think I'm the lucky one.”

“Can't we both be lucky?”

“I guess we can. Just doesn't seem very realistic.”

“Little too late to say that. It's already real.”

“...There's no other shoe?”

“Not that I know of. I think the other shoe's already dropped for us a while ago. Surely there's no other shoes left?”

“I hope not. I don't know if I could take another one.”

“Me neither.”

“...”

“Do you…want to eat your cake now?”

“Fuck, oh my god—I completely forgot! Yes!”

Just as Carmy planned, the flavors go perfectly together. Even though he knew it was going to be delicious, when he takes the first bite of the cake, relief washes over him. They seem to be overjoyed, inhaling the cake at dangerous speeds.

“You're gonna hurt yourself if you eat that fast,” he observes, both amused and concerned.

“Can't talk. Need to eat this.” That makes him laugh so abruptly he nearly gets cake up his nose. “This is the best birthday cake I've ever had, both visually and taste-wise.”

“I'm glad. Like I said, I'm not really a baker, but…I make an alright cake.”

“You make a fantastic cake.” They’ve got a bit of frosting on the corner of their mouth. “It doesn't get much better than this—eating a cake made by you.”

“Because I'm a chef, you mean?”

“No, not that. Not just that, anyway,” they amend with a cheeky grin. “Because you're my best friend.”

You're my best friend.

…

I'm their best friend, he repeats to himself. I'm their best friend.

He thinks about crying. He won't cry, but he thinks about it.

“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “...Really?”

“Y-Yeah. Unless, uh, you don't—”

“You're my best friend too,” he blurts out, and the anxiety on their face fades away into a relieved, beautiful smile.

“Thank god. That would've been pretty awkward if you didn't…” They shake their head.

“I've never been anyone's best friend before,” he confesses.

“Seriously?” They recover from the shock quickly. “Lucky me, then.”

“I thought you established we were both the lucky ones.”

“Oh, right.” They chuckle. “Lucky both of us, then.”

Carmy thought that life would always be the same. He thought that he was fated to a routine of nausea and nightmares, never quite close enough to reach a rest point. He thought that he was okay with it being his fate, because he never knew anything else.

He thought that loneliness, cigarettes, and memories would be enough, because it always stays the same. Nothing ever changes.

Until them.

He thought he had outgrown happiness, that his body had grown accustomed to living without it. That there was no longer space in his heart to withstand the weight of joy. But as he sits here with his roommate, chatting and laughing over a cake he made for them, he finds that's not true.

His capacity for happiness had never left. It had been there all along.

And with that, something in him lets go.

Carmy sees it all at once. It starts from the beginning—he sees the first day he met them, an initially hesitant meeting gone surprisingly well. He sees the first time the two of them smoked together, deliriously laughing through shared smoke. He sees them in the mornings, messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts. He sees them in nothing but an apron. He sees them in tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. He sees them laughing at a joke that he didn’t think was all that funny.

He sees them in his dreams, red tomato puree bleeding from their gums. He sees them holding his trembling hands in theirs, soothing him back down from the storm in his hand. He sees them comforting him through his tears. He sees them sobbing, hot tears on their cheek and his hand. He sees them heaving into the toilet, whispering that they want to know him. He sees himself, embracing them tightly in his arms.

He sees it all. He knows that he can't avoid it anymore.

Carmy is completely, undeniably in love with them, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do to make that realization disappear.

…Some things, he understands, refuse to stay the same.

@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto @thehouseofevangelista

#carmy berzatto #carmen berzatto #carmy berzatto x reader #carmen berzatto x reader #the bear #jeremy allen white #carmen berzatto x you #carmy berzatto x you #the bear fanfiction #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy the bear #the bear fx #my fics #alexithymia fic #GOD. IT'S FINALLY HERE. THIS ONE'S A BEAST.#ch 6 is gonna be the climax..... it's gonna happen yall. it's finally here. hahahaha #anyway this one took so long to write because it was so revealing for me... as i'm sure yall have guessed. sigh.

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btsmosphere · 8 months ago

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Supercharged | JJK (Teaser)

Get hyped!!!!!! Posting date chapter 1: 14th April

Chapter 1 is now here!

🗲summary:

It starts with a blow to the chest that changes your life. When your city’s most celebrated hero pays a visit, it turns out the noble Bolt has no trouble tossing lives aside. Lives that won't be missed. Lives like yours. Seven mysterious and powerful men give you another chance – one that starts to feel more like a curse the moment you meet golden boy Jungkook. The boy who wants you as far from his brothers as he can get you. Is it you he hates, or the blue lightning that now runs through your veins? And could it be his golden light that illuminates your heart when darkness threatens?

🗲pairing: jungkook x f!reader 🗲teaser word count: 365 🗲full fic wc: you do nOt want to know (79k...) 🗲genre: angst, action, eventual fluff, slow burn, enemies to lovers, superheroes/villains au, found family (imagine a mafia au with superpowers) 🗲rating: pg15 🗲warnings: in the teaser: none, just some tension. general fic warnings: violence with superpowers, weapons, swearing, arguing, injury, past trauma, mentions of death

>Updates every week!!

Supercharged Masterlist

a/n: guys. it's TIIIIIME!!! how many years have you heard me talk about how I was working on a superpowered jungkook story?? I started this thing four years ago so I can't believe the moment's finally come! it's been a long ride, and most of those four years was spent not writing this, but I just couldn't stay away either! I really wanted to tell this story, and now here it is and I am so happy to be able to share it💜 Let me know in a reblog, comment or ask if you want to join my taglist for this series! Over the next week before chapter 1 is released, check back as I introduce our characters👀I'm so excited for you to meet them!

As a smile was just blooming on your face, it was halted by Namjoon's next words.

“But. You aren’t ready just yet. I want you out there with us, so I’m willing to send you out sooner than I have with others before. These are unusual times, and you have to understand this will be more dangerous than I normally send rookies to. There’s work to do, with your powers, but also…

“As much as I appreciate your trust in us, I know it doesn’t extend fully. I need my team to be able to trust each other. Every single one.”

Fixing you with a hard stare to accompany his last words, he was effective in making you shrink in your seat. You knew exactly who he was talking about.

And that person was waiting for you right outside.

On leaving the office, you found Jungkook leaning up against the wall. Jin and Namjoon had hung back, leaving you alone as you emerged, and you instantly rolled your eyes. Determined not to be deterred, you kept walking down the corridor, trying to fix your eyes ahead – firmly away from the infuriating man that watched your approach.

“Scared yet?” his smirk bled through his words. You were almost upon him at this point, and he pushed away from the wall, blocking the way with his black-clad body.

Eyes flicking up to him, unimpressed, you tapped your foot.

“Why would I be scared?”

One corner of his mouth curved up, looking you in the eye as he leaned a little closer.

“We aren’t heroes, honey.”

“Thanks for spelling that out, Jungkook,” you drawled, making to step past him.

His laughter followed you while you started walking away.

“Need help packing?” he called.

“Hey, Jungkook,” Jin’s stern voice joined him, “no need. She’s not going anywhere.”

Jungkook’s silence spoke volumes.

Glancing back as you reached the end of the corridor, you were met with the livid expression that seemed so familiar. Jungkook’s eyes bulged with shock. You were sure that Jin’s hand on his shoulder was all that was holding him back.

Making the most of his eyes on you, you flashed a serene smile and walked away.

Thank you for reading!! Part 1 is coming on April 14th, and I will update every week (that's a promise, since it's already written in full!)💜

Contact me to get yourself on the tag list!

Taglist: @aianloveseven @preciouschimine @written-in-flowers @taegularities

#bangtanarmynet #jungkook x reader #jeon jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #jungkook fanfic #jungkook mafia au #jungkook enemies to lovers #bts x reader #jungkook scenarios #jungkook mafia #bts mafia series #jungkook series #jungkook angst #jungkook fic #jeongguk x reader #bts fantasy au #supercharged

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ghostoffuturespast · 5 months ago

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WIP Whenever

*takes a deep breath* Tagged by @streetkid-named-desire @wanderingaldecaldo (you two I think at least twice lol) @seeker-of-truth

@baublekute @scarlettspectra @aggravateddurian. Thank you all very much for thinking of me! 🧡

Tag backs for everyone above 😘 and @luvwich @merge-conflict @shimmer-like-agirl @mynonsenseistingling

@fly-amanitaa @dani-the-goblin @tarmac-rat @lavnderkiwi @morganlefaye79

Cash your tag in now or later and feel free to do whatever creative projects you're working on! Doesn't even have to be fandom related.

It's been a minute. This one got long.

I largely haven't been doing any fandom stuff other than VP because my work schedule has been insane the past two months. And the only reason I have VP to post is because I'm generous about snapping pics and the vast majority of photos y'all are seeing are ones I took back in March/April/May.

Things at work are starting to be slightly less hectic though, so hopefully I can get back into the swing of things. I'm trying to be gentle with myself about the time and energy I do have but it's been frustrating wanting to do things and not having the beans to do them. Spending most of my workdays outside for extended periods of time means I'm bone tired when I get home. And then I have more work to do outside...

Gardening

My garden is gonna be very scraggly looking for the rest of the year, but if I can keep it alive, in theory, the plants should come back bigger and bolder next year. Shortgrass prairie plants spend the bulk of their first few growing seasons establishing their root systems since water is often in short supply, so the tops of the plants are very unimpressive rn. Most of them probably won't get much bigger than this or even flower this year.

I've gotten a good chunk of the plants in the ground, have irrigation lines going to all of them, and did the lil concrete paver patio. I still need to finish planting the plants that have been languishing in their pots for over a month, bury the irrigation lines, and do a bunch of other random things, but we're getting there. Not planning on covering the bare dirt with mulch because I'm doing fall and spring seeding and I want the plants to self-sow. Going for wild pocket prairie and I'm gonna let it go absolutely feral. I'd eventually like to get rid of the river rocks too but baby steps.

What's really funny is all my native plants seem to be doing reasonable well. My vegetable garden on the other hand... It's sad. I know where I fucked up though (I should not have done that soil experiment lol and attack of the cutworm catepillars), so I'll just have to cut my loses this year and reevaluate for next. The worm composter is doing good though 🪱

Drawing

Attempting to get back into drawing. Again, it's been slow. Have been doodling some mutual's CP2077 OCs when I have the time and still have a ways to get through my list. I'm surprised by how much fan art of Grandpa I've received so I figured I'd return the favor for some folks. It's always a pleasant surprise getting some lovely art in your inbox. Probably won't be coloring most of these from here on out. I have a love hate relationship with coloring. Sorry, I just find lines more interesting. All of these were done with dip pen, ink, and watercolor.

I've got another more formal piece I need to work on as well and get done by the end of the month. Keep forgetting to do the layout sketches...

Writing

The slowest of them all. Been working on the same damn short fic (No. 1 of Les Preludes) and then brainstorming for about fifty other projects that are waiting their turn in line. Plus, I'm still trying to read too. But when I can only manage a chapter of a fic about every two weeks...

Most of my writing efforts have been bopping into my drafts now and then and pecking out a sentence or two. However, I did manage to spend 45 minutes detangling a section of about 200 words 🐢:

Have you or a loved one been in an accident or injured on the job? Are you missing your former quality of life? Holed up in the bathroom, Robert winced at his reflection in the mirror and at the crusted blood he picked at underneath his nostrils. Then consider Arasaka Cybernetic Implants! Fully functional prostheses are capable of replicating the full range of human motion and more! Available in a range of sizes and styles to suit all your lifestyle needs. The body of the future is NOW. The corners of his mouth tugged on a bruised eye and what former experience had taught him was a broken nose. Call 1-800-IMPLANT today for a free consultation! Low-interest financing and payment plans available. A rapid fire of unintelligible fine print was drowned out by the sputter of the faucet. Robert cupped his hands and scrubbed at his face, the pain disappearing for the briefest moments with the black of shut eyes and splashes of cold water. Arasaka Corporation. What can we do for you? Dry flecks of red decorated the sides of the sink before rehydrating into inky swirls of blood that slipped down the sides of imitation porcelain. Yellowed, cracked, and starting to chip. The plastic hadn’t aged well.

This snippet gives me the hardest war flashbacks to those late 90s/early 00s TV phone ads. Anyone else old enough to remember these things?

#even threw together a couple of new banners who am i?#drawing #writing #art #gardening #wip whenever #cyberpunk 2077 #little ghost on the prairie #🐢🪱📝🎨🌱

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fudan-no-nijiiro · 5 months ago

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UtaPri and Neurodivergent Headcanons: Yamato Hyuga

This might become a series at some point, because I think it's really interesting.

That said, I want to start out with a few disclaimers:

I am not an expert in psychology.

No identity category is a monolith. That holds especially true for neurodiverse folks; it is a huge and incredibly varied umbrella.

No UtaPri characters, to my knowledge, have a canonical formal medical diagnosis.

UtaPri is a Japanese franchise, and I am not Japanese. All sorts of intercultural misunderstandings may come into play, here.

It is entirely possible that others will find some or all of UtaPri's representations of neurodivergence and/or mental illness unimpressive, inaccurate, and/or upsetting; these are just my opinions as one fan. I'm truly just here to have a good time, and I'm also fully open to disagreements with my perspective or analysis.

That said, let's move on to Yamato!

Yamato Hyuuga and ADHD (+ possible dyslexia/other learning disabilities)

Yamato shows an impressively wide range of traits common among people with ADHD. In no particular order, there's:

Physical movement as self-regulation: Yamato regularly walks around on his hands, goes out running, and generally finds ways to move his body when given half a chance. He often flips onto his hands in the anime, and mentions fitting in runs whenever he can in Live Emotion.

Special interest in exercise: Yamato regularly tries to share what he knows with his peers, both as a way to bond with them and to help improve their fitness. According to the audio dramas, he goes training with Eiji to help him build his confidence; according to Live Emotion, he keeps up on different brands of protein powder. The first chapters of the "private stories" in Live Emotion involve instructing The Player/Haruka in the finer points of sportsware. In fairness, UtaPri tends to define its boys by their hobbies, but even given that, Yamato jumps more directly into a "teaching" mode than most of the other characters.

Struggles with sudden, intense emotions: Yamato's mood changes rapidly in a way he struggles to control, but he also returns to baseline more quickly than most people would. Anyone who's seen his episodes in the anime will have an idea of what I'm talking about here—his explosions towards Syo, which (deservedly) did little to endear him to the fandom, are the main thing I'm thinking of here. There's already been a reference to this in the early chapters in the main story: Yamato's mood is ruined in a split second by Cecil bringing up his brother, though he manages to hide the depth of the problem and not explode this time. There are a lot of possible alternative explanations for this too, in fairness, such as PTSD; more information about what happened with his brother would help to make things clearer. But emotional volatility is also a trait associated with ADHD in some cases.

Struggles with studying/mental labor: One of the main story chapters in Live Emotion involves Yamato struggling with ideas for lyrics, and the way that he tries to apply himself, rapidly gets frustrated, gives up, leaves, and then gets his idea (by engaging in his special interest!) really stood out to me as a relatable ADHD moment. In the Maji Love Kingdom audio drama, he goes out of his way to attempt to hide these difficulties in this area by insisting on working alone, which shows that this is a struggle he's all too aware of.

This struggle hints at possible comorbid learning disabilities—most likely dyslexia, though there are other potential explanations. A few details in support of this:

Trouble with reading: One of the repeated dialogues in Live Emotion, as well as a detail in at least one of the audio dramas, involves that there are a lot of kanji Yamato has trouble reading. (Bonus fun fact: Japanese dyslexia and English dyslexia are at least partially separate conditions! Some folks have one and not the other, independent of their first language. It's wild, but also given how different the writing systems are, it also makes sense. Yamato is shown sounding out words in English in Live Emotion, which I thought was a great moment, but either way it's unclear whether he experiences different levels of difficulty in Japanese and English.)

Trouble with writing: In the Maji Love Kingdom drama, Yamato is shown struggling with composition (coming up with what to write), and vocabulary (he ends up needing a lot of help from a dictionary and his unit partners to come up with his lyrics. Tokiya and Cecil were such a good team to help him with this!! "Kaleidoscope" was awesome for many reasons).

