#and the whole jar is just... unnecessary? if I could have a small sort of container for One Single Nutmeg

[blujayonthewing]

heartbreaking: you found exactly the kind of thing you had a vague notion about wanting but it's a rare antique and costs One Thousand Dollars

[that-1-url]

my thoughts on the pjo tv show (spoilers for episode 8) pt 2

6. speaking of VFX, why. They took the time to animate Grover's legs (something mostly unnecessary due to the fact that he wears jeans, fake feet and a hat to hide his goat-ness) in favor of other small things such as Ares' eyes, or Zeus' "flashy" exit from the throne room, or the throne room in general, or the size of the gods (something that could be done with practical effects). 7. Percy's ADHD. It just simply wasn't there. I don't have the authority to speak on the dyslexia side of things, but it felt like they replaced Percy's ADHD with some sort of hallucination-like thing that everyone around him gaslit him into thinking he had. It felt very odd and jarring at times, and while similar events happen in the books, all of the adults around him seemed very determined to like, hospitalize him or something. (This is no hate towards anyone who has visual hallucinations, it just felt like a very weird and slightly ableist (?) approach to the matter that really didn't do either ADHD nor hallucinations any real justice in terms of how it was) [i can't word this correctly i'm sorry] 8. The timeline. They had Grover throw Percy under the bus (for literally no reason) and then immediately whisk him off to montauk in the middle of the school year. (in the books it feels more natural because its at the end of the school term. which apparently it's the summer in the show? but the whole thing is really confusing). It was even more confusing when they show Sally returning because first he goes to montauk in his dream and then she's suddenly there when he wakes up and it begins at the end of the summer i guess?? Not to mention the whole weird portal thing with Luke. He didn't even mention his quest or why he felt personally betrayed by the gods. Just that he hated them because he hated feeling weak? Also Hermes and Hephaestus' appearances didn't make a whole lot of sense to me. I feel like the way they escape the casino didn't need to be changed, and in changing it they took away some of Percy's insecurity because in the book he's like "wow I'm having fun with annabeth and grover to find-? who? my mom! how could i forget my mom? something's up". Another quick thing I'm taking on the end is Annabeth getting left behind in the Fields of Asphodel didn't make any sense to me. 9. Annabeth and Grover randomly giving Percy their stuff? It didn't make a lot of sense and was never explained. 10. Percy's main focus at CHB being less of "I want my mom back and I want my dad to pay child support" and more of "so if i do something cool my dad will notice? hmm" felt very odd and out of character. 11. This is less of a critique and more of just a whiny complaint but the series could've been set in 2005 and wasn't. 12. I understand that the show was never going to be a shot-by-shot retelling of the books and i never expected that, but the way they cut out/added scenes felt very erratic and was heavily dependent on the audience already being familiar with the material that I guess we were supposed to fill in the gaps ourselves? and a lot of people have been like "Rick's improving on the story!" and while there were some add-ins I enjoyed, I feel like they cut or changed too many important scenes to really keep the main idea of both the plot and characters. Time for stuff I liked! 1. Dionysus tricking Percy so he would get him a drink was fucking hilarious. 2. Luke's voiceover before Percy fighting Ares being a parallel with Percy's "Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood"? Poetic cinema. 3. Percy pushing Grover and Annabeth through the door at the Arch. Excessive personal loyalty anyone?

4. Grover and Annabeth dunking Percy in the fountain to heal his shoulder was really funny. Truely teenage dumbassery at its finest 5. I didn't like how there wasn't the lightning bolt that threw them off the road at the beginning, but I will give the scene points for looking scarily similar to how I pictured it in my head. 6. The raw quote from Poseidon in the throne room "Obedience does not come naturally to you, does it?" "No...sir." 7. AGE ACCURATE CASTING! This is something we all have been saying from the beginning, but I like acknowledging it again. :) 8. The layout of CHB. You can see just about everything from Half-Blood hill in the books and in the show it's all nice and spread out (as opposed to the Peter Johnson movies where you couldn't even see the next cabin over).