In addition, the franchise's commitment to the bit regarding Yamato's handwriting is impressive as well. Here's one of his birthday messages, for instance:

I thought at first that it was just because my Japanese wasn't great that I was struggling to read his writing, but I've also seen Japanese fans on social media scratching their heads over parts of his writing in the past. Not only that, his handwriting has been mentioned in canon (mainly HEAVENS Radio, if I'm remembering right?), with Nagi in particular complaining that his writing is often indecipherable.

There is no way to be sure, but to me, this combination of traits reads as an intentional depiction of ADHD and/or learning disabilities by at least some of the writers or character designers, even if it has not been named as such explicitly by the franchise (which, to my knowledge, it hasn't).

However, more than any particular character details, the overall arcs Yamato is involved in, and in particular the thoughtful way in which they're structured, that I find most meaningful. Yamato often says things that are openly brash, antagonistic, and/or unintentionally harsh to the people around him. However, the stories he's in follow through on this beyond the initial interaction: we find out afterwards why he's behaving this way (in the sense of his motivations, his struggles that were not visible at first, and so on). Then we get to see him reflect, either by himself or with the help of his teammates, and understand what went wrong. And finally, he often has a chance to revisit the situation with people he's clashed with, and find a more constructive resolution together with them.

I myself have been diagnosed with ADHD, although in my case, it's mostly inattentive type, and I mask it pretty effectively in my daily life. Still, I have a few of these traits: I can instruct others endlessly on my special interests, I get sudden flashes of temper, and I get easily frustrated by "simple" things in a way that can be difficult for others to understand or empathize with. These traits are ones I often feel guilt and shame about.

Yamato's strong personality is often on display for all to see, and it would be easy to turn him into a caricature or even just a villain. But instead, we get insights into his perspective, see him grow and overcome difficulties, and are shown time and again that he cares about the people around him and wants to learn to work with them better. Yamato makes me feel more confident in myself: however different I am from the people around me, and whatever mistakes I make, if I can stay brave and open-hearted, I can keep learning to be better than I was before.

#uta no prince-sama #utapri live emotion #yamato hyuga #adhd representation #nd headcanons #live emotion spoilers #I have a lot of feelings about him okay #queuetapri #long post

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rose-sophia-isabella-rogers · 10 months ago

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A Steel That Went Through Hottest Fire: Chapter IX - A Night to Remember

Chapter Summary: You confront Aleksander about your feelings. No turning back now. Either you gain what you really want… or lose everything you have.

Pairing: Aleksander Kirigan/Reader

Characters: Aleksander Kirigan, Reader, Ivan, Fruzsi

Word Count: 4224

A/N: This episode contains little plot and I think one dialogue of episode three of season two. Smut alert! If you don't like reading such scenes or are underage, please, don't read from: "You don't even notice when your kefta is gone." to "'Saints…' you gasp, when Kirigan slowly pulls out a few minutes later.". Enjoy! Inspired by prompts: https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089794862/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786859/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089792224/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786911/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089798522/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786956/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389090026888/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089792489/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786906/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786855/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089794943/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786927/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786924/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089935991/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089795188/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089786912/ https://pl.pinterest.com/pin/207306389089794946/ moi sol ye tselai – my sun and stars milaya – sweet girl lapushka – darling, honey, sweetie

Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed):

@budugu

@intothesoul

@mizelophsun11

@pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy

@zeeader

@marrymonrich

@wonderland2425

@chelseyyouraverageluigi

@thehufflepuffavenger1

It's night when you return to the mansion. Fruzsi greets you with a relieved look on her face. You're suspicious. Was she worried about you? Why? What does she want?

'Thank Saints,' she exclaims, rushing to you. 'We feared you betrayed us like David and Genya.'

'I'm sorry?' you ask, stunned. You look at her with wide eyes. Her face falls.

'Not long after you left, David and Genya disappeared,' she reports. 'General managed to bring Genya back, but David… he has escaped.'

'But… why?' you ask, still not quite believing it.

'We're not sure,' Fruzsi answers and looks at you nervously. '[Y/N]… please tell me you hid somewhere Morozova's journal. It's gone and Vladim didn't see you take it… so he assumed David left with it.'

'No, I have it with me,' you answer. But you're sure that if you had left it, David would have taken it. And with it a chance to save Aleksander… No, you can't think about it.

'Thank Saints,' Fruzsi sighs and again looks at you nervously. 'Could you tell this to General? We… I already told him that David had probably taken the journal. He's… not left his room since.'

'Why me?' you ask, puzzled. Ivan snorts. You glance behind you at him.

'So far you're the only one who was brave enough to argue with him,' he explains. 'And survive.'

'Baghra did, too,' you add.

'Baghra is Baghra,' Ivan says, shrugging. 'Besides, she's in a cage. You're not. And you're also second in command.'

'I still don't accept it,' you murmur and sigh. 'But fine. I will… talk to him.'

Fruzsi exhales, relieved. Ivan's lips twitch upward. Oh, bastard is satisfied.

'You can use this moment to make up,' he says. You glare at him and march inside. You stop outside Kirigan's room. You're suddenly nervous.

'How was it?' you sigh. '"You only live once"?'

You knock on the door. No answer. You roll your eyes and try open the door. It's locked. Irritated, you push them open with your powers and walk inside.

Aleksander is standing with his back to you, next to his table. Things that used to be on it are now on the floor. You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed.

'Is there a lock you can't open?' Kirigan asks, sounding tired.

'Haven't met one yet,' you answer, shrugging. General turns to you.

'I thought you're gone as well,' he says after a beat.

'Do you really have that little faith in me?' you scoff. 'I made you a promise, remember?'

'Our last conversation didn't exactly end on a high note,' Aleksander points out. You slowly walk toward him.

'Friends argue sometimes, did you know?' you ask. 'It happens. Especially, when they're both annoyed or irritated. And we were at the time.'

Kirigan hums. Silence falls between you two. You hesitate.

'I've heard about Genya and David,' you say quietly. General's look darkens.

'I'm disappointed,' he says. 'I've always had an affinity for them. And they- Doesn't matter. What matters is-'

He stops and looks at you. You think you see hope in his eyes.

'Morozova's journal,' he says. 'Did David…?'

'Do you really think I'd leave probably the only way to save you just laying around?' you ask and reach into your pocket. You take out Morozova's journal. Aleksander exhales shakily with relief.

'As always reliable,' he says and smiles faintly at you. 'Thank you, [Y/N].'

You frown. You see something in his eyes. Something that you've thought you'd never see.

'You really were afraid,' you whisper. Kirigan flinches. He opens his mouth to deny. But in the end, he sighs and sits down on his bed. He hides his head in his hands.

'Aleksander…' you say softly and walk to him. You sit down next to him and touch his arm gently.

'I'm terrified,' he says and raises his head slightly. 'I'm always terrified. I act like I know what I'm doing, but the truth is I don't.'

You don't really know what to say to that. So, you decide to just squeeze his arm. He turns his head and smiles at you.

'That's why I'm glad to have a friend like you,' he says. 'I can always count on you. You're my constant in life. No matter what, you're always my best friend.'

'Yeah… about that,' you chuckle nervously. 'Can we talk?'

But it's like he doesn't hear you. And you don't know how to say it. So, as usual, you focus on Kirigan. He looks really tired now. Maybe there's a chance you could… talk some sense into him?

'Aleksander… aren't you tired?' you ask quietly. 'Of always fighting? Always sacrificing? You've been protecting us for a really long time. Maybe it's time for someone else to take upon that role and for you to… rest and… do what you really want. What do you want, Aleksander?'

'I want-' Kirigan starts after a moment but then stops. He tears his fingers through his hair.

'Never mind what I want,' he says and lowers his voice. 'What do you want? I know you hate all of that. Your morals are not happy. You went to war with yourself for me. And I know you promised to stay by my side and that you're ready to ruin yourself million times. But why? What is in it for you? What do you want?'

'You,' you answer after a moment, a defeated look in your eyes.

Always you.

'What?' General asks, stunned, his head snapping toward you. He looks at you with wide eyes. You exhale slowly. You said 'a', you might as well say 'b'. So, you cup his face.

'I want you,' you repeat, staring him straight in the eyes. 'All of you. Your flaws. Your mistakes. Your imperfections. I want you and only you.'

Aleksander looks at you, stunned. If you'd press your hand to his chest, you could feel how fast his heart is beating. He's glad you're not doing that.

'What do you mean by that… exactly?' he demands. You gulp.

'I look at you and I just love you,' you say, feeling tears gathering in your eyes. 'And it terrifies me. It terrifies me what I would do for you.'

You gulp. You know it's true. You keep crossing the line. For him.

'But at the same time… I've never been happier then since I've become your friend,' you add. 'So much, in fact, that my stomach drops when I think of anyone else having you.'

Kirigan stares at you, stunned. His eyes are glistening as well. He can't believe what he hears. He doesn't want to believe it.

'Why me?' he whispers. You look at him like he was the dumbest person in the world. Which, at the moment, you believe to be the case.

'Because you saw me when I was invisible,' you answer. 'You saw what no one else did. You helped me get out of my shell and show everyone, including myself, who I really am.'

The Darkling stares at you for a moment. Then, he harshly pushes your hands away and stands up abruptly. He paces the room furiously. You observe him calmly. What else do you have to lose?

'You can't love me,' he insists. 'Not me. I… I've done terrible things. Things I know you don't approve of. You should be scared of me, not claim that you love me. Why would you- Why aren't you scared of me? Why do you care for me?'

He stops pacing and looks at you. His eyes demand an answer from you. You see he's trying to be harsh. But you see behind his façade. You can see in his look he really wants to know why. He needs it.

'I'm not scared of you, because I know you'd never hurt me,' you say, slowly standing up, then walk to him. 'You used merzost to save me from a Volcra. I don't believe you'd hurt me after that. And… I care for you for many reasons. Because how you make me feel safe and valued. How you smile whenever it's just the two of us. How you care about Grisha and for Ravka, in a way. How right it feels to be held by you. I love your laugh, your sense of humour… the way we can talk for hours and still don't have enough. You… you're it. I just know it.'

Aleksander's nose flares. He tries to put on his mask. But you've already learnt to look past it. You know it's just a defence mechanism.

'You should leave,' he says, actually surprising you. 'You should… leave this place… and forget about me. I'm not worth of… someone so kind and good loving me. So go. Leave and live your life how you should be before our paths crossed. You deserve someone better than me.'

He points his finger at the door. For a minute you stare at each other in silence.

'What if I never forget you?' you ask, causing him to flinch. 'What if, all my life, when I meet someone new, I can never fall for them, because they aren't you?'

He stares at you, stunned. You take a step forward, your faces now inches apart.

'You showed me that I can be cared for, even though everyone else tried to show me no one could ever love me,' you say. 'You fought my battles for me and protected me when someone was hurting me. You comforted me when I was at my worst. You didn't push away when I was closing myself in. You pushed through my walls and became my friend. No one ever did that. I know you're not exactly a good person. Maybe I deserve someone else, but I always wanted you. And no matter who you are and what you did… you deserve to be loved.'

Kirigan stares at you in shock, opening and closing his mouth. When he doesn't say anything for a longer moment, you hang your head, defeated, and head toward the door, desperately trying not to burst into tears. At least not while you're still in his room. But a hand grasping your arm stops you.

'You can't just touch my soul and leave,' Kirigan says, calmness back in his voice. You look up at him, surprised. Yes, he's composed again. But the mask is gone now. He looks at you in a way you've never seen him looking at you. You can't exactly describe it.

'And… how did I touch it?' you ask hesitantly, now your voice breaking. 'How do I make you feel? Tell me the truth, please.'

'The truth?' Aleksander asks and runs a hand through his hair. 'I like you. A lot. You make me happy. You make me laugh. You're smart. You're different. You're a little crazy and awkward, and your smile alone can make my day.'

You stare at him, stunned. He looks at you softly.

'Truth is, I didn't expect to get this attached to you,' he admits. You feel tears welling up in your eyes. Kirigan cups your face and dries the corners of your eyes.

'Why?' you whisper. He ponders his answer for a moment.

'At first, I was drawn to your power,' he starts slowly. 'Then… I started enjoy your company. I couldn't understand it. Why you made me feel… at peace. Good. I know now. You find goodness in others. And when it's not there, you create it. That's what you did with me. You made me want to be better. To protect you. To care for you. You reminded me why I'm doing this all, when I was losing the will to fight. So that all Grisha could be safe. So you could be safe.'

He takes your hand and places it on his heart. You inhale sharply, feeling how fast his heart is beating.

'I don't know when nor how… but you grabbed my heart, took it and I know I can never get it back,' he says. 'Not in the way it was before. Moi sol ye tselai. That's who you are to me. Who you've always been.'

Okay, that's it. You can't stop them now. Your tears are falling like a broken dam. Aleksander leans down… and kisses them away. Which causes you to start sobbing. He takes you in his arms and embraces you tightly.

'Sh… milaya,' he whispers. 'I have you. I finally have you and I'll never let you go.'

'Finally?' you whisper. He hugs you tighter.

'I tried to fight it,' he says. 'When I realised what I feel for you. I tried to deny it, to insist we're just friends. No matter how much it hurt or broke my heart. I tried to make Alina love me, trust me, when all the time I wish it was you in her place. But I told myself it's impossible. So, I cared for you from afar. Making sure you're safe. And whenever you weren't, I was going mad from fear. Because losing you… I believe it would finally kill me. I can no longer live without you, lapushka.'

His voice shakes a bit. You wonder whether he's crying as well. Or he's close to and is stopping himself. But your face is pressed into his kefta, so you can't see.

'Can I kiss you?' he whispers suddenly. Your heart beats like crazy. You pull away slightly, to be able to look at his face. Your eyes meet.

'Yes,' you answer, breathless. In a second, Aleksander cups your face and his lips meet yours. You gasp, surprised, and answer the kiss. You've often dreamed of kissing him. But reality is far better. When he finally pulls away, you're dazed. And he's breathing heavily.

'Far better than my dreams,' he chuckles. You blush and look down at his kefta. His black kefta with golden embroidery.

'Better than kissing Alina?' you ask before you can stop yourself. You can't help it. Jealousy and insecurity take you over again.

'Why do you think we kissed?' Kirigan asks after a moment. You look up at him and roll your eyes.

'I'm not an idiot, Aleksander,' you say. 'I know you were with Alina in your chambers when I came to tell you about the attack on Marie. And I know why you were there.'

'Hey,' he says, grasping your arms tightly. 'Nothing happened, do you hear me? Nothing happened except for kissing.'

'Because I interrupted,' you say grimly. General tilts your chin up.

'Yes,' he admits. 'And believe me when I say that a part of me was glad you did. Because when I was kissing her… and it was not better than with you… I wished I was kissing you. Holding you. Doing… more with you. And then you showed up… I was both elated and… I felt guilty. I couldn't understand why. We weren't together. But I felt… like I was betraying you. So, I was relieved I have to leave.'

'Maybe if you'd stayed, everything would be different now. Maybe Alina would be yours. And you two would change the world.'

'Perhaps. But… we wouldn't have that conversation. I'm glad we did. Because while I thought Alina is my equal… my heart is choosing you. Over and over again. It tells me to kiss you senseless. Ravish you. Make you mine.'

'What's stopping you, then?'

Aleksander freezes. He looks at you with wide eyes. You stare back at him calmly, even though your heart is beating like crazy. You're scared, yes. But you want it. Want him.

'Are you sure?' Kirigan says, his voice low. You kiss him softly.

'I want to make you mine as well,' you whisper. In a moment Aleksander pulls you closer to himself, causing you to gasp, and kisses you. It's more passionate and rougher than your first kiss. But you don't mind. You answer in the same manner. You don't even notice when your kefta is gone. You only do when you feel Kirigan taking off your shirt.

'Your shirt has to go, but you can stay,' he informs you. You laugh and help him take it off of you.

'How generous of you,' you say, amused, and reach for his kefta. 'But in that case, I want you naked as well.'

You undress each other. You stare at Aleksander's naked body in awe. You see him smirking at you, satisfied with your reaction. But then his eyes roam over you and they turn black with lust.

'I need you,' he says quietly. You take a step forward.

'I'm yours,' you declare. Your lips meet in a kiss again. Your hands are all over each other. Kirigan leads you to his bed and you lay down on it, him on top of you. He caresses your body, kissing it from your face and going down. You gasp and whimper under him.

'I've wanted this for so long,' he groans, as he starts licking your womanhood. Your eyes go wide and your body jerks, as you gasp. You moan and close your eyes, when his fingers start preparing you.

'Does it feel good?' Kirigan asks, his voice low.

'More…' you whisper. 'I need more. Please. Please, Aleksander.'

'In a moment, milaya,' your lover says, kissing your inner thigh. 'I need you to be ready for me. I don't want to hurt you.'

A few minutes later you're a panting and moaning mess. Your face is red, eyes dark with lust, lips parted. But to Aleksander you're beautiful.

'Perfect,' he whispers, looking at you in awe, and positions his member at your entrance. 'Do you still want it?'

'If you stop now, I'm going to make you anaemic,' you declare, glaring at him. He laughs and slowly enters you. You gasp and he groans. He gives you a moment to adjust. Then, he starts moving. It's nothing you've ever felt before. You put your arms around him and hold on tight.

'You feel so good, [Y/N],' Kirigan groans after a moment, kissing your face, especially your lips. 'As if you were made for me.'

'I was,' you gasp. 'I'm pretty sure I was. Oh… Saints… Aleksander… yes…'

'Say my name again,' your lover demands, his look darkening. You start repeating his name like a prayer. It spurs him on. He speeds up. You arch your back. He thrusts a few more times and when he hits just the right spot, you both reach your high, moaning each other's names.

'Saints…' you gasp, when Kirigan slowly pulls out a few minutes later. 'So much better than my dreams.'

Aleksander chuckles. He looks at you with mirth.

'Did you dream about it often?' he asks.

'Not really,' you admit, surprising him. 'I have a terrible sleeping schedule.'

'True, we must do something about it,' Kirigan agrees. He gets up, but only to grab a wet cloth to wash you both. When he's done, he pulls the covers over you. He puts his arms around you and pulls you to himself.

'Sleep, [Y/N],' he murmurs in your hair and kisses your head. 'I'll be here when you wake up.'

You weren't even that sleepy a moment ago. But now… you close your eyes and almost immediately fall asleep. With a happy smile on your face.

When Aleksander wakes up, you're cuddling to him. He smiles. He didn't dream to wish for this to happen. Yet here you are. In his arms. Feeling what he feels. Maybe his plans were ruined. But at least it got him to this. Perhaps it was worth it.

He's about to press a kiss to your forehead, when a familiar feeling rises in his throat. He quickly untangles himself from you and falls from the bed. He manages to reach his desk when a cough shakes his body. He can't stop. Soon, he feels the black substance on his hand that covers his mouth. It overflows.

The moment the attack stops, a handkerchief appears in front of his face. He stares at it, puzzled. He follows the hand that holds it and finds it's attached to you. You're leaning over him, as he's fallen on his knees, your other hand holding covers around your body, and looking at him with worry.

'Thank you,' he says after a moment and takes the handkerchief. He wipes his mouth and then his hand. He stands up with your help.

'I'm sorry,' he says. 'I didn't mean to wake you.'

'I was already awake,' you say, shaking your head. 'I just… It felt nice. Being in your arms.'

You blush and Aleksander smiles. He puts a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

'I enjoyed having you in my arms as well,' he says. You smile. You take his hand and lead him back to bed. You make him sit down and then lower yourself on his lap. He stares at you in awe, as you cup his face and kiss him.

'Is it… okay?' you whisper, shy.

'More than okay,' he assures you, grabbing your hips. 'Whenever you feel like kissing me, just do it.'

You smile at that and kiss him again. He moans into the kiss and falls on his back. You start kissing his jaw.

'If you continue… we will not leave this room tonight,' he says after a moment, his voice strained.

'I don't see how that would be bad,' you say, smirking, but roll off of him. He reaches for you and pulls you to himself.

'Someone would come in, worried, and would see us naked and very busy,' Kirigan says. You freeze.

'Saints, no,' you whisper, horrified. Your lover laughs. He caresses your arm. He looks at you a moment later and sees you're deep in thought.

'What's on your mind?' he asks. You hum.

'Just thinking,' you say and look up at him. 'Funny how it all turned out. I think… meeting you was fate. Becoming your friend was a choice. But… falling in love with you was beyond my control.'

Aleksander smiles and pecks your lips. He nuzzles your nose.

'I may hate your father for how he treated you, but I'm glad he brought you to the Little Palace,' he says.

'My father is not something I want to talk about while in bed with you,' you sigh.

'Oh? And what would you rather talk about?' your lover asks, grinning. 'How absolutely perfect you were last night? How I wish to kiss and mark every inch of your body?'

You blush and bite your lip. While what he says it's a bit embarrassing, you really want that. Saints, you want that so much.

'Don't bite your lip, I want to do that,' Aleksander says quietly, leaning to your face. You let go of your lip, but a moment later it's between Kirigan's teeth. You're about to kiss again… when there's a knock on the door.

'Way to ruin a moment,' you murmur, glumly.

'I know,' Kirigan says, irritated. He quickly gets up and puts on his pants. He walks to the door and opens it slightly. Outside, he sees a troubled Fruzsi.

'What is it?' he asks, annoyed she interrupted a thing he's wanted for so long to happen.

'Forgive me, General,' Fruzsi apologies. 'But we can't find [Y/N] anywhere. It appears she's not slept in her room last night. And last time we saw her, she was heading here-'

'She's fine,' Aleksander cuts her off. 'No need to worry.'

Fruzsi stares at him. Then, she glances behind him. She clears her throat.

'I see,' she says. 'I apologise again.'

She bows her head and leaves. Kirigan closes the door behind her and turns to you. He's disappointed to see you're already dressing.

'Going so soon?' he asks, walking slowly toward you.

'Busy day,' you answer. 'I have to find a way to help you.'

Aleksander stops. He watches you as you finish dressing up.

'Don't do it at the expense of yourself,' he asks you. You walk to him with a smile.

'I won't,' you promise and kiss him one more time. 'I'll see you later.'

You walk toward the door, but Kirigan's hand on your wrist stops you. You glance at it, then at his face, confused.

'You know you're mine now, yes?' he asks. 'And I'm yours. We're together.'

You smile brightly at him and nod. He smiles back and lets you go. You leave his room and head toward the workshop. You turn the corner and almost shriek, scared, as you almost walk right into Ivan.

'Are you trying to kill me?' you ask, glaring at him.

'Is it true?' he asks instead of answering. 'Did you spend the night with General?'

'Don't you dare saying "I told you so",' you say, blushing furiously. Ivan smirks.

'So, he said it, then?' he asks. 'That he loves you back.'

You open your mouth to confirm, but stop yourself. You freeze. You replay your conversation from last night in your head. Your heart starts beating faster, causing Ivan to frown. Because Aleksander didn't say it. He said all those wonderful things, but he didn't say those three little words. He… he said he likes you. But… does it mean he loves you?

A/N: Thank you for reading! Let me know your thoughts! Reblog, like and comment if you could.

This can also be found on Archive of Our Own: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52696933/chapters/134301133

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blue-sophia · 1 year ago

Text

Winx Club: Season 1 Rewrite (Snippet)

So as I've said before, I'm working on a rewrite of the Winx Club series and as I'm writing, I thought it'd be fun to share an extract of chapter 1:

“I can’t believe we’re letting him go back to that school.”

Standing beside her, on the threshold of Eraklyon’s royal palace, King Erendor sighed as his wife repeated the same accusation she had been firing at him for weeks. “He has many enemies, Samara, and will grow up to have even more. Sending him to Red Fountain is the best thing we can do to prepare him.”

Samara didn’t bother addressing her husband, her eyes fixed on the ship that was currently being prepared for takeoff in the direction of Magix’s capital city. Palace servants were loading suitcases and bags into the cargo compartment of the ship, while the pilot and guards were discussing the route most likely to let them go undetected. “His enemies are exactly the reason we should keep him here,” She said. “Sky is the future King of Eraklyon, he should be learning how to rule a kingdom, not how to swing a sword or shoot an arrow.”

“You think our army will take commands from a king who hasn’t known a day of battle?” As the Magic Dimension’s Realm of the Warrior, Eraklyon was well known for its strong military force. Other planets and kingdoms would trade their own products and services for Eraklyan knights to fight their battles. So for Sky to command such a strong and proud army and its generals, it was vital he earned their respect as a swordsman first. “Those men aren’t the type to listen to spoiled brats.”

“Then have master Lowine teach him.”

“He has been,” Erendor said. “But having one swordmaster train you is not nearly the same as getting Red Fountain’s level of military education. Besides, royals and lords all over the magic dimension are sending their sons to Red Fountain, not to mention the high-born girls at Alfea. Sky should get to know them; form alliances and gather information for when he needs it.”

“And just how is he supposed to do that when everybody takes him for that Allard boy?” Samara rebutted, her attention now having shifted to the brunette standing beside her son. “Those other kids don’t even know who ‘Sky’ really is.”

“That’s a temporary safety measurement. Once Yoshinoiya’s threats settle down we will rectify that situation.” Erenor said, his eyes too having been redirected to the young squire. “Besides, it’s not a bad thing for Sky to be friends with someone from the Southern Isles.”

“I don’t trust that boy. He’s corrupting Sky’s brain with that southern liberalism. You know his father, he’s-”

“The south’s strongest military leader, one we should keep on our side.” Erendor interjected. “And if we do that by sending Brandon to Red Fountain with Sky, then he is letting us off easy,” he said. “Christian is many things, but he’s not a traitor.”

“Well let’s hope the same thing can be said about his children then. His oldest just recently got betrothed to Lord Khai’s daughter. Quite the match I’ve heard.” Samara said, clearly unimpressed by the marriage between the two southern families. “Speaking of engagements, I was just informed that Lady Disapro will be joining us for dinner tonight?”

Erendor wasn’t unaware of the sneer laced with the queen’s polished vocabulary. “Sky is leaving a day sooner than planned, but that doesn’t mean we should deny Diaspro a meal with her future in-laws.” He said. “Her parents will not be joining us, however, but the girl is very well informed of House Grandare’s politics.”

“Oh I have no doubts about the girl’s devotion to her father’s lordship. I simply wonder whether we have found the best suitor Sky could be taking to marriage.” Samara said, revisiting the topic of her son’s potential fiancée once more. “Doesn’t Princess Stella of Solaria go to Alfea? I thought Sky was quite fond of her?”

“He is, but she’s Solaria’s crowned princess, their only one at that, she’d never leave Solaria for another kingdom.” Erendor shook his head. “Besides, Radius denies anybody’s request for his daughter's hand. His pending divorce from Luna has him all sentimental about the princess’s future marriage, which he will not be arranging under any circumstances.”

Samara scoffed. “I’ve always told him that he’s way too lenient with that girl.” she said, making a mental note to have her staff reach out to the King of Solaria. “I will be attending dinner tonight, but not before reevaluating our options. I do think that an international coupling is within our best interest.”

“Whatever you wish, darling.” The sarcasm was nearly dripping off his words. “But we will want to think about the consequences of cutting off this agreement at this stage, Lord Grandare won’t take kindly to a disruption of his plans to get his daughter married to Sky.”

“His plans to get his daughter on the throne, you mean.” Samara rolled her eyes. Lord Grandare was a good ally of the royal family, but the queen wasn’t unaware of his motives to get his daughter married off to the prince as soon as possible. Diaspro was a nice girl, pretty too, so Sky shouldn’t have too much to complain about, but Samara wasn’t too keen on the idea of the Grandares taking over the palace at her expense. “I will see what we can do about him, should this marriage be the best option available.”

Erendor stayed silent for a moment, watching his son get ready to board and giving him a silent nod when the prince looked up at him expectantly. In the corner of his eye, he could see his wife offering her son a static wave. “Seems like they’ll be taking off soon.” He said, readjusting his cape and making his way down the steps of the palace.

“I’ll arrange travel plans to Solaria and Lynphea for the next week. I don’t think a suitor for princess Krystal has been named yet.” Turning on one heel, Samara signalled for her handmaiden to fetch her phone. “I will have Gaston prepare duck for tonight’s dinner, don’t you think? Diaspro’s from the North, so I think she could appreciate-”

“Samara.”

Inhaling sharply at the interruption, Samara slowly turned her head to look at her husband. “Yes?”

Erendor sighed as he let his eyes slide back and forth between his wife and his son. “They’re about to leave for an entire school year.” He tried to hint. However, Samara merely raised an eyebrow at him, silently asking him for further elaboration. “Don’t you think we should say goodbye?

A moment of silence fell between the two of them as Samara followed his gaze. “I have more pressing matters to attend to than sentiment,” She then stated, her eyes momentarily locking with those of her son, before stoically averting them. “Like preparing to tell Diaspro she won’t be seeing her fiancé for a year.”

That's it! Please let me know what you think!

#winx club #winx #winx club rewrite #winx rewrite #fanfic #winx sky #winx stella #winx brandon #rewrite #brella

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blade-that-was-broken · 6 months ago

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Where’s Barb in Wrath and Rain AU?

What happened to her?

To be honest I kind of miss half life AU- :’D

I understand it’s hard depending on your motivation and your ideas with AUs.

They all are awesome! :D

Barb... is generally kind of similar to canon but also not really?

She'd be with her dad. Idk how old she is in canon but here she's probably not that much older than Branch, so she'd be a teenager by the time the war starts up again. Nothing has really "happened" to her, although considering how she was in canon... she's probably a little crazier here and I imagine gets more involved in the resurgence with a whole attitude of feeling she has to take resistance down, get everyone to be rock zombies, etc.

She'll probably end up with a specific grudge against someone lol

Although since her dad hates JD so much, she does too.

Half Life is like... always in the back of my mind. Literally always. I got stuck on the next chapter of Breathe Again cause I lost my outline (sobbing) and I'm not entirely sure how the things were supposed to go in the chapter and it was kinda driving me crazy. Couple that with my burn out... (as you can tell, I have been able to outline stuff but not really write, write, sadly) it's been a whole mess. Wrath and Ruin is just an outline at this point but I'd like to finish Breathe Again... maybe gets some more shorts and oneshots cause there is plenty I'd love to talk about

Anyways, I know it's not much but I have this little Bowling oneshot wip that isn't finished so here is a snippet from Half Life....

John paid the attendant and moved towards the shoe counter, gathering everyone’s sizes and ordering them up before distributing them around to Spruce, Clay and Floyd. Clay took his shoes greedily and raced over to their assigned lane to put them on, not even sparing the rest of his family a glance before he ran towards the bowling balls to pick his. He found a green and yellow swirled one that seemed a perfect weight for him. He turned around, almost running into a bunch of red hair.

Delta Dawn, his brother’s best friend, turned to face him, her expression lighting up at the sight of him. “Clay! I didn’t know you were here.”

“John said we were going to go bowling,” he replied, plainly. “What are you doing here? Did JD invite you? Cause you can join us, obviously. I don’t think even Spruce would mind.”

It wasn’t exactly a secret that Spruce had the tiniest bit of a crush on Delta but Clay was pretty sure it was because of her red hair. Or the fact that she had the most amazing, voluminous hair any of them had ever seen. Spruce definitely liked his hair. Clay found it weird. He hated brushing his hair or even doing anything with his hair.

“I’m actually with…”

A guy came up by her side, looking down over her shoulder. Clay frowned, his brow furrowing as he looked at him a little closer. He was tall, a bit spindly, with dark hair and an angular face. He reminded Clay of someone but he wasn’t sure exactly. “Who are you?”

“Jim,” he replied slowly. “Who… are you?”

“Jim, this is Clay, my friend’s little brother. Clay, this is… this is my boyfriend, Jim,” Delta introduced, gesturing with her hand between the two of them.

Clay looked unimpressed. “Your boyfriend? I didn’t realize going on three dates meant that you were… going steady or whatever they call it these days.”

Jim snorted, amused. “You’re funny. I’ve heard a bit about you; Delta says you are quite the up and coming horse rider.”

“Equestrian,” Clay corrected immediately. “She’s… told you about us?”

#ask #half life au #wrath and ruin au #I'm so sorry ahhhhhh #for real I love half life tho #maybe i can sketch something about it tho???

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tennessoui · 2 years ago

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Hey kit ! Your last fic was a treat, I love sugar baby Obi-wan being spoiled by Anakin !! He deserves it ! Thank you so much for sharing !

For the four words prompt, what about TIIT Obi-wan saying « you’re a menace » to Anakin 😁 ?

hey!! thank you, i'm glad you liked it!!!

this is set in the squick: a/b/o universe of terribly inconvenient, incredibly terrific, a few months after the end!!