There's more things I have on both sides that I might think of and post about later, but for now that's all I've got. I really did try to approach the TV series with an open mind, but as a show altogether I didn't like it that much, and I really don't think it did The Lightning Thief justice. It's hard to adapt books to TV, but it is possible. I believe that if they had more than eight episodes it could've played out more smoothly, but there were just too many things that changed that didn't have to, and there was too many holes that were left because they cut out the wrong scenes. Kudos to everyone who worked hard on the show and I'm glad that other people enjoyed it. But please respect my opinion and if you have any point of discussion I'd be happy to talk about them with you in a polite, constructive way. Welcome new fans and hello again to old ones, go out and enjoy Percy Jackson and The Olympians, it's a great series (books and TV alike, even if i personally don't like the show)

[vincepti0n]

Actually holy shit IM mad again now, so im adding to this

But i watched this with Creaman too and i reallyneed to express how poor the character and plot development is and how nothing is actually consistent with any prior lore established in the past movies. also a lot of actual design aspects piss me off too

we planned to criticize the movie and take notes on it and i was meant to be the good cop, i was meant to be picking up on the positives. i was supposed to be peace and love i couldnt do it. 7 minutes into the movie i was already hating

The Chameleon's character's motives are so unestablished, everything is just word from mouth. we never see her actually do anything threatening and cool for majority of the movie. she's supposed to be a badass evil sorceress but everything we see of her is 90% just her monologuing how evil and badass she is.

On top of that it's stated towards the end that she was after the skills of past kung fu masters by stealing their chi so that SHE could do kung fu herself. i think this is just straight up bullshit because she claimed to be ridiculed and unable to do kung fu due to her size, but we literally have MANTIS who is an INSECT. there are canonically many kung fu masters who are small????

Not only that, after going through all the effort to steal all that chi to be able to harness these kung fu skills, she hardly actually uses these kung fu skills in her final fight sequence. she sort of uses them a bit at the start of the fight, then for the major part she??? turns into a massive amalgamation that functioned like a dragon. honestly forgot i was watching kung fu panda because suddenly it felt like we were just watching a how to train your dragon movie now.

this was so??? unnecessary and odd because she doesn't USE any kung fu, she just shapeshifted and chased them essentially. as far as i would know... she could probably have already done that, and then what even was the whole point of eating all that if she was just gonna do that afterwards???

i did think when she turned into Po and fought Po THAT was cool, and that should have been the focus of that fight and could have built more on that. overall though how they structured the final fight sequence,, it seemed like 3 separate fights just stitched together in the end and it was just overall so odd and they werent... cool. which is disappointing because if im watching a movie about kung fu fighting id imagine the kung fu fighting would be cool.

she genuinely had so much potential to be a fucking amazing villain and they just,,,, aughhg

also how they defeated the Chameleon was not too spectacular neither and hardly incorporated any learning experience for the character themselves. they just sorta fought her and was like okay! that's enough of that. lets just use the stick now.

I dont have too much to add to say on Zhen's character other than, i find it weird they we're going for a change of heart direction without giving us anything. we dont get any meaningful bonding experiences between her or Po. we dont see any real examples of why she was loyal to the chameleon all that much. We dont even get anything on her connection with the den of thieves and Han neither. so it felt more like her just kinda... going through whatever was happening at the time without learning anything.

It was jarring as well because i felt they were trying to establish emotional scenes with her and Po, with the bringing up of her backstory (which is glossed over very quickly) and the small fight scene between her and Po towards the end of the movie that ended in her hugging him (which felt like the Tigress hugging Po in KFP2 scene just be reenacted) which just fell flat because we dont really get ANYTHING from her character, nor anything with her relationship with Po.

it also hardly feels like she learns anything herself because we dont really see her through out the movie being taught or takibng these things in all that much. we just see her learn some movements with a broom and nothing else after that really.

her personality doesnt really help either as it hardly hints at her changing because she's just quirky and the only major thing she establishes about herself is that she likes to steal and nothing else honestly. she doesnt feel like a fleshed out character at all.

And also the movie loses it's artistic direction that had always been a very major factor in the past 3 movies.

and im insanely mad with the character designs.

The pelican, Zhen herself and then the Komodo dragon army are my big 3 biggest peeves. but they're not the only examples of this, just the most notable ones. but it's clear the designs had gotten lazy as they start to lack that iconic style we see. Zhen and the pelican look so out of place in the world. it felt like a generic DreamWorks animal character just placed randomly into the world

like i would think Zhen was from zootopia before ever even guessing she's from Kung Fu panda. but the Zhen design argument is insanely common and you already get it.

I really wanna talk about these guys too

You can NOT tell me these guys are komodo dragons at all.