(also,,,,,may be posting a 4th chapter/epilogue to that fic this week,,,,,,where obi-wan goes into surprise rut,,,so if you wanna reread to prep/remind yourself,,,,i had to)

(1.7k)

For one blissful, probably pheromone-addled moment, Obi-Wan had really honestly let himself believe that claiming and mating Anakin would somehow make him easier to wrangle. That perhaps the only thing that would have helped during his bratty and incorrigible senior padawan years was a mating bite and some sort of sexual reward system for good behavior.

He’d even tricked himself into feeling quite optimistic about the whole thing. He’d never particularly envisioned himself as a mated alpha, but he’d thought it could be agreeable, when the omega he was mated to was also the same person who turned out to be the love of his life.

He’d really honestly thought that mating the brat would make his life much easier, and not even because of any of the stereotypical alpha tricks and dynamics nonsense always purported by the galactic holos and media. He hadn’t thought he could scruff Anakin into obedience or that he’d ever want to use that commanding alpha tone on him to make him fall in line.

Obi-Wan isn’t that sort of alpha.

Obi-Wan would rather die than ever become that sort of alpha.

But they’d admitted their love to each other in the wake of Anakin’s heat, in the precious few moments before they’d bonded.

Weren’t you supposed to want to make the person you loved’s life easier? As a general rule of thumb?

Apparently no one’s told Anakin this.

“You’re a menace,” Obi-Wan says, and his tone is supposed to be flat, unimpressed, but it comes out almost awed.

Anakin preens from behind the bars of his jail cell. He goes back to looking surly a second later though, like it’s his resting demeanor.

“Two planetary incidents in one fucking day,” Obi-Wan continues, still trying to wrap his head around…this. He starts pacing, because pacing usually helps. “The Vun and the Jael peoples hate each other, Anakin. They’ve not agreed on anything for the past two thousand years, hence the entire civil war. And yet in the span of one day, you’ve managed to unite them behind one thing. Hatred for you.”

Anakin bears his teeth, air spiking with the scent of—of—sticky sap.

“Are you—sorry, are you aroused?”

“No!” Anakin scowls and shifts from his seat on the jail cell bed. His cheeks are flushed though, and he can’t maintain eye contact with him.

“You are,” Obi-Wan says slowly, the awe accidentally slinking its way back into his voice. “Do you know how many hours of my night I just spent negotiating for your release and our safe passage off Vu/Jaelo? Too many to fucking count, Anakin. I am furious with you.”

Anakin shifts again as if he can’t help it. “Yeah?”

“Force,” Obi-Wan rubs a hand over his beard with a shake of his head. “Both sides wanted to kill you, Anakin—the only reason they didn’t is because they couldn’t agree on how.”

“No,” Anakin says and Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow.

“Oh, I assure you they did. It took all of dinner to convince them not to—why are you aroused, Anakin? This is neither the time nor the place!”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, as Anakin never responds well to yelling, but he’s feeling his own instinctual response to Anakin’s arousal stirring in his stomach. His omega is wet and Obi-Wan just spent twenty odd hours defending him and protecting him aand the alpha inside his chest is clawing at the bars of its cage to take his reward.

Obi-Wan automatically starts on a very reliable breathing exercise, but it just pulls more of Anakin’s scent into his lungs, which is so distracting that he doesn’t even realize he’s stopped regulating or counting his breaths all together and is just standing half a step away from his omega’s prison cell, mouth open and watering.

Had he really ever, actually thought that his life would get easier after mating Anakin?

What a fool he’d been.

“Not knowing how wasn’t the only thing that stopped them,” Anakin says, rising from his cot to press himself against the jail bars. “You did. You’d be a pretty shit alpha if you let your omega get killed over a little diplomatic misunderstanding.”

Obi-Wan feels his lips pull back into a snarl. “I should put you on your knees,” he hears himself say as if someone else were growling the words. How can Anakin affect him so much, so easily? Half the time they’re together now after their mating, he feels like he’s coming undone, like he’s two seconds away from being swallowed by his instincts to take. To possess.

“You could,” Anakin agrees. “You’re my alpha. You could order me to do anything, and I would. You could tell me to kneel in that tone, and I’d drop for you. I wouldn’t be able to help it. My body would listen because it knows it’s yours.”

“I’d never,” Obi-Wan says, horrified by the very thought, and then doubly so when he’s hit by the idea that perhaps Anakin is expecting him to do so, has been waiting for it to happen, for Obi-Wan to snap and—and abuse him. He’s stepping forward to cradle Anakin’s cheek through the prison bars.

For the first time since they mated, Obi-Wan wonders if they should have. If he could ever be a good enough alpha for Anakin, when he’s never going to be able to stop being his master.

And being Anakin’s master historically has meant a lot of nagging and berating and attempts at controlling.

But as his alpha, the nagging and the berating and the attempts at control…Anakin must have worried Obi-Wan might actually control him, use the alpha command, force him into compliance.

Anakin presses his cheek against the palm of Obi-Wan’s hand, practically nuzzling him. “I know,” he murmurs. “Of course I know, Obi-Wan. You’re the best alpha in the entire galaxy.”

Something settles in Obi-Wan’s chest at this admission, and he watches as his thumb strokes along the edge of the scar over Anakin’s cheek. “Best omega,” he replies rather nonsensically as the omega in question is currently standing behind prison bars after causing a round of serious diplomatic incidents.

“Don’t lie,” Anakin admonishes with a smile. His cheeks crease with the force of it.

“My omega,” Obi-Wan corrects himself, and Anakin lets out a noise that can only be described as a purr. He goes through the motions of unlocking the cell and is rewarded with Anakin in his arms, cold nose rubbing over the mating bite on Obi-Wan’s neck.

“I knew,” Anakin mumbles several hours ater after he’s thoroughly scented all of Obi-Wan, and they’re laying on their sheets, basking in the afterglow of sex that has yet to lose its electric and heady magic.

Obi-Wan hums to show he’s listening, but most of his attention is focused on the arduous task of stroking his fingers through Anakin’s soft hair, from root to tip over and over again.

“But I had to make sure,” Anakin continues, and it must be important because his scent goes sharp with nerves and he props himself up on Obi-Wan’s chest. “So. Sorry. You know. About the last few months.”

Obi-Wan blinks, eyebrows furrowing as he tries to think past his sex haze to what Anakin is saying. “You had to make sure,” he repeats.

“Yeah,” Anakin’s hair has fallen down across his forehead. He bites his lip. “I knew you’d never really command me or, you know. Be like that. But—but I just needed to make sure.”

“Wait,” Obi-Wan says. “Sorry, just—are you saying that you—for the past few months you’ve been so awful and incorrigible on purpose? You were testing me to—what, see if I’d snap?”

Anakin shrugs with one shoulder, looking torn between stubborn and sheepish. “I’d never known you as an alpha, just as my master. I needed to see for sure that you’d—you’d be an alpha I could trust as much as I trust my master.”

“Healer Che gave me meds to help with the migraines you’ve been giving me,” Obi-Wan says flatly. “She didn’t even question why I’d need them. You’ve been a menace. You poured soup on the lap of the Queen from Balion. You stole every left footed boot I own and hid them around the ship. You told the cook that my favorite food was ushral paste and to use it in everything. I despise the taste of ushral. You know that.”

“Well,” Anakin sniffs. “Tastes can change.”

“I’ve spent ninety-seven days wanting to throttle you.”

“Well,” Anakin clears his throat. “I’ve spent the last ninety-seven days falling more and more in love with you. Because of how you’ve—because you’ve never—you never snapped. You never commanded me to stop. You just went all Master on me.”

“All Master on you.”

“Yeah, like. I’m very disappointed in your antics, padawan, if you want to behave like a child, I’m sure we can find a spare cot for you in the creche—”

“I never said that,” Obi-Wan protests, because even at his most annoyed with Anakin, he never even considered sending him away.

“You practically did,” Anakin shrugs with his other shoulder. “But I would have deserved it. I was being awful.”

“Agreed,” Obi-Wan says. “I think I understand though.” “Of course you do,” Anakin drops down to rest his head on his chest again.

Obi-Wan lets the quiet envelop them again, resuming his Force-given job of scratching at his omega’s scalp gently. “So you’ll stop then, right? No more tests?”

“No more tests,” Anakin says. “You’re a good alpha.”

“Excellent,” Obi-Wan replies. Then with a bit of a grin he can’t keep off his face if he tried, “and I can’t wait to see you attempt being a good omega.”

Anakin bites him.

It’s only partially well-deserved.

#asks #tiit #obikin #squick tag: a/b/o #prompt fill #anakin getting aroused because obi-wan is lecturing him is something that can actually be so personal #and so nice

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theygotbitchesinmedia · 9 months ago

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I've read 34 chapters of this now which is a third of the whole thing and I have to say so far pretty much none of this is interesting. Moment to moment its all just playing out like pretty typical zombie nonsense which I'm not really that fond of in general so I was hoping the isekai romance/time loop elements would add more flavor than they're currently adding. It just pretty much feels like set dressing or a gimmick at this point. Maybe they'll manage to turn it around in the back half but Im really unimpressed so far

#lb surviving romance

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falling-endlessly · 11 months ago

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Teknologik

Vox x Vaggie

Summary: Vaggie is a newly fallen soul in hell. In a strange twist of fate, she manages to get tangled up with the infamous TV demon—and now, he won't leave her alone.

Bisexual!Vaggie

<—Part 1 Chapter Index Part 3—>

Part 2: Well, shit

Several weeks had passed since her arrival in hell, and Vaggie was slowly getting used to it.

Sure most people weren't the friendliest, and the gunshots were kind of a pain to sleep through at night, but it wasn't much different from the area she grew up around. Besides, every once in awhile, she would even come across someone actually halfway decent, so it really wasn't too terrible.

As long as you kept your head down and didn't fuck with the crazies, then you'd be fine. Vaggie was used to flying under the radar.

On top of that, she now had a stable job, room and board, courtesy of Dante—the owner of 666 bakery who'd nearly beat her with his whisk when they'd met. Dante was a burly, gruff man who mostly kept to himself, but he was kind at heart and harbored a soft spot for new arrivals. She often found herself curious as to the reason he ended up in hell—but apparently asking that of someone was taboo here. She learnt that the hard way.

For the most part, Vaggie considered herself extremely lucky. Things could have taken a much darker turn if she hadn't run into someone as generous and accommodating as Dante. She would even say she enjoyed working at the bakery. There was something strangely therapeutic about working just the two of them in the kitchen, no words exchanged, just the soft melody of the old stereo playing on the counter. Then when it was time to open, she would take turns manning the register and restocking their display. It was repetitive, but comforting.

Vaggie hummed under her breath, writing down the ingredients they would need to restock on her notepad. She heard the tinkle of the bell, indicating a new client had arrived.

"Just a second!" She called out, stuffing her notepad into her apron and brushing the flour from her shirt. She pushed past the curtains that separated the kitchen from the display, taking in the strange, frowning demon scrolling through his phone. He was dressed well above the standard, probably worked for an overlord or something, but the strangest thing about him was the fact that his face was literally a television screen. Vaggie blinked, approaching the register.

"Welcome to 666 bakery, what can I get you?" She raised a brow.

He didn't answer her, not even looking up from his phone.

Vaggie's eye twitched. Great, an asshole too. "Sir?" She gritted out, face straining to keep a neutral expression.

"Hmm?" He glanced up boredly, giving her an unimpressed once over that made her fume. "Oh, you're finally here. I was wondering how long I would have to wait."

Vaggie's jaw dropped, her fists balling at her sides. "What the f—"

"Anyway, I'm kind of in a rush," he rolled his eyes, looking at her pointedly. "Could I get two dozen double chocolate cupcakes, a red velvet cake, six boxes of strawberry vanilla cake pops and three mocha lattes?"

"Is that all?" Vaggie typed it up with a sarcastic smile.

"Yep," he said, glancing back down at his phone.

"That'll be 300 dollars and 35 cents," she said with a raised brow. This guy might be an asshole but at least he was keeping them in business. "How would you like to pay?"

"Credit," he said distractedly. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his slacks, pulling out a sleek black and gold infinite credit card. Vaggie's eyebrows raised even higher. Damn, so he was rich rich.

"Due to the size of your order," she continued, setting up the device for him to scan his card. "It will probably be ready by 3 pm at the earliest. If you could just leave us your phone number—"

"What?" He snapped, retracting his card and lifting his eyes to glare at her. "What part of 'I'm in a rush' did you not understand?"

Vaggie struggled to keep her calm, forcing a blank expression on her face. "You can't expect us to procure this order on such short notice. If you wanted to pick it up at this time, you could have called in advance so that we could have prepared it for you."

"Well if you had done your job and told me earlier, then I wouldn't have wasted my time with this dump," he growled.

Her patience finally snapped, a surge of white hot anger twisting her features. "If your face wasn't glued to your phone screen, maybe you'd see the giant fucking sign over my shoulder that says exactly what I just told you." She gestured angrily behind her at the sign displayed.

He shoved his phone back into his pocket, leaning over the counter to sneer in her face. "If you dislodged your head from your asshole, maybe you'd notice the dried cum stains all over your face."

"If your head wasn't an inanimate object, maybe you'd actually have a brain," she spat back.

His screen turned a vibrant red as he bared his teeth at her. "You fucking—do you understand who the hell you're—"

"Vaggie?" Dante's rough voice sounded from behind them. "What is—?" He cut himself off, and Vaggie uneasily watched the color drain from his face.

For a moment nobody spoke, before Dante uncharacteristically rushed forward. "My apologies sir, she's new, please forgive her."

Vaggie frowned incredulously. "What are you—?"

He gave her a scalding glare, silencing the retort on her tongue.

"This standard of customer service is abysmal," the man scowled, raising her hackles. "In my own damn territory no less."

"I apologize, sir," Dante bowed his head.

Vaggie furrowed her brows. Territory? Now that she thought about it, Dante had told her that this territory was owned...by an overlord. Her eyes widened, an icy feeling trickling down her spine. Shit. Holy shit. She just threatened an overlord.

Apparently he could see the moment it finally clicked in her brain, because a smug look spread across his face.

"Don't worry," he began slyly. "I won't shut you down."

They barely had a chance to sigh in relief before he continued. "As long as you fire her," he pointed a clawed finger at her.

Vaggie felt the blood drain from her face. Fire her? No she couldn't—where would she go? Last time she was left to her own devices she was almost kidnapped by human traffickers. Her fists trembled. "You—"

"But of course, I could also be convinced to let this go entirely," he cut her off, his grin growing by the second. "If you beg for forgiveness."

What. An. ASSHOLE.

Vaggie shook with rage, barely refraining from leaping over the counter, overlord or not. She wanted to wrap her hands around his slender neck and watch the panic bloom in his expression as he suffocated slowly. Or maybe she could shatter his screen with the shiny new spear Dante got her in case customers got violent. But realistically, she knew this would only anger him, and he in turn may very possibly take out that anger on Dante. She couldn't find it in herself to do that to the nice man who'd given her so much already.

So begrudgingly, she lowered her eyes submissively. "Sorry sir, it won't happen again."

"Come on, you can do better than that," he jeered. "Say it like you mean it."

Vaggie's jaw clenched so hard, she was surprised she didn't fracture a bone. She raised her head to stare him right in the eyes. "Sorry sir, I was wrong to treat you with disrespect and waste your time. Please forgive me."

"Hmm," he hummed noncommittally. "It's still missing something. Maybe—oh, I got it!" He snapped his fingers as if coming to a grand realization, before grinning at her downright wickedly. "Get on your knees."

Vaggie's jaw dropped. "Excuse me—"

"Actually, now that I think about it, the porn industry is hiring," he tapped his chin. "Though you're kind of lacking in...assets, they'd probably still take you. I mean sure, you'd get all the second-rate gigs that nobody wants, but at least you'd be off the streets, right?"

Vaggie dropped to her knees, hands slapping against the floor as she bowed her head. "Please forgive me, I was wrong. Just don't—I can't—not again." Her breath came out shakily, eyes burning in humiliation.

It was silent for a moment, before a loud sigh sounded from above her. She glanced up hesitantly.

"Whatever," he grumbled. "Just—give me discount or something."