Because?????

im looking at their faces right now and they all look like they're dragons from how to train your dragon .

but also, they look like some sort of iguana. like specifically like a lazier version of master lizard's design from the masters garden who is an Iguana compared, to master komodo or other komodo dragon characters from spin off series they could of easily built off of.

honestly this is perhaps more of a nitpick tbh so take it or leave it, but the entire design aspect of the movie genuinely upset me if you consider how the first 3 movies were stylistically.

also the way the komodo dragon army is portrayed is just again, a reskin of the wolves from kfp2 but also??? they're not really established as like individuals themselves. like the sleeping scene felt so... odd?? why would they be doing that logically why? are they not sentient with their own lives. the only scene that kinda hints at such is the Larry scene and that's it. otherwise they seem rather monolithic and are handled oddly. like i can not explain it.

I will very very breifly explain how fucking infuriating the scene with everyone bowing to Po is because,,, They would not. they would NOT fucking do that. lord shen??? you mean to tell me LORD SHEN is chill now??? did you WATCH the 2nd movie, he would not just suddenly respect that panda

please unmake the movie please and thank you

—BECAUSE KUNG FU PANDA 4 KILLED MY GRANDMA, OKAY?

To preface, I watched this movie and I'm genuinely tweaking right now so I had to write down a very brief (lie) criticism on this film — which you should boycott, by the way.

Starting with the things I liked, before briefing my primary points of criticism:

Po's Character Regression

Po and Zhen's Dynamic

The Chameleon

I'd also yap about Lord Shen and the death of the art style and the entire narrative and pacing and use of the staff of wisdom but my therapist says being such a hater is 'unhealthy' or something. My heart is full of hatred.

SPOILERS for the entirety KFP4 for the 2 people who care.

KFP4 undermines and ignores the previous three movies — Unwriting character developments, outright removing the Furious Five, straying from the character design philosophies and is completely inconsistent with the established lore.

Things I Liked About Kung Fu Panda 4

The Chameleon's character design

Visual gag in the Tavern where Po uses a recently thrown axe as a hat rack (made me laugh)

When Mr. Ping did this:

so cute! the little heart!

Po — Character Writing

Po, as established in the previous movies, is confident in his abilities and identity — he’s learnt inner peace, he’s matured as a character. However, in KFP4, his character has completely regressed. He’s immature again (such as KFP1, possibly worse) and says verbatim, “only knows kicking butt and taking names” — UNLEARNING inner peace and insisting that “…being the Dragon Warrior is all I know.”

It’s childish, and sort of Hotel Transylvania-esque.

Which isn’t helped by the comedy, the dialogue — a large chunk of which are jokes in the style of:

Master Shifu says something philosophical

Po quips off of it / doesn’t get it (i.e. Whoa!! beat I don’t know what that means.)

Oh, it’s great, yeah, very tolerable. Po’s shenanigans are normally reeled in by the presence of the Furious Five who are generally more serious in nature, creating a much needed balance in the dynamic — So without them, it’s just Po becoming increasingly obnoxious and insufferable with every consecutive quip throughout the screenplay.

Po and Zhen — Character Dynamics

[No more graphics sorry I'm too angry]

As if it wasn’t obvious that Zhen was going to be the next Dragon Warrior the second she was introduced.

Zhen, as a character, has no depth besides being a quippy thief. She quips, she steals. This character has no motives — it can be assumed that the writers intended on a ‘change of heart�� thing, but she isn’t established as evil, her working for the Chameleon is written as a (albeit poor) twist reveal.

By which point, her taking either side wouldn’t make sense, given that she has shown no loyalty or attachment to either Po nor the Chameleon.

The movie artificially strengthens their bond by having Zhen start opening up about her backstory out of nowhere for no reason but they have done nothing to grow closer to each other.

Small tangent, her backstory is exactly what you’d expect it to be with no subversions or even emotional weight. Woe is me I was so small and hungry I had to steal to survive. Glossed over in about a minute.

The majority of the dialogue between Zhen and Po is spoken exposition — explaining how powerful and badass the Chameleon is, explaining how ‘we have to go here to do that’ and ‘this place was cool until the Chameleon did such and such’, and the rest of their time together is spent engaging in filler chase sequences and fight scenes.

The Chameleon

Where do I even start…

This is where it becomes apparent that the movie relies heavily on telling rather than showing —

She is the weakest villain by far, not only in universe but as a written character; which is particularly disheartening because I genuinely adore her character design and feel as though a shapeshifting character has great potential.