"It'll be on the house, sir," Dante breathed a sigh of relief, before shooting her a thunderous look that promised a long scolding after this was done. "Vaggie, in the kitchen. Now."

She didn't need to be told twice, scrambling to her feet as she made herself scarce.

****

<—Part 1 Chapter Index Part 3—>

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vox #vox #vox hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vagatha #hazbin vagatha #hazbin vox #vaggie #vaggie hazbin hotel #vaggie x vox #hazbin vaggie #vox hazbin #vaggie hazbin #bisexual vaggie #hell #bakery au

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purpleandstarlight · 1 year ago

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It continues @hateweasel

-I never listened to Fly me to the moon - but I always connect it to a canon kiss between two queer characters in a trilogy I really like bc after it one of them goes back to his room while humming it. Then that arc of yours with the crazy villain dude who sang it came and past me was afraid it would ruin my good memory associated with the song (but I genuinely forgot it until now).

-I wasn't impressed with that arc's villain's intelligence and didn't understand his beef with Ciel since from what I understood back then it was his own fault for touching sacred objects wrong??? Like don't be surprised if you get cursed while playing with ancient magic artifacts dude...(not criticism towards the author, just the character who's being needlesly petty lmao)

-I then said, and i have really no context for it but that just makes it funnier: "Ciel seems unimpressed...Wich is peak Ciel behavior, but this time he's right." I guess it was about the arc's villain?

- Cameron [about Alois, Ciel and Audrey]: They are horrible supernatural creatures that kill people!!!!

Me back then: Bestie, Audrey is just half reaper? He doesn't do a reaper job either??? And reapers don't kill anyway they just collect the souls of the dead???

(I understood that he was manipulated by the villain so he probs got a lot of shit wrong. Before the whole "trying to get back with Kris while he's amnesiac", me and my friend gave him the benefit of the doubt and defended him a bit. But reading this now its still funny to me)

-Me shitting on the arc's villain name with my friend. I didn't even remember the whole name but I was sure it sucked and we were very vocal about it (again, bullying the character, not the author). I just generally had beef with the dude ig, I realized just now that I kept insulting him for everything...

-i was SO hype about the rest of the 7 going around spying Cielois on a date...wich. understandable. It's peak me behavior. I'm there for the funny hijinks. You actually call them "the backseat boys" while they're on a taxi in that chapter, i realize in my first reread, and it always makes me lose it for the giggles since I assume it's a reference to the backstreet boys? I don't know them I just know the name but ITS A FUNNY PUN.

-Oh God DaffyDucks's introduction chapter...The moment he was fighting with the seven to sit next to Alois my gaydar buzzed, no lie. After he started being sleazy with Alois, I was genuinely just creeped out and annoyed by him troughtout the whole arc and never really stopped. I hate him even now. I cheered when Ciel kicked his ass.

-DLTD: By that afternoon, Ciel had rid himself of the rest of the sensational seven

Me: LOL

DLTD: ...(including Alois)

Me: ... :(

Me: NO WAIT I MISREAD!! IT SAYS EXCLUDING!!! :DD

(Genuine Rollercoaster of emotions I had while reading that single sentence)

-Gabriel Bailey saying he would stop being a cop made me so sad. I was like "More power to you but I'm gonna miss you dude" cause I thought we wouldn't see him again?

Then my friend said "You know, cops saying they will stop being cops in fiction is usually a death flag" and I shat myself.

-I genuinely said (and I'm Copypasting) "NHA BC CIEL AND DAFFYDUCK DO BE HAVING SOME TENSION IF U KNOW WHAT I MEAN 💀" and then i followed it with (not Copypasting but translating in english) "Nha I'm kidding. Daffyduck isn't blonde he's got no chance."

-I said this at like 4 am. At 11:31 I then barged into the chatroom after this hours long silence with "Okay so DaffyDuck is an ally now but I still hate his guts".

- I then said "In the end DaffyDuck was working with the bad guys like i thought at the beginning of the arc but he was only being manipulated. I gave him much more importance than what he has." and my friend jokingly pointed out that a lot of people get manipulated in DLTD so I said "To be fair it's a common trope in every story, but not as many stories are so long as to have space for many repetition, so it's understandable that it happens a lot in this"

#DLTD Thoughts

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thatmarvelobsessedteen · 7 months ago

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Not planned...not at all

Cassian x reader

Azriel x OC! reader's cousin

Short Summary: Two girls, cousins, somehow find themselves inside a slightly modified version of their favorite book saga ACOTAR. What will happen to them, things have changed and not just their situation but themselves...are those pointy ears they now have?

Chapter 2

Do not be miss lead though. Nell did have a bite, you just had to go for those near her to see it.

Her hair thick and curly, completely unruled and almost always looking like a lion's mane Nell took pride in keeping it fluffy and bouncy. Taller than her younger cousin, standing at 1'70 meters it still wasn't uncommon to see Roxy stand up for her.

However you dare talk shit about Roxanne and you'd think to be looking at another person, words singled out and sharpened to hurt you no dumb insults would be used she'd find and old wound and tear it open again.

Glowing green eyes growing poisonous and heartless in seconds if the threats were no longer at her but at someone else.

"I'm done! Let me just fix up the braid so it looks a bit more puffy and I'll be doing a quick braid on myself we can take pictures after, that way our moms stop pestering us."

Roxanne gave back an excited yay at the return of her freedom of movement, raising up her phone to Leonor's height on the bed behind her after a moment.

"Look what I found, apparently it's a weird remake fanfic of that series ACOTAR the one we were so obsessed with at age 15!"

Leonor snorted at the memory of the endless audios the two used to send each other complaining and gossiping about the characters in those books.

"The more I think about it the less we should've been reading that type of books with such an age! It really didn't help our case to rid of the nickname 'book witches' you know."

When Nell finally let go of her hair to deal with her own Roxanne turned around with a clearly unimpressed look.

"Need I remind you who was OBSESSED with a certain war general in this series?!"

Rolling her eyes Leonor worked skillfully and with speed on finishing her loose french braid before answering Roxy.

"I was obsessed with almost every character at the time, like Sherlock or Loki! It was a sweet series thought I really loved it although I remember wanting to burn every book when Nesta ended with Cassian. She just didn't deserve him I knew that much..."

Both girls sat crisscross, the older one still on the bed while Roxy sat on the ground both in their leggings and two sizes large matching hoodies, remembering all the stories they used to create in their head alternate ending for their favorite books. ACOTAR had been the series that had by far inspired the most stories where they both selfishly included themselves dating their favorite characters or having Illyrian bat like wings.

"Yup we are reading this, doesn't look too bad and if anything we'll have a laugh! Probably just another teenage girl that unlike us had the guts to write down and publish what she's imagined"

Roxy did make a good point. What's the worst that could happen it's just a strange link to a fanfiction after all!

#cassian acotar #cassian x oc #cassian x you #cassian x reader #cassian #azriel x oc #acotar #acotar x you #acotar x reader #acotar x oc #a court of thorns and roses

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disorganizedkitten · 8 months ago

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We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 4

Harry Potter | 2021 | 8,106 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

I sincerely hope you’re happy now, because I’m going to take you North and back to the Department of Mysteries. I quite like it there, see, and the adults do matter in this story, so they have to get some screen time else I leave you terribly confused.

So. Adrian Dunbar, Itzcalli Medina, and Isaac Devon spend three hours performing autopsies using both muggle and magical means, cross referencing with historic records and old case files, before Adrian and Itzcalli’s friend from the Veil pops her head in the room and glares at Isaac.

He glares back. You’d never guess she terrifies him.

“Calli.”

“Hey Lyn,” Itzcalli says, looking up. She has ash smeared over one eyebrow and a spot of blood on her hair ribbon, but has otherwise managed to make it through without making a mess of herself. Her robes are a different story, but that can’t really be seen around their enchantments and color. Who knew grey hid stains so well? “Time to go?”

“Yeah,” Lyn replies. “I figured we’d be late if I didn’t give you time to clean up.”

Itzcalli snorts, but doesn’t deny it. Her response is the opposite. “Yeah, thanks.” Adrian looks at her sharply. Itzcalli catches the look and shrugs. She and Lyn have been friends since they were eleven, and they broke into two of the most secret rooms in Hogwarts together. If Itzcalli trusts anyone, it’s Lyn. There’s also the fact that Lyn has done many things throughout her life, and visit the faerie realm isn’t one of them, so though she has that mindset, she has nothing to back it up.

“Shift isn’t over yet,” Isaac growls.

The girls send him matching unimpressed looks. Adrian’s impressed by their sudden synchronization.

Isaac rolls his eyes, but grudgingly allows it. “You’re dismissed too, Dunbar. I want you both back here at one-thirty.”

Adrian doesn’t protest because it’s nearly an hour break, even taking out half an hour for travel, but he wants to just based on Isaac’s tone. Isaac may be good at his job - a whiz at chemical residues and potions, with steady hands and no squeamishness to be found - but Adrian grudgingly understands why Itzcalli and Lyn don’t like him.

“Wanna walk with us?” Itzcalli offers before Adrian can shoot off a response.

Adrian sends her a smile. “I’d love to.”

They go back through the Death Chamber as Isaac vanishes into the Time Room. This time through, Adrian notices that the stone stadium isn’t as bare as he thought. “Is it safe to leave your research out like this?” he asks, stepping onto a bench to avoid a runic circle drawn in a mixture of dark red blood and glowing blue ink. Inside the circle is… something. It’s either a family tree or a map. Probably.

Lyn shrugs, the motion hidden by her pulling the grey robe over her head. “I've been here for five years, and I'm the only one willing to spend extended amounts of time near the veil anymore." Her head comes back up, and her hair is even more of a mess. It writhes for a moment, before settling into staticy curls."Plus I've cursed most of the area. The last person who tried to steal my work is still a slug."

“How long ago was that?” Adrian asks.

Lyn hums, some high-pitched noise that manages to convey confusion without looking at him, as she’s dropping her robe on another bench. “I’m not sure? Before Pandora died, but not by much. Most of the curses were after Pan, cause no one was brave enough to try to kill me before that, but they did try to steal our work. So… a year and a half, give or take?” Lyn grimaces in Adrian’s general direction as she opens the door to the entryway. “Pan was my mentor, by the way.”

Adrian follows her out of the Death Chamber, breathing deeply as the air is light again. “And it’s legal to leave them a slug that long?”

Calli snorts. “Who’s gonna stop her? As far as most people are concerned, he probably did an experiment wrong and died in the middle. After all-” she opens another door, and steps out of the DoM for the first time in seven hours. She should sleep more. “-what happens in the Department of Mysteries stays in the Department of Mysteries.”

“That doesn’t tell me if it’s legal,” Adrian says drily, following her out.

Lyn stops just inside the door. “Yes, because we’re working on a counterspell and can’t turn him back until we make it. If we already had one we would need to turn him back within a month.”

“Interesting.”

Lyn steps over the threshold. “Yep. What about you? Any crazy things happening in the Muggle Departments?”

“Generally, yeah.” Adrian admits. “But what was with the bodies older than all of us in there? Do they just- not get studied?”

Itzcalli gasps, eyes glittering with excitement. “Oh my gosh! Say something specific!”

“The spell we found dates back to the days of the Dark Lady Embla, who would steal biological components from her victims to commit identity, line, and general theft, along with trying to clone them after being inspired by the work of her cousin, Mary Shelley Nee Peverell?”

Itzcalli’s eyes blew wide, and she cackled gleefully. “Whoa! You can talk about it!”

“That is such a security breach,” Lyn says, wryly amused. She hits the button to call the lift.

Adrian grins teasingly at her, leaning against the lift doors. “Imagine, having to keep classified information secret through self control.”

“Such a challenge,” Lyn agrees delightedly, stepping back. “However do you do it?”

He flicks his ponytail. “You know what they say- some people are just… magic.” They all break out laughing as the door opens, Adrian’s wonderful delivery overshadowed as he tips over and falls into the lift.

Lyn offers a hand to help him up, still stifling laughter. “You okay?”

Adrian grins, taking it. “I’ve taken worse tumbles down the stairs at home.” The group steps into the elevator. “So, you mentioned a mentor,” he points at Lyn, and then points to Calli instead. “Did you have a mentor?”

“Yeah,” Itzcalli agrees. “Haven Rosier. He was head of my department for five years, two of which I was there for. He retired before my third year.”

“Cool.”

“Do muggles get cool mentors in their careers too?” Lyn asks.

Adrian raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never been?” Black Family Eyes aside, she doesn't have the vibe of a pureblood, especially not the kind who treats everything nonmagical like the plague.

“Not really. The muggle side of my family was dead before I was born, and Calli and I started here pretty much right out of school. There was no time." Lyn shrugs.

"We don't even have a nonmagical liaison," Calli complains. "I sneak out and get supplies anyways, but keeping track of scientific developments is a chore.” She’s considering going to university, but seven years of magical-only schooling plus six just in the Department of Mysteries means she’s rather behind on most everything that would be on the college board test. Of course, once she starts studying again it won’t be so scary, but that’ll take a bit.

“We do move rather fast.”

Calli snorts. “Yeah, well, someone has to. You never answered, who was your mentor?”

“I got to work with Kayla Mallard, during the last year of college, but I haven’t seen her since. She’s one of the best morticians in the world, it was wonderful.”

“Mine was a blessing,” Lyn says with feeling. The lift door opens again and a redhead walks in. “Pandora Lovegood. She practically adopted me, probably saved my life. I started right out of Hogwarts, threw myself into work and forgot to go home a lot.”

“Forgot. You just didn’t want to listen to Isiah talk.” Calli snorts, finger-quotes visible from her place leaning against the lift wall. There’s so much there to unpack, but we should have time later. “Hello, Weasley.”

“Hello, Medina,” The newcomer says. "And who is this?"

"Dunbar, Weasley, Weasley, Dunbar."

“Yeah yeah,” Lyn rolls her eyes. “Morning, Weasley. Anyway, Pan guilted me into going home by staying until I left, taught me how to cook, and generally showed me what was what in the Department.”

Adrian waved at Weasley, but kept talking to Lyn. “She sounds like my wife,” he said, amused. “A bit manipulative, but generally uses it to help our kids.”

Lyn grins. “Yeah, they’d’ve gotten along.” Her eyes cut to something behind Adrian and she relaxes a bit more. “A lot, I’d say.”

“Maybe in the next life,” Adrian offers.

Lyn turns, her smile soft and knowing. “Yeah, probably.” She glances behind him again, to where Pandora is hanging out. Lyn is one of the few blessed to see… not the other side, per se, but the dead. Eventually she’ll learn how to show others, but that’s a little ways out.

“Make sure he catches my full name,” Pandora says. She’s perched on the inner railing of the lift, and unlike ghosts (who also exist; has it been mentioned Death is really not all that much of an issue here? Well, I suppose it is, but not to anyone who matters) Pandora is not washed out into monochrome blue or white. No, her skin is the pale white over pink that comes from a caucasian without enough sunlight, her eyes are wide, blue, and uncommonly sharp, and her hair is a dirty blonde in some places and sun bleached in others. She stopped going outside as her end drew near.

Lyn acknowledges her with a flicker of her eyes. “I still check in on her daughter sometimes.”

“Is she Hogwarts age, yet?”

“Not until next year,” Lyn says. “She’s a lot like her mum though, so I’m sure she’ll take them by storm.”

“Little Luna Lovegood?” Weasley asks.

“Yeah,” Lyn says, seeing her chance. “We’re talking about her mum, Pandora Peverell.”

Adrian glances at her sharply, eyes wide. “Peverell?” He blinks, segwaying into another topic quickly. “Like the writer?”

Pandora grins and winks. “And the Dark Lady. And- honestly, there’s been a lot of them,” Lyn agrees. “Generally end up doing something cool.”

“Why did she keep her maiden name?”

“It’s an inheritance thing,” Lyn shrugs. “Some families have magical gifts and only give their names to those who carry them. It’s a leftover from us nearly going extinct a couple centuries back; if two heirs marry and have seven kids, the children get the name of whichever parent’s gifts they carry.”

“And if they don’t carry any?”

Lyn shrugs. “I think back then they could pick, but nowadays so few families even have gifts, that they just keep whatever name they’d have without considering it.”

“Interesting.” Adrian hums.

“That’s all pureblood propaganda,” Weasley says huffily. “They use it as an excuse to marry off their kids to other purebloods. Look at the Gaunts! That family was so obsessed with keeping their talents of Parselspeak and seeing the dead that they inter-married cousins, and then siblings. The line died out a bit before I was born.”