The movie artificially inflates her power by insisting through exposition that this is the most capable antagonist thus far (lie).

The audience is TOLD by Zhen and various restaurant patrons that the Chameleon is a powerful shapeshifting sorceress and that she 'dominates the city' whilst the film does nothing to showcase this.

'Dominating the city' meaning letting her henchpeople run amock and bully the civilians just like Lord Shen's wolves in KFP2... uninspired.

I just realised they didn't even give her a NAME what the FUCK is going on

She describes HERSELF as ruthless, clever and unsentimental when comparing Zhen to herself.

She says HERSELF that she’s “Stronger than every opponent you’ve ever faced.”

Let’s see what vile reprehensible things she’s done, shall we?

Gently push someone down some stairs

Her first appearance is through Zhen’s exposition, as opposed to the dramatic and memorable entrances of the previous villains. Her motives or character aren’t established until the final third of the film. She doesn’t even FIGHT anybody until the final third of the film; and even then, her fight sequences are uninspired and she never really poses a real threat. (She goes down in two hits.)

That being said, WE CAN STILL SAVE HER GUYS WE CAN STILL GET HER OUTTA THERE I'M COMING FOR YOU CHAMELEON I'M GONNA DRAFT YOU A PROPER BACKSTORY AND MOTIVE AND YOU'RE GONNA BE THE MOST THREATENING VILLAIN THUS FAR

There's a scene after the climax of the film where all the kung fu masters and previous villains from the spirit realm bow to Po. I'm not going to provide my thoughts on this because I fear I may burst a blood vessel. Good day!

Closing Statements

To put it simply, Kung Fu Panda 4 was my Megamind 2.

The film rejects its predecessors in every way. It really feels as though they brought in somebody with no prior knowledge of the franchise to direct the movie.

It's a film that relies heavily on telling rather than showing — banking on the previous three movies to carry it through the box office.

It's just really disheartening to see studio execs turn one of the best franchises into a safe sequel cash grab and regress every character's development.

Nevertheless. I do adore the chameleon's character design so I might do my own take on her character.

As far as I'm concerned, there is no fairy godmother, there is no tooth fairy, and there is no kung fu panda 4.

[fairy-pd]

Asa Emory but he's not that bad

GN reader, sort of a crack fic cus I cant take his avocado mask seriously, sfw but really dumb lmao

notes: i wanna simp for the bug man without feeling guilty so Im gonna deviate from the 2009 and 2012 cannon slightly and defend this version of him till I die. Picture Juan Fernandez's Asa cus that's who Im talking about muah muah goodnight

So in my head, Mr. Cockroach is just a silly little nerd. A goofy fella with social anxiety. He is the definition of a poor little meow meow- smart but pathetic, a self absorbed mess

Picture a pinscher with a cold. That's him

He has managed to get himself to pretend he's somewhat well adjusted, but even tho he can make small talk, buy groceries and order pizza from time to time he still comes off as cagey and awkward

Definitely kept dead bugs in jars in his room as a kid, did not expect them to rot, learned nothing from this experience and still does it

Which means he smells bad. But purposefully now

I think Asa identifies as a bug tbh, but not literally

He loves humans like you maybe love cars, or art.

He doesn't relate to people. He doesn't get what's like to be one. But he loves us so much, he admires us so much, like you admire a vintage Lamborghini in perfect conditions.

He loves us from afar, like an admirer, an outside observer, wanting to learn everything about us because he doesn't understand but loves how strangely endearing we are, like the entomologist he is. Its almost like a fetish, but not sexual- objetification meets cold adoration in the hands of a scientist

This is specially noticeable (like another poster said) when we see various scenes where he's gently craddling his victim's faces or taking "care" of them. He looks at them in awe, like he could (cus he really could) break them, he wants to see them break to learn one more thing about them

He sees his victims not as people, not as complex universes, not as concepts, but as animals. He understands you have a life and opinions and friends, but he compartmentalizes these as normal behavior for your species

He cannot physically take his headphones off during the day cus it's so fucken noimsy outside and it hurts his ears

He likes to listen to anything repetitive and loud, nothing with discernible lyrics

His house looks like one of those ikea display rooms, except it smells faintly like formaldehyde and rot

He has a massive sweet tooth

He has a love for psychology, human anatomy and thanatology

Actually any field of knowledge that could explain human behavior is fair game to him

He absolutely hates spending money in "unnecessary" things, which is why he has plenty of diy projects around his place

He doesn't really have an opinion of people or of himself. He isn't one to judge, to classify people into groups. He thinks we're all fascinating, and he spends a lot more time trying to teach himself things about us than thinking about his own life

He doesn't have an internal voice inside his head

Absolutely has a God complex, but more in a "I Cannot Relate To Any Of My Beloved Creechures" than "my milkshake is better than yours"

Has a degree in entomology, and chose to become a certified bug serial killer cus seriously,,,,ppl will just give their house keys to a stranger for days????? how could he not take advantage of that????