Lyn rolls her eyes. Behind them, Pandora does too.

“If someone resurfaced from a squib line and had either of those talents, they could claim the name,” Itzcalli says, drawing the topic sideways a bit.

“Oh? How do they prove it?”

“Rituals,” Weasley says, looking sharply at the girls. “Which are illegal, may I remind you.”

“Illegal outside of a controlled setting,” Lyn replies, not quite as sharp but close. “Which is generally either Gringotts or us.”

“Lyn could claim the Black name, if she went through initiations and petitioned the Lord of the House.”

“And that’s different ‘cause the house is alive?” The lift hits the Atrium.

“Yes,” Calli answers Adrian. “Although it might be more complicated because the Lord of the House is in Azkaban. Uh, wizard prison.”

“It’s a bad tradition,” Weasley says, shaking his head as the doors begin to open. “Be glad you don’t carry that name, Unspeakable.”

Lyn rolls her eyes. Adrian feels offended as well. “I find the Black family to be rather good company,” he says cooly.

“And your mum’s a Black, same as mine,” Lyn mutters as he walks away, glaring.

“Sorry,” Calli says awkwardly. “Didn’t mean to get political.”

Adrian shrugs, “It happens sometimes. We can talk more later?”

“Sure.”

Lyn hums amusedly. “I’m not claiming any magical bloodlines, but I do know a lot on the topic if you want to stop by after hours.”

“I’d love that,” Adrian says honestly. “See you guys later.”

“Bye,” Calli waves, pulling Lyn towards the floos. “I swear on your brother’s grave, if you stay any later than dinnertime I am going to riot.”

“I’m not that bad,” Lyn whines, letting herself be dragged around.

“Delphi Tamlyn,” Itzcalli drawls. “We both know you are.”

Lyn sticks out her tongue.

“How long are you here for?” Harry asks when he realizes the time. He needs to be getting home soon, but the idea of leaving Connor alone rankles.

Connor turns, sand in his black hair and sticking to his clothes. He gets the feeling that this isn’t a question he wants to answer. “I- don’t know.” He can’t leave without Lily, and he doesn’t know how much longer she’s going to spend fighting Petunia.

Harry makes a face. “I need to get Ian home,” he says softly.

“Oh,” Connor says, getting what he means with a sharp ache.

“Will you be okay?” Harry is concerned and he sounds it, reluctant to leave even as he murmurs to Ian to go find his shoes.

“Yes,” Connor lies. This is more than he expected, and it hurts, this idea that it’ll end and tomorrow he could wake up to it having been a dream. “Mum has locator spells on everything.” Surprisingly, that’s something that makes Harry light up.

“Lily came with you?” he asks with a lopsided little grin.

“Yeah,” Connor agrees, brain happily catching on part of that sentence instead of the possibility of this not being real. Of course Harry knows their mother’s name, but it makes Connor’s stomach do something funny when he hears Harry call her by it. As a kid, that’s one of the oddest things a fellow child can do.

“Oh.” Harry bends down when Ian returns, helping the kid put his shoes on. “..tell her hi, for me?” he asks, looking up at Connor unsurely.

Connor nods quickly. “Absolutely. And-” he blinks, the thought returning again, despite hating it. He’s touched Harry a few times, and his skin wasn’t very warm. “You’re not dead, right?”

“I’m not a ghost,” Harry says, as reassuring as he can be. Ian’s shoes are properly on, so he stands up again, holding Ian’s hand.

Connor smiles. “Okay. Thank you.” For hanging out, for being alive, for being healthy. For talking with Connor. For coming over when he was crying.

“Can I write you?” Harry asks, quick and impulsive. He needs to go home, Ian needs food and a nap but Harry doesn’t want to leave Connor, especially not when it’ll be a month until they see each other again. If it were just him, he’d text the adults and stay later, but Ian’s already worn himself out and Harry feels bad.

Connor blinks at him. “Sure- yes! I’d love that,” He grins, a little sheepish but Harry thinks it mostly looks pleased.

Harry smiles back. “And… I’ll see you at Hogwarts?”

“Yes,” Connor agrees. “Absolutely. And maybe earlier? I could see about setting up a playdate?”

“That would be great,” Harry says fervently.

Harry still hasn’t left. “You need to go,” Connor reminds him.

“I know,” Harry says. Ian whines, and Harry looks from one brother to the other. “Right.” He bends down and scoops Ian up, settling the toddler on his hip. “Er- happy early birthday?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Connor nods. It hits him a second later- “You too! Happy eleventh!”

Harry laughs, waving as he walks backwards. “Thank you.” He turns around, still laughing into Ian’s neck.

The boys return home to domestic chaos. The living room is peaceful, Adrian and Caspian debating something to do with clothes around a game of inanimate chess; Adrian hugs Harry and transfers Ian into his own arms at the same time. After knocking into Cas affectionately, Harry moves down the short hallway into the kitchen and living room - that’s where the chaos is.

Fay has tomato goop in her hair near her ear, today’s no-longer-curled bangs pinned up, and an orange-stained cutting board on the nearest counter, herbs piled overtop the tomato remains.

Vivian and Regulus are at the bar counter, flour smattered up their three forearms and Vivian leading the process of kneading bread dough.

“What’re you making?” Harry asks, ducking through to get to the pantry. Technically the cupboard under the stairs is also a pantry, but there are snacks in the one on the wall furthest inside the kitchen, and Harry avoids the cupboard whenever he can. He grabs a packet of fruit snacks and another of crackers.

“Tomato soup and cheese rolls,” Vivian says. “How was the park?”

“It was good,” Harry says, not wrong but purposefully not clear either. Vivian catches him on his way out of the kitchen, dragging him into a hug that rubs flour on his clothes. She’d been sad, if understanding, when he ducked out earlier. He leans in.

“Bug him to pieces, Burbujita,” she hums into his hair.

“I know,” Harry murmurs back. Vivian lets him go. “Do you want any help?” He asks, ducking out to give Ian a packet of crackers.

Since you’ve obviously missed a little bit, let me give you a brief catchup. This morning Regulus returned, and Harry took Ian to the park because this poor child has too large a heart and a bit more imposter syndrome than he should; he left Cas and Fay with time and most of their parents to work through some stuff. That was… hours ago?

I’m not paid to count seconds, moving on.

“Wanna run the blender with me?” Fay asks brightly. “Mama and Dad are on roll duty.”

“Sure,” He agrees.

“So, anything interesting happen at the park?”

Harry studiously did not look up, instead focusing on pushing the right buttons on the blender. “There were a few things. Met someone new. Who was the villain?”

“They reaired Night Of The Boogey Biker,” Fay said. She leaned into his shoulder, watching the veggies splatter. “So it was Red Herring. You okay?”

“Yeah. Just stuff for later.”

Fay hums. “Mkay.”

At the counter behind them, Regulus and Vivian have moved on to shaping the rolls. “This is violence against breadkind,” Regulus says, voice raising with mock-offense.

“The yeast shall die,” is Vivian’s succinct response, ripping the raw rolls open with vigor.

Regulus laughs at her, murmuring something about ‘should we have not put it in, then?’ as he balls up grated cheese against the counter. He’s not wearing his prosthetic, since he’s home and it’s been a week of wearing it near-nonstop.

Fay waits until they’re eating, Vivian on Ian duty, to question Harry again. If it’s something for the whole family, he’ll answer now, and if not, it alerts her parents and ensures that someone will talk to Harry. “Anything fun happen at the park?”

Harry looks up and scans the table. “Something interesting did.”

Caspian and Regulus narrow in on him in moments. He hides his jump in nervousness by changing his focus to his bowl.

“Interesting how?”

“Connor and Lily Potter are in the area.”

Fay’s spoon hits the side of her bowl.

“Huh,” Regulus says, as if he didn’t notice half of his family jumping. “Do you know why?”

Harry rolls the words around his mouth for a moment. “Apparently to pick me up.”

That gets more reactions. Harry half-expects Cas to discorporate, but the older boy is having a better day than that. Regulus goes blank in a way that still terrifies Harry for reasons he knows don’t apply. Fay goes still in a way she likes to pretend isn’t natural. Adrian raises his eyebrows, looking over the rest of the family.

Vivian groans. “That’s illegal,” she says petulantly.

Adrian snorts. “Did you run into them?” he asks, trying to make it clear he’s laughing at his wife and not his kid.

“Yeah,” Harry says, peeking up through his glasses.

Regulus finishes processing and comes back into action with a blink. “Thanks for letting us know, Harry. Did they try to remove you forcefully?”

“No. I didn’t see Lily this time either.” He looks back at his plate. “Connor was nice though.”

“Okay. What are you thinking?”

Harry shrugs. “I don’t think you need to do anything, it was just weird. Nice, but weird. Petunia told them I was dead.”

Everyone but Ian flinches. Ian is playing with his soup and the ruins of a roll.

“We might have to deal with that,” Regulus says. “I’ll keep an eye out. Did I miss anything else?”

“Harry’s reading ninth-grade books again,” Cas reports like a tattletale.

Harry rolls his eyes, and the entire group takes the subject change with ease. “They’re not hard. Just grab a dictionary and a blanket.”

Regulus grins. “So I need a copy and we can start bookclub up again?”

“Yes!”

“What book did you find?”

“To Kill A Mockingbird,” Harry says proudly. “I’m at chapter seven.”

I’m sure you can guess most of what else happens. Adrian goes back to the Department Of Mysteries, Vivian chews on paperwork, Regulus spends the day with his kids.

On the other side, however?

Well, Lily Potter is having a spectacularly bad day. By now she’s finished with Petunia and is instead in the park where Connor was supposed to be, which is conspicuously free of children. She pulls her wand out, trying not to let herself catastrophize. It’s harder than she would like. “Guide me hatchling,” she snarls in parseltongue. You’ll notice later, once you’re seeing more magic in action, that spells are often cast in Latin or derivatives thereof. This isn’t a requirement, so you’ll find clever and desperate wixen often use their own; we’ll leave it at that so we don’t get knee-deep in magical theory again. There’ll be time later.

A light glows at the top of her wand, not quite as big as her fingertip, and breaks off to float west. Lily sheaths her wand and follows it. The artificial will-o-wisp keeps pace with her instead of the other way around.

She’s shaking. It’s been too long. She should’ve taken Connor home and come back to Privet Drive, not sent him outside. Muggle area or not, she had no proof this neighborhood was safe. And after that horrifying conversation, Lily needs her son to be safe. One of them, please.

She already made the mistake of thinking this town was safe for her child once, she can’t believe she did so again. Who’s to say this isn’t another conspiracy?

The wisp leads her to Wisteria Way, and much like Harry and Fay yesterday, Lily crosses down the middle. Unlike those two, she doesn’t walk straight to Number Ten. Her chest twinges as she passes it, but she doesn’t stop to think about what that means.

Two turns further into Magnolia Crescent, Lily finally finds a park. Connor’s there, racing another kid up and down the stairs and slides. Another is swinging, and two more are throwing sand at each other. Something in Lily’s chest unblocks, and she sits down on the edge of the sandpit and watches quietly.

She has to think. Petunia said- well, Petunia said a lot of things, most of which were about as useful as a fly’s thigh. Gosh, Lily is such an idiot. She and James talked about it, discussed it for weeks, but the facts were that Harry’s magical core was damaged, and if a Fideleus Charm - and a Secret Keeper who wasn’t even in the country - wasn’t enough to keep them safe, how could she ensure Harry wouldn’t get injured again? Worse? What if the next time he doesn’t wake up?

She puts her head on her knees and breathes.

He woke up.

Petunia said some wizard came and took him years ago. Years ago. Lily has been at Petunia’s house to check on a boy who wasn’t there. Lily has stood in that house, believing Harry was upstairs asleep, and he wasn’t even in the house.

Checking Hadrian’s core had been a rare occurrence on its own, since the spell was new and classified. It still is, taught only to Unspeakables and select wixen in the medical field. Charlus had suggested it, and confirmed that both boys’ cores were damaged. They said Connor looked to be recovering, but Harry’s was… Lily hadn’t used the spell herself, but Charlus looked horrified.

Honestly, if that spell weren’t restricted it would either end with a lot of children being safely rehomed, or a jump in infantcide statistics. Humankind, you know?

There’s a reason for the section of magical laws concerning manslaughter in search of accidental magic. It turns out babies enjoy being in the air. And often don’t realize they won’t be caught until too late, magic or not.

Maybe they should’ve kept Harry anyway. So many things during and after the attack were unprecedented, she must’ve missed something.

A lot of things, considering the many times she’d visited her sister.

“Mum?”

Lily looks up. “Hey, Connor. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” Connor says, leaning over the playground railing. “How was the talk?”

“Terrible.”

“Um,” Connor says, tapping his fingers against each other. “Harry’s not dead, by the way.”

Lily laughs desperately. Of course, he knew too. “Yeah, I know. What tipped you off?”

“Well he lives here,” says a new, caustic voice. A blonde girl leans over the rail beside Connor. “That’s generally an indication of not being dead.”

“Freya,” Connor hisses, eyes wide. “Be nice.”

“He lives here?” Lily’s voice is faint, but her mind is too far away to care. Petunia had said- but Lily hadn’t- how did- Huh.

“He also says hello.”

Oh. Oh. Lily would like to get off this emotional rollercoaster right now. “He knows me?”

“I didn’t ask how.”

Freya sucks on her lips, suddenly feeling much more awkward. This is absolutely the sort of thing that happens with the Dunbar-Black house, and the reason she learned to excuse herself from uncomfortable situations. Mr. Black sat down and taught her when she was eight. Nineteen-Eighty-Seven was a bad year.

She stands up, stepping back to let the others talk. Well, it’s time to think very, very loudly.

“You met him?”

“Yeah. He looked… pretty good.”

“What was he like?”

“A kid,” Connor says softly. “He’s nice. Smart.”

Lily covers her mouth, starting to cry. She doesn’t know what Harry knows about her, (if he’s basing it off Petunia’s information, it can’t be anything good) but he’s okay. She has an eyewitness account at last. Two, apparently.

He knows about her.

Lily hopes he doesn’t hate her, but if he does she can’t blame him.

She’s been in that house. And she missed him.

How did she miss him?

“When are we going home?” Connor asks, the exhaustion appearing again. The best thing about kids is how easily distractable they are. Freya showed up not long after Harry left, trailing three siblings, and pulled Connor away from dark thoughts. Now that Lily’s back and Freya has let them talk, all the dark thoughts are returning and Connor really, really wants a nap.

Lily wipes her eyes. “As soon as you’re done here, sweetheart.”

Connor turns to Freya. “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” Freya says with a smile. She offers her hand to shake, and Connor accepts it. “She is actually your guardian, right?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t she be?”

“We’ve had… incidents. Never hurts to check.”

“If she were untrustworthy, what would you do?”

“I’d get one of my siblings to get my dad and then we’d take you home and call the police.”

Connor pauses. That sounds practiced; a lot like the abduction and raid drills he’d grown up using. “Smart. She’s my mum though, so I’m fine.”

“Alright,” Freya shrugs. “Be safe. If you ever visit again, we have a kiddie pool.”

Connor snorts. “Thanks. See you later.” He takes a slide to the ground, and walks over to his mum. It’s been long enough he’s gotten most of the sand out of his clothes, but not all. It’s still itchy. “I’m ready.”

Lily takes his hand and stands up. “Alright. C’mon, the apparition point is this way.”

“Mum,” Connor begins, brow furrowing. “We’re in a muggle neighborhood. Why is there an apparition point?”

Lily opens her mouth as they leave the park grounds. She closes it. “I… don’t know. I guess I’ve always just gone to the spot I know best. I guess I’ll apparate us once we’re in the clear.” She laughs again, but this time it’s genuine. Of course there wouldn’t be an actual apparition point in a muggle town.

Well, as far as she knows, anyway.

They turn onto a road with no one visible, and Lily apparates before checking any closer.

It’s been a long day, Readers, and we still have hours to go.

They reappear in the middle of the kitchen, breakfast still half-eaten on the table. “What time is it?” Lily asks, looking around the empty room. She waves her hand, casting a wandless and wordless time charm. One o’clock in the afternoon.

Lily rubs a hand over her face and sighs. “What do you want for lunch, sweetheart?”

“Caprese?”

“And chicken, sure,” Lily hums. Thankfully, it’s easy to make. Lily ties her hair up while she cooks, letting Connor run up to his room.

The first thing he does is, adorably enough, find his library card. Then he anxiously packs a bag full of mostly sealed ink bottles, an old roll of parchment, and partially crumpled quills. Quills, because Connor lives in a magical household and pens are rarely used. Then he lays on his bed and stares at the ceiling.

Archimedes, another owl whom you have not met yet, (I sincerely hope you’re good with names, because otherwise this may turn into a headache), lands on his chest. There’s no law specifically against the harming of owls, but there should be. Emotional Support Animals are incredibly important.

Archimedes coos.

“Hi Archimedes,” Connor says, staring at his ceiling. He reaches up to pet him, enjoying the feel of feathers. Archimedes is new, they brought him home yesterday alongside Connor’s school supplies. Archimedes hops a little bit, before sitting down on Connor’s chest like a roosting mother. Connor keeps petting him, gnawing on chaotic thoughts.

He’s really happy his parents agreed to get him an owl. Walnut is his father’s owl, and spends a lot of time roosting around James Potter. Archimedes is still getting used to his new owlet, but he’s noticed Connor’s unusually high heartbeat.

In humans, that either means something very good, or very bad.

Archimedes stays there until Lily calls Connor down for food, when he hops onto Connor’s shoulder. Con swings his bag onto his shoulder and hops down the stairs, getting a wing in the eye for his troubles. Archimedes is not ready for an owlet. He’s going to take care of this one anyway.

Lily ignores the owl on Connor’s shoulder as she hands him a plate. “I need to check with Mrs. Weasley about you coming over, will you be okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Connor is a much better liar than an eleven-year-old should be. Ugh, he needs a hug. The good news is, he’s on his way to get one.

“Okay. Weasleys?”

“Yeah.”

Another time, Connor may push to be left home alone. He’s eleven, not a baby! But right now he wants comfort, and it’s not like Lily would agree anyway. Connor can’t fight, and he’s a person of interest to a lot of unsavory characters.

Have I mentioned that yet? …oh, I don’t think I have. Whoops. Connor’s famous, by the way; he survived an assassination attempt when he was one, and now a decent amount of people want to finish the job.

Are you beginning to see why James and Lily thought leaving Harry with Petunia was a good idea?

Once they’re done eating, Lily sits down and sticks her head in the kitchen fireplace. Her fireplace is also a floo fireplace, so this isn’t something unsafe. She activates it with floo powder, a secondary compound that activates the enchantments on domestic floos. It would be rather annoying if every wizarding household had to invest in two fireplaces - one for proper fires, and one for transportation.

The connection lets her poke her head out of the other side, into a warmly colored kitchen. Welcome to the Burrow, readers. You’ll become familiar with the place quickly.

The downside of Floo calls (aside from how uncomfortable it is to kneel with your head in a magic fire) is that they rarely come with ringtones. Thankfully, it doesn’t take long for a redheaded child to run through the kitchen. He stops a little past the door, and comes back. “Hi Mrs. Potter!” He calls brightly.

Lily forces a smile. “Hello George.”

“I’m Fred,” he says, sending her a very serious pout. In the two years since you saw him last, he’s gotten a buzzcut and a load of new bracelets, courtesy of his friends.

That’s enough to make her laugh; it is such a relief to be doing something other than panic. “No you’re not,” she says, shaking her head as she looks up at the thirteen-year old. “Fred never wears the green bracelet.”

George grins, crouching in front of the floo. “Sharp as ever, Mrs. Potter. How can I help you?”

“I need to go into the Ministry for a while, would your mother mind watching Connor?”

“Mum! Can Connor come over?”

Lily can’t hear the response, but George keeps grinning so she knows it’s good. “She says yes.” He looks a little closer, brow furrowing. “Is everything okay?”

“It will be,” Lily says. “I’ll send him through.”

Normally, George would go back to what he was doing, maybe shout at Ron that Connor would be here soon, but there’s a prickling in his gut that says this isn’t something he can brush off. George taps his bracelet, wishing his brother was down here. They work better as a team, and this seems like the sort of thing they’ll need all hands on deck for.

The floo flares, a green fire shooting up from nothing. George prepares himself to ignore his instincts and just chivvy the younger boy to Ron.

Connor comes through looking like he’s had a meltdown and a half.

Yeah, no.

“What happened?” George asks, moving closer.

“Is it really that obvious?” Connor asks mulishly, holding his bag close to his chest. “You’re the fourth person to ask me that.”

George raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, apparently. Hot cocoa?”

Connor takes a breath, ready to say no, but that sounds wonderful, actually. “Can you make enough for Ron too?”

“Yeah.” George heads to the stove, letting Connor sit at the kitchen table. He’s not allowed to use magic over the summers, (unsupervised, but neither of his parents want to supervise) so it takes the usual amount of time. Which is to say, a while. “Can I run something up to Fred?”

“I don’t need babysitting.”

George rolls his eyes with the patience that grows from having two younger siblings. “I know.” He vanishes upstairs, worried.

Connor sits there, tapping on the table. He likes the Weasleys' house - it’s bright, mostly gold and red, with fifty percent of the place warmly patchworked. There’s always something to look at, something to think about. Connor takes the distraction, watching the enchanted Kitchen Clock. Instead of telling time, it has a hand for each member of this family branch, and a circle of statuses. Fredric, George, Ronald, Ginevra, and Molly are all at Home, William, Charles, and Aurthur are at Work. Other places include School, Mortal Peril, Prison, Lost, Hospital, Travelling, and Friend’s. Connor likes the clock. Growing up, he and Ron would spend hours making up adventures for the other members of his family.

Charlie’s hand flicks to Mortal Peril. Connor’s mood drops again.

Would having a clock like this helped Harry? Mortal Peril came before death.

Ugh.

Connor needs to stop thinking about this. He lays his head on the table, wishing he could regulate his thoughts.

Something in the room flutters. Connor assumes it’s George back to mess with the Hot Cocoa, so he doesn’t move. His chest feels watery, like pneumonia and sadness.

“Hey Connor.”

He shrieks, sitting up so sharply he nearly falls off the chair.

Ah, it’s finally time to introduce you to another of my beloved cast. Meet Ginevra Weasley, Readers, a nine-year-old menace who brings me great joy.

[She’s the type I’d proudly adopt.]

I can’t believe I’m agreeing with you, Timothy.

[Aw, I guess great minds really do think alike.]

Moving on. Ginny has armpit-length red hair, not quite as many freckles as Susan Bones, and brown eyes that match the broomsticks she loves to ride. She enjoys sneaking up on people and trying to steal… whatever she can get her hands on, really. Sometimes she manages to get Connor’s glasses, occasionally she manages a bracelet from her brothers, or a book, sometimes Percy’s pens, and, naturally, wands.

She holds Connor’s wand out to him. “It looks awesome,” she says with a touch of envy. “What’s the specs?”

“Do you even know what that word means?”

“Nope but it’s said when they wanna know what something is made of, so I figure I’m using it right,” she collapses into the chair beside Connor. “Why do you look like Achilles got hit by a flying carpet?”

Connor snorts. “I love your metaphors.”

“I get bored a lot,” Ginny says. “I cannot wait to go to Hogwarts next year. Think you and Ron can smuggle me spells?”

“Haven’t you had every one of your brothers smuggle you spells?”

“DADA teacher changes every year. That means new spells.”

“You are so lucky that you’re the youngest.”

Ginny grins, ducking her head a little as Connor finally takes the wand.

Connor sticks it in his hair for lack of having a better place to put it. “Your brothers are good brothers, right?”

Ginny squints at him. “Now you’re acting suspicious. Is your mom pregnant?” That startles a laugh out of Connor. Ginny grins back proudly. “But seriously, having a sorting crisis?”

“I wasn’t until you said something!�� Connor shrieks. He takes a breath, and shakes his head. “Anyway. Um. How have things been on your end?”

“Fred and George have been blowing things up and trying to convince mum to adopt their friends, Percy’s plotting to be Prefect this year, and Mum’s still on withdrawl without Charlie. Really though, what’s going on?”

“I think Mum’s trying to overthrow the government. Or kill her sister. Or possibly kidnap someone? Can you kidnap your own kid?”

Ginny blinks once. Twice. “We’re going upstairs.” She grabbed his arm and dragged him up. Connor lets her drag him out of the kitchen and up the Burrow’s rickety staircase, where they pass George.

“What’re you doing?”

“Emotional support!” Ginny calls back. She stops at the seventh landing. “Ron!”

A head with red hair appears at the top of the staircase. “Ginny?” Ronald Weasley’s room is at the top of the Weasley’s tower-like house, just under the haunted attic. “What’s up?”

“Your friend’s having a crisis.” Ginny says. It’s her room too, actually.

Ron crawls down his ladder, twisting. “Connor?” Connor groans and moves to flop on his friend. Ron holds him up easily. “Are your parents okay?”

Connor hums a yes.

George hits the landing next, followed by Fred. “Can we help?”

Connor groans. “Do you want to spend two hours watching me have a heart attack?”

Ron pats his head. “C’mon. I got him.”

“I’ll bring up your cocoa,” George says, chivving the other kids back downstairs.

“Thanks,” Ron says. Connor straightens up to climb the ladder, and Ron follows him. “So, what’s the deal?”

Connor faceplants on Ron’s bed and doesn’t move. Ron goes back to the maze he’s building for Percy’s pet rat, Scabbers. The rat is old and missing a toe, but he’s sprightly and keeps getting lost at Hogwarts. So far he’s always come back, but Percy wants a better solution than switching between a pocket charmed to not let Scabbers out and a rat cage the size of a cat carrier. Ron heard him bemoan it at the start of the summer and has been trying to find a solution. This maze is going to be two levels, and about the length of Percy’s school trunk. Ron’s a little less than a quarter way done with building it.

The boys don’t talk for a little while, sitting and listening to the rhythmic tapping of Connor’s legs as he kicks the bright orange bedspread. Ron’s side of the room is covered in as much Quidditch memorabilia as he could get his hands on, specifically for a team known as the Chudley Cannons, whose colors are red and an orange more violent than the Weasley’s carrot top heads. Ginny’s is more varied, but still has a majority of green and gold, for the Holyhead Harpies. It’s an… interesting dichotomy.

Eventually, Connor rolls over and stares at the enchanted posters on the ceiling. The poster shows the team playing an actual game, so Connor watches it until he settles.

That’s when Ron finally puts the glue (muggle glue, brought home by his father who adores muggle technology) and wood scraps down. "Alright," he announces, flopping down beside Connor on his bed. "You're being way too quiet.” He crosses his legs and leans over Connor’s head. “Spill."

Connor looks at him, and ridiculously feels like crying. He's already cried so much today.

"Wait, don't cry!" Ron says, sounding panicked, which is how Connor knows he still has tears left. "Breathe?" Ron is not the best at this. He's eleven, since his birthday was in March. Adults can be terrible at comforting people, so of course children will have their moments too. "What happened?" Ron leans back and watches one of his own posters.

"Did you know I have a little brother?"

Ron sort of... stops. "Since when?" He’s trying to remember, because that seems like something he’d be told, but he doesn’t remember anything recently, and he’d have met them by now if they aren’t a newborn. Right?

The comment spurs Connor into laughter, which is enough, Ron thinks. Laughter's supposed to be healing. He's heard that from his big brothers, of which he has five. "Forever, I guess."

Ron sighs and lays down too. "You are terrible at explaining."

Connor snorts. That's their running joke- they're not sure what it is, whether curse side effects or just bad blood, but Connor has trouble with focusing and letters move for Ron. It's really mental disorders, but despite the changes in the wizarding world, they're still very behind on Mental Health, and as such no one has recognized it yet. "He's my twin," Connor says. "He's my twin and I met him for the first time today and he's great, but he's so different. I don't know anything about him! And I want to!" Connor throws his hands out. "I want to, so badly. I want to know him as well as Fred knows George."

Ron watches as Connor's words go soft and wistful. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So, when am I meeting him?"

Connor laughs again, short and loud, and rolls over to hug Ron. "As soon as possible, obviously."

"Good," Ron says lightly, patting Connor’s head. "Because someone has to warn him about Ginny. Does he know much about the Chudley Cannons?"

Connor slowly pulls away to give Ron a look that's not quite guilty. "I forgot to talk about Quidditch."

"Connor!" Ron shrieks with a laugh. "The betrayal- what if he doesn't? Oh the tragedy!"

"How much time have you spent with the twins?" Connor asks then, laughing. Ron's amped up the drama to three.

"Plenty," Ron says. "We finally went to Diagon last week, actually, and met up with those friends of theirs." He leans in, as if sharing a secret. "Lestrange is nice!"

Connor hums. "Haven't they been saying that?"

"Well yeah." Ron rolls his eyes. "But it's different to see her in person. No wonder Mum makes her a sweater."

Connor grins. "Of course she does. Your mum would add in a thousand bedrooms and raise every kid out there if given the chance."

Ron laughs. "She'd try," it's a little bitter, but not too bad. His brothers were there too, whenever she wasn’t. And then he looks at Connor and puts on his game face. "Brother. Details. C'mon Connor I'm dying here!"

"Okay, okay," Connor waves away Ron's focus. "Brother. His name is Hadrian. They call him Harry. He wants to write, and he looks like me."

"That's it?" Ron asks.

"He's a parselmouth too?" Connor offers nervously. His shoulders slump. "We really didn't have that much time to talk. I mean we did, but we weren't exchanging life stories." He looks over at Ron, brown on blue, and feels the joy slip away like rainwater. "I don't know anything, Ron. And what I do know is bad. He was nice enough to talk to today, but what if I mess up and he hates me?"

"He's your brother," Ron says mock sagely. "Even after Charlie and Percy had that big fight, they still worked together to make sure us younger kids were safe and warm."

"But you guys were raised together! We weren't. What if it's too different? What if he thinks magic is dumb? Or maybe he'll be a muggle-baiter! Or if he's- I don't know! What if he's hurt? What if he's missing limbs?"

"Did he look like he was missing limbs?" Ron asks bemusedly.

"No," Connor admits. "And he didn't limp or anything while we were playing tag, so I guess there's a point there." He's still not reassured though. "What if he doesn't know enough about the magical world and he falls into a trap set by a Death Eater? What if someone tries to attack him to get to me?"

"That won't happen." Ron waves his hand dismissively. "Probably. Besides, actual muggleborns do it all the time, and they catch up easily enough. He'll be fine."

"What if-"

Ron sighs and shuts Connor up by laying on top of him. It's a tried and true technique. "Am I this bad about Ginny?"

"You're worse," Connor says lightly. Ron laughs.

Someone knocks on the trapdoor. Connor and Ron both look over. “You know,” Connor says suddenly, not even moving. “Harry and I had a talk about nicknames, and he offered Con as one.”

“Yeah?”

“It rhymes with Ron.”

Ron laughed. “Hope he doesn’t mind being triplets then. Come in!”

Fred pops his head through the trapdoor, wearing a blue sweater with only one sleeve properly on. The rest is bunched around his neck. “We have hot cocoa and optional emotional support.”

Connor waves, but doesn’t push Ron off. He likes the weight.

Ron waves in the familiar configuration. Bill - William Weasley - taught it to them the first time the younger kids were caught in a Death Eater attack. He learned it from Dorcas Meadows during the height of the First Blood War, and the Weasleys never gave it up. “Welcome to my office, I’d offer you chocolate frogs but I think the gnomes stole them,” he says magnanimously.

George bows. “Ah, yes, why thank you for your time, Mr. Weasley. Do remind me, are you a famous teacher, auror, or Quidditch player?”

“Obviously he tames Hippogriffs,” Ginny snarks, taking over Ron’s desk chair. “Look at those muscles.”

“I don’t know,” Fred says. “He kinda looks like a human wrangler to me.”

“Excuse you, I am obviously a statue brought to life,” Connor says, pointing at Fred. “You’re in the presence of the greatest museum curator in seven centuries.”

“Ah.”

Ron laughs, rolling off Connor and sitting up. Connor follows suit, missing the weight. “Oh, no autographs today I’m afraid, the mummies stole all my pens.”