100% a virgin. Does not have any interest in romance or sex, does not understand most people's need for it, could not feel more uncomfortable than when his victims offer to "help him" in exchange for their freedom

Never had any friends

Was raised by his extended family who sent him off to college as soon as they could

His favorite place in the whole wide world are cemeteries (silent, and he can spend time with his beloved lil humans as much as he wants)

Never takes anything personally and is completely unfazed by morality. Again, whenever anything happens he just sees it as part of the behavior of this particular species, like he isnt an active participant in the world, just a bystander

Hates pillows. His bed is as firm as a wooden table (might actually be one), only wears blankets when its absolutely freezing and he has no other choice

Walks around either on all fours or on his tiptoes

He doesn't? really? get? why people hate his trunks so much. He finds small spaces quite soothing and attributes his victim's screams to panic or anxiety of being caught, not also cus they're yk stuck in a tiny box with no chance of getting out

He has quite a few "animalistic" quirks, like the growling and purring thing. Some come naturally, some he picked up from his early subjects when he was a student

Knows how to crochet, and how to sew up small tears or holes in clothing

[spookysmujer]

Hood Love, O. Diaz

Summary: As high school sweethearts, Oscar being in prison never changed the way you felt about him. You’re known for being a brat with him, so it’s only fair to uphold the attitude and make him jealous behind the steel curtain.

warnings: jealous/toxic!Oscar  

word count: 1.2K

requested by my bitch @youllneverknowrac​

a/n: As someone with a prison penpal, I can confirm they get jealous real quick! But I love the possessiveness, hehe I have a problem, send help 🤪 As a reminder REQUESTS ARE CLOSED! But will be opening soon! Don’t hesitate to send me asks, I love it!! Please don’t forget to consider following my blog, heart/comment/reblog my content as well as turning on the notifs for when I post! Thank you!

taglist: @clemmingstylins0n @fairygardenss @princesstiffxoxo@firebenderwolf @spookysnena @mbaku-babygirl @chellybear98@multiyfandomgirl40 @i-just-wanna-live-gc @roury66 @kkim120​ @lillict @tinylumpiaa @prettymya3 @starrynite7114 @onmyspookysblock @aneitii​ @b3mybunnybaby​  @angelxfics​ (please let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

(gif belongs to @grinsekatze​ ✨)

“You better not hang up.” Oscar sounds through the receiver of your phone which is pressed between your ear and shoulder as you make lunch. You roll your eyes and close the jar of mayo not saying anything.

You don’t need to hear him speak to know what kind of look he has on his face. A small grin spreads across your face as you remind quiet, “Mami? Babe? Babe?” He repeats over and over again, the laughter not being able to be contained any longer.

The eruption of laughter causes him to Oscar click his tongue and sigh. Meanwhile on his side, he’s leaned against the wall with a stoic expression. He’s had a long day of dealing with unnecessary shit. The last thing he wants is his ruca adding to the long list of bullshit.

“Y/N.” 

First names were never used between the two of you, since the first day you spoke to each other freshmen year. It’s been nicknames of all sorts, it wasn’t like you never used your legal names with each other but to go from mami to Y/N means that he isn’t in the mood.

The seriousness in his voice causes you to roll your eyes and sigh. “I’m still here, you always trip on me. Go run some shit or something, I got to eat my lunch then head out anyways.”

Oscar hated when you had to cut the calls short, he already has a limited time with talking to you, he missed his ruca bad. “Fine, I’ll hit you up later, low. You better not have plans then.”

“Mhm, we’ll see. Bye, papas.” He retorts back his farewell and the call ends. Oscar had meant the phone call later would be through a smuggled phone, every once in a while you’ll get a call that’s not through the prison system and you love it. He is at ease and more calm, not to mention the sexy time with get with you man who is all those mile away.

You spend the day getting things done around the house. Buzzing with excitement to hear his voice, though the excitement began to fade when you think back on how he was in a bit of a mood. You roll your eyes at his demands. An idea popping in your head.

After finishing dinner, you shower up and wait for the phone to ring. When it does, a mischievous smile forming on your lips. You watch the phone for a few seconds, clearing you throat and laying back, “Hi babe.”

“The fuck it took you so long to answer?” He asks you, the irritation prominent in his voice, you smile as you get under the covers comfortably. “It rang like 3 seconds longer, calmate. I’m getting ready though, what you doing papas?” 

The silence after your silence proves the plan in effect is working, you try your best to not laugh, “I thought I asked you not to have plans, you knew I was calling.” You roll your eyes, turning over the under the covers.

“You told me to not have plans, not asked, mister. Plus, just going out for a drink with the girls.... At Santana’s place.” You add in at the end of the sentence, you could hear Oscar release a breath at the beginning of your sentence and when you say where you are heading out to, the exhalation of his breath comes to an abrupt stop.

Before he got sent back in, you were like a leech to him. Stuck to him whenever he went out. He liked it though he never admitted it. One of the places he tried to avoid going to with you is one of his homie’s, Santana. Before Oscar asked you to be his ruca, Santana use to hit on you big time. He hated bringing you around to his place.

You lay in silence for moment, “Babe?”

Oscar doesn’t reply right away, he clears his throat and remains silence. Every single thought that Santana will be thinking about is what’s currently running through Oscar’s mind. How the puto will be eyeing you up and down since you don’t got him wrapped on you. 

He sighs, “Go have your fun. I’ma bounce.”

“Babe, chill. Why can’t I go?” You ask, the irritation heavy in the silence alone,

“Why do you ask dumb questions? Hm? Since when do you go to place’s like Santana’s without me? What makes you think I’d be okay that? You gonna bounce to go act stupid, then go.” He says angrily. 

You roll your eyes, the idea to get Oscar jealous is in full effect. You can hear him getting worked up. A part of you is loving it, the sinister part of you wants to keep going. But the loving part of you feels bad. He’s already dealing with all that shit in there and you are suppose to be his support/solace. 

Oscar is fuming on the other side. Losing his shit silently that you want to hit up Santana’s place. The insecurities begin to eat at him about the two of you and your relationship that had been broken down and rebuilt over the years. You feel that he is quickly overthinking.

“Papi, I’m not going anywhere. Especially not to his place. I’m just fucking with you. You gotta chill, I knew you were calling so why would I make plans, hm?” You smile to yourself as you reach over to grab the framed picture of you and Oscar that sits on your bedside table.

It’s the two of you on his front porch. He’s sat on the stairs and you are one below him, between his legs. You’re leaned back into him and he’s sporting the mean muggin’ Spooky look. Meanwhile you’re cheesy like a kid in a candy shop. You gleam at the picture, immediately missing him a lot more than you just were.

He scoffs, “Because you acting like puta. you loving acting like that with me. Cool though, be someone else’s hyna you gonna fuckin’ act like that.” He spits.

“Yeah, like you would let me be with someone else.”

Oscar smiles but remains authoritative in his tone, “You better know that. No one gonna get you even if you could get got. Cause if I get got mamas, you comin’ with.” The smile that spreads on your lips begin to hurt your cheeks. 

“No place I’d rather be, baby.”

The conversation goes on about how shit’s been stressful. Running complexes has Oscar feeling a whole decade older than he really is. His ranks moving up in the Santos exponentially. But if it’s one thing that can get him through the next few years is the promise of you waiting for him when he comes home.

[eveningcatcher]

Julian/Lucio/Muriel/Vulgora/Valdemar picking MC up after they had an argument

Julian:

Lately MC and Julian couldn’t see each other eye to eye. It seemed that they argued just about anything. Last week they argued about the way one makes the bed, three days ago about the amount of money they spend. It was never enough to make them way too angry at each other, but the consequences could be felt. There was always a tension between them as if they were waiting to start arguing about something else.

All of this resulted in them trying not to do much in each other’s presence, thus not making any topic they could argue about. Today, it happened again. MC was cleaning their shop, trying their best to somehow please Julian as they went over his leech collection. They organized it how they saw Julian do it, thinking they are doing it the right way. Unfortunately, they were wrong, so the act of kindness they wanted to show Julian resulted in him getting irritated even more. The day had already been way too stressful for both him and MC, and all of this seemed to be a cherry on the top.