#Harry Potter #WBWL #Cathy The Narrator #Not (our parents') children #NOPC #WTOWBS #Jaymeow writes #Crossposting Spam #Connor Potter #harry potter au #Timothy The Narrator #Ron Weasley #Fred Weasley #George Weasley #Ginny Weasley #parseltongue

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kuwdora · 1 year ago

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WIP game and sending motivation! 💫 9. What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far? 14. What have you been finding frustrating with writing this chapter/fic? | optional because it takes so much time: 20. Share 3 images that would fit to a mood board for this chapter/fic.

!!! Omg what a perfect time for me to talk about this Dijkstra and Jaskier scene in my WIP which is currently titled "funeral shenanigans." This is a story about how Oxenfurt university and town come together to mourn/celebrate the death of the Vice Chancellor.

9. What is your favorite dialogue you’ve written so far? This was the moment he was waiting for. Jaskier handed over the oddly-shaped pouch to Dijkstra. “What’s this?” Dijkstra asked coolly, still unimpressed with Jaskier, but Jaskier wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him by when he could have a little bit of fun. Jaskier held back his grin and shrugged. “Oh, you know, just something I picked up for you to commemorate today. Go on,” Jaskier urged, pantomiming opening up the pouch. Dijkstra loosened the pouch strings and looked inside. It was a ceramic sculpture featuring the Vice Chancellor bent over a chair, university robes flung up over his hips, hands on his asscheeks and holding himself open. Dijkstra’s lips pursed in thought, and when he glanced at Jaskier, he raised an eyebrow. “The artistic detail is very good, despite being inaccurate,” Dijkstra said, turning the sculpture around for a close examination. “You mean our dearly departed Vice Chancellor didn’t have an asshole large enough to accommodate 8 quills and 2 pencils?” Jaskier asked and mock-gasped.

14. What have you been finding frustrating with writing this chapter/fic? Oh, what’s been frustrating is that I keep getting carried away with the details of a scenario/the setting and I’m going to end up with another 15k story. I have such a hard time narrowing down what goes into a story, and I think this one really should be the 4-8k range but I don't know. I'm so fucking indecisive right now, augh. This WIP starts off with a private university assembly and Jaskier babysitting his students and another professor's students. Everyone is bored and tired and it’s such a long assembly and I have some amazing Jaskier moments in here. Then there’s more of a public funeral/parade for the town, so everyone has an excuse to drink and party, per life at Oxenfurt and that’s where Jaskier meets ups with Dijkstra and Linus Pitt. What’s holding me up is whether or not I want to have the parade turn into a riot to emphasize the growing tensions in Oxenfurt between the university and the residents (town vs gown and all). Or if I should just keep my focus narrowed to how Jaskier is interacting with Dijkstra and when Linus Pitt is calling Jaskier out for spending so much time on the road for the last decade instead of spending more time teaching the next generation of students. I have this whole scene where Jaskier talks with the artist who made the Asshole Quill Holder. It's a scene in which I’m very sweet on because I like seeing how Jaskier interacts with the Oxenfurt community. But yeah, I’m still indecisive about how much mayhem I want to put him through with the parade or parade-turned-riot.

20. Share 3 images that would fit to a mood board for this chapter/fic.

Oh, I don't actually have a specific inspo folder/moodboard for this fic but honestly anytime @kashuan 's Dijkstra art comes up on my dashboard I go fucking wild. Seriously!! Check out all the amazing Dijkstra art!! I love the way kashuan captures Dijkstra's expressions, especially when Dandelion's also in the panel, ahaha.

send me an ask for the current wip meme!

#meme #writing meme #current wip meme #askdora #answerdora #gleamingsilence #my fic #my witcher fic #my witcher wips

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iviarellereads · 2 years ago

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Gideon the Ninth, Chapter 27

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one! Like what you see? Send me a Ko-Fi.)

(Sixth House icon) In which the two most insufferably smart people in the room make a deal.

Harrow and Gideon are in the Sixth quarters. They'd be light and airy if the windows hadn't been covered in blackout curtains.

The whole of the Sixth was huddled on the polar caps of a planet so close to Dominicus that exposure to the light side would melt the House clean away.(1)

The whole station is built to block out the light, so that the people don't overheat and the books don't burn up, so Palamedes and Camilla have made it feel like home by closing out the light. In addition, every surface is covered in flimsy and books. A quick peek into the bedroom proves the answer to whether Camilla sleeps in the cot attached to the bed: the bed is tidy, and the cot covered in metal polish and weapons.(2)

Palamedes and Harrow are negotiating shared key use. Palamedes cleans his glasses in a way that seems, to Gideon, like more of an aggressive move than a defensive one. Harrow is paranoid and doesn't want to give Palamedes a full key trade.

The conversation shifts a bit, to the purpose of the tests. Palamedes believes in a hypothetical megatheorem that connects all the disparate rooms into a single theorem of Lyctorhood. Harrow says she could replicate the rooms she's been in, but they're unsustainable. Her theory is that there's some ultimate source of thanergy in the facility, and that's the prize.

Whoever's right about the way the puzzle pieces fit together, Palamedes doesn't like how many of the tests are about control. Even if he's right about the megatheorem… something feels off about it, he thinks they got something wrong. He even says "The whole thing is an ugly mistake."(3)

Harrow is unimpressed and asks him to explain what he means by a mistake. Palamedes says he'll share the relevant notes if she'll help him pick a lock. She asks for his personal notes on the theorems he's seen, he counters with asking for a copy of her map. She says it's a baseless accusation to say she has a map, and what lock does he want to pick? One of the Lyctoral locks, the one for the grey Sixth House key(4) that the Eighth House holds. Harrow says it's impossible, but Palamedes says you don't know til you try.

Palamedes makes a final offer. If picking the lock works, Harrow gets every note on every theorem he's read in exchange for Harrow's notes, map, and cooperation. Is she in? Gideon, for one, never had a doubt that Harrow would agree. She does, however, complain that it feels like Palamedes is taking her for all he can get. He considers this deal rather generous on his part, since he owed Harrow for taking his side when Third challenged them.

They proceed to the Sixth Lyctoral door. Gideon says if Camilla asks how she is, she'll scream. Camilla asks anyway. Gideon acknowledges that her bluff has been called, and she resents it, but asks what Camilla uses when she's not pretending the rapier is her primary weapon, two short blades or a blade and a baton? Camilla's eyes narrow and she asks how she messed up. Gideon says she drew both rapier and knife at the same time, strikes ambidextrously, and cuts like both her blades are curved.(5) Also her bed was full of swords and a nightstick. Camilla finally admits, when it comes time to really fight, she'll be using two swords. When she was first accepted as Palamedes's cavalier, they looked into weapons, and two equal swords had "more general applications" than other weapon combos.

Camilla, to change the subject, asks Gideon why she's acting like Gideon and Palamedes are arguing. She adds that Gideon would know if Palamedes was arguing with her. Gideon feels like Pal's acting weird about Dulcinea, and offers to introduce them more formally. Camilla says the last thing he needs is an intro to Dulcinea Septimus.(6) Gideon asks Camilla to tell Pal, then, that he can "stop acting like he read everyone's feelings in a book ages ago" because everything feels weird.

Before they can say anything else, they arrive at a large picture, which Palamedes and Camilla remove to reveal a Lyctoral door which looks almost identical, to Gideon, to the other Lyctoral door she's seen. Harrow, however, gasps. Soon Gideon sees why: the keyhole has been filled in with "some hard, tarry grey stuff" like cement. There are chips taken off the bottom of the bulge, but the rest seems "depressingly solid".

Harrow tells Palamedes that this door wasn't in this condition on the first night they arrived. Pal still can't quite believe Harrow documented every single door on the first night, and he didn't.

Harrow removes her gloves and feels the stuff on the keyhole, furrowing her brow and swearing under her breath. She says it's regenerating ash, which Palamedes calls perpetual bone.(7) Whoever put it there would need a level of skill akin to what created the rooms. Getting it out will require more power than most of the bone specialists alive, combined. Palamedes says well, he didn't bring her here to remove it, just to confirm what it was.

"Excuse me. I never said I couldn't remove it." One eyebrow went up above the thick spectacles. "You don't think...?" It was the Harrowhark of old who responded, the one who walked down dusty Ninth House halls as though crushing purple silk beneath her feet. "Sextus," she said blandly, "I am embarrassed for you that you can't."

Harrow places her hand over the lock, and draws it back, the bone pulling like taffy behind it. Only, it goes so far, then snaps back. She tries again and again, but it won't leave the lock, even as Harrow breaks out into blood sweat that turns her face paint grey-pink. Gideon comes up to Harrow's side, rolling up her sleeves, and tells her necro to "Battery up." Harrow needs a second to understand what Gideon is saying, and starts to protest, but Gideon says the Sixth are watching.

Harrow's face scrunches, in a way that Gideon recognizes as resentment that Harrow has to rely on her screwup fake cavalier.(8) Harrow says "You don't have to roll up your sleeve, you nincompoop," and starts siphoning. It's no less painful than the first time, but Gideon spends less time having her soul sandpapered. Still, Harrow manages to get the bone cement clear of the lock.

Palamedes warns Harrow not to get used to using her cav that way. "It's not good theory and it's not good morals." Gideon says he sounds like Octakiseron, which Palamedes expresses real pain at. Still, the bone's gone, and he hopes whoever put it there finds it gone and gets nervous. He speaks to the door, as if it were their tormentor, until Camilla clears her throat. Palamedes says they owe the Ninth another, this time Harrow gets a free question. Harrow says it's "unattractive" to act like you know everything. Palamedes scoffs at the implication that he doesn't.

Harrow asks how many keys are loose now. Palamedes says he has three, Harrow has one, Dulcinea had two which now belong to Eight, along with the one they got themselves. One is still not accounted for. He doesn't think Third have any keys, Cam overheard them talking about it this morning(9), and the Second wouldn't have lied about keys they had after the duel. He's honestly not sure who has the last one.

He's also the least sure about the Third's motivations, or even which twin to watch out for. Harrow suggests "the big one" despite that Gideon is sure they're the same size, because the big one says "I" and the sister says "we".(10) Palamedes isn't sure, but says they should break for the night, as he needs to think. After brief goodbyes, Palamedes starts to leave, then turns and looks Gideon right in the face, saying, "Keep an eye on her, Nav," then leaving properly. Harrow thinks he's getting presumptuous, but Gideon says he might not have been talking about her.

After a long silence, Harrow says, on that subject, Gideon is now banned from seeing Dulcinea. Gideon asks if they're really having this conversation. Harrow thinks she's dangerous. Gideons says Dulcinea can barely blow her own nose. Harrow says that despite that, Gideon hasn't asked how she managed to get a key. Gideon says whenever Dulcinea comes up, Harrow becomes a jealous creep.(11) Harrow says Gideon must mean envious, but Gideon says no, it's jealous, because it only happens when Dulcinea is taking up Gideon's time.

There was a horrible pause.

Harrow says that she's been lax. She takes her gloves back from Gideon, and slips them on. Gideon says Dulcinea's a goner if whatever's killing people off, comes for her. Harrow suggests letting the dead reclaim the dead. Gideon refuses to follow the command. Harrow says Gideon isn't Dulcinea's bodyguard, and Gideon says she's not Harrow's either. Harrow snaps that yes, Gideon is her bodyguard, she pledged to act as the cavalier primary. Gideon says she promised to fight for Harrow, to earn her freedom. There's now a good chance she's going to die here, and she wants to try to keep more people alive. Meanwhile, Harrow is taking everything Gideon gives her--

Harrow says that melodrama doesn't suit Gideon, who has, by the way, never complained about previous transactions. Gideon asks snarkily what happened to Harrow acting all awkward after the hug. Harrow says not to mock her, Gideon says forget mock, she should kick Harrow's ass. Harrow says she's making a reasonable request.

Gideon wants badly to hit Harrow, but she's never hit Harrow before, and she's afraid that once she starts, she won't stop.(12) Harrow clarifies that she asks Gideon to prioritize the Ninth House in what Gideon even admits is a dangerous time. Gideon says she has her priorities straight. Harrow says nothing in the last two days suggests that's true.

Gideon tells her, fuck you, she didn't mean to let Jeannemary die. Harrow says she didn't mean that, but Gideon cuts her off with another fuck-you and says the Ninth doesn't deserve to be around. The whole trial is about the union of cavalier and necromancer, and she should be dead while Jeannemary and Magnus should still be alive and protecting their companions, and here's Harrow acting like convincing Gideon to let Dulcinea die is all she needs to attain Lyctorhood.

Harrow tells Gideon to stop worshipping the sound of her own voice, but Gideon has something else to say first.

"Harrow, I hate you," said Gideon. "I never stopped hating you. I will always hate you, and you will always hate me. Don't forget that. It's not like I ever can."(13)

Harrow closest her eyes briefly, her mouth twisted into a knot. Gideon expects the tension in Harrow's shoulders to deflate, but it doesn't. Then Harrow says that "Griddle" is incorrect.(14) Nothing stands between Harrow and Lyctorhood, so Gideon shouldn't get carried away with Sixth's ideas of megatheorems. Neither Harrow nor the Ninth will need Gideon in the end, and she may hate Harrow all she wishes, because Harrow doesn't even remember about Gideon half the time.

Harrow turns away from Gideon, but doesn't walk away, just lets Gideon sit in the arrogance of the act. She says Gideon is still banned from seeing Septimus, because the sooner she dies, the better, and Harrow would have killed herself by now in Dulcinea's position. Gideon offers to do the job. Harrow snaps at her to take a nap.

Gideon begs to be released from Harrow's service, to serve Dulcinea the dying in preference to the living Reverend Daughter.

Harrowhark turned to leave- airily, casually really, as though she and Gideon had finished a conversation about the weather. But then she inclined her head back to Gideon a little, and the fragment of her expression that Gideon saw was as wheezing and airless as a blow to the solar plexus. "When I release you from my service, Nav," her necromancer said, "you will know about it." And she walked away. Gideon decided, then and there, her betrayal.(15)

=====

(1) Hey look, it's that "could this be Mercury?" analogy I used earlier. So if Sixth is Mercury, then Seventh is Venus, which… curiously, tracks mythologically with their focus on beauty. Nah, gotta be just a coincidence, right? (2) So is Camilla sleeping in it and just messy, or are she and Palamedes sharing the bed? Implication isn't always as clear as the writer seems to think it will be, but I suppose that leaves the field wide open for interpretations. (3) You ever have one of those moments, where you have an instinct, a vibe about something, and you're so convinced you're on the edge of understanding why you feel that way? I know I have, and it's not always been correct. What does Pal think he almost-knows here? (4) Since the tests/keys/rooms relate to the Houses, I find it rather curious that Palamedes wants particularly to see the room and theorems relating to his House's strengths. He's not afraid to challenge his own assumptions. (5) Reminder that this book had a legit swordfighting consultant for all this sort of stuff, which I think is really cool even if it's not my obsession so I don't understand any of it. (6) This sounds like it's attached to an explanation of why he's been acting so weird but we're not getting it here, are we? (7) I feel like this needs a "that's what she said" joke but I can't quite pick out how to phrase it. (8) Is that really what it says, Gideon? Are you sure? (9) It kinda seemed like Ianthe was operating separately from Coronabeth and Naberius… Who did Cam overhear, and saying what, exactly? (10) Anyone want to go back and see if she's right? Gideon doesn't argue with her, and assumes she means to fear Coronabeth. (11) So some part of Gideon is reading the situation correctly, at least. (12) Partly, I still think this is Gideon lying to herself about her and Harrow's obviously mutual feelings. But also, this is really demonstrative of how messed up both these poor kids are. (Yes, I'm in my mid-30s, I can call teenagers "kids".) Gideon has very realistic issues with her anger, resentment, and the self-hatred the Ninth House taught her. (13) And again, methinks the lady doth protest too much (as in, Gideon's going a little overboard in emphasizing how much she hates Harrow for something that ought to go understood if it were true), and also… heck, Gideon is just carrying around so much pain and either she's incapable or she refuses, on an unconscious level, to let herself believe that anyone could really love her. (14) Cheeky way to get around saying she doesn't hate Gideon, huh. But then she's gotta lash out in her pain. Can't be vulnerable, have to be perfect at all times. How very Elsa of her character arc. (15) Uh-oh.

#the locked tomb #tlt #gideon the ninth #gtn #gideon the ninth spoilers #gtn spoilers #gideon nav #palamedes sextus #harrowhark nonagesimus #camilla hect

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