“You can’t just move my leeches wherever you want!” Julian said, taking a couple of jars filled with leeches.

“Julian, those are leeches,” MC said, annoyed, “Does it really matter how you organize them?”

“It does,” he insisted as he sorted them on his cupboard, “Leeches have different purposes!”

“They all do the same thing – suck blood.” MC said as they watched him organize the jars, “So, how much different is your organization than mine?”

“This leech,” he started explaining as he raised one of the jars, “Is much older than,” he tapped on the other jar, “This leech. And you put them together!”

“So? They both suck blood just fine.”

“Yes, but I can’t give people any leeches. It’s a long pro-”

“Why do you give people leeches at all? I bet that a nap helps the patient better than those,” they gestured at the jars in disgust.

“Of course not!” he protested, “If they weren’t good for the patients, I wouldn’t give them leeches at all!”

“You know what?” MC said, frustrated. They’ve had enough,” Fine. You’re right about everything. So now, Mr. know-it-all, pack your leeches and all other things and get out.”

“Fine!”

MC expected that Julian would start collecting his jars, leaving MC for good. Just the thought of that made something in MC break. They didn’t want Julian to leave. Just when they were going to beg Julian to stay, he grabbed them, nearly throwing them over his shoulder. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” MC asked as they tried to get off.

“I’m getting what’s mine,” Julian said with a dumb smile as he locked MC’s door, going his place.

MC blushed along the way, trying not to make any eye contact with the people passing by. Julian, on the other hand, didn’t seem to give a flying fuck about the glances he got. He happily unlocked the doors of his home, putting MC on one of the sofas, giving them a quick peck on the lips.

As soon as he pulled away, MC said, “I’m sorry for-”

“I know,” he interrupted them, gently smiling as he leaned closer, slowly as if he didn’t want to scare MC away. MC, on the other hand, got tired of waiting as they grabbed his suit, pulling him closer, but just before they could kiss, their noses bumped, making them pull to move away from one another, gently holding their noses. After a moment they looked at each other, then at their red noses, laughing at how dumb they are. After they’ve calmed down a bit they leaned again, this time, kissing properly.

Surprisingly enough, their kiss was soft, almost as if they were just brushing each other’s lips. Then, MC decided to spice things up as they bit Julian’s lower lip, gently pulling it, impatiently waiting for Julian’s reaction. He irked up a bit, not expecting MC to be so rough, however, by the way his blood rushed all the way to his cheeks, it was obvious he was enjoying it. MC didn’t stop there, their hands gently tracing over his neck, then playing with his ginger locks of hair as they took off his eye patch, tossing it on the floor. Now that was out of the way, MC pressed in further, on their tiptoes as they tried to pull Julian down. Once they’ve pulled away they stared at each other, appreciating the moment, feeling like they’re the only people in the Vesuvia.

Lucio

“You’ve been spending way too much money,” MC commented one time in the shop,” Please, please, get a grip.”

“Don’t worry,” he responded, gently petting MC’s head,” Our coffins are filled with money!” he continued bragging.

“But what if they become empty tomorrow?” they pressed the matter further,” What would you do then? What are you spending all that money on?!?”

“Dear, just,” he stopped for a moment, trying to think of what to say,” Don’t think much about it.”

“How can I not think about it? Lately, you’ve been spending way too much money on everything!” they said, staring at him with clear worry,” Do you really believe you need golden mirrors?”

“Of course I do!”

“I…” they looked at him in disbelief. He can’t be serious, can he? ” Look, you need a wake-up call,” they said, completely serious,” Please, if you truly do want to keep up with constantly spending money for no reason, leave. Just, take your unreasonably expensive stuff and leave.”

“I was just thinking about that!” he said with a smile plastered on his face as he picked MC up, walking out of the shop as he carried MC bridal style.

He noticed how MC stared at him in shock, so he proudly said, “Don’t mind me, I’m just taking what’s mine~”

MC stared at him in disbelief, blushing like mad. Once they were back at the palace, Lucio gently put them down. For a moment he admired MC’s figure who just laid on his bed, their cheeks still flushed from Lucio’s small act. He smirked as he bent over them, not even trying to be discrete as he stared at their plump lips. His head was so close to MC’s that he could feel their breath brush his cheeks. Just when MC thought that he was going to kiss them, he stopped, admiring MC’s face one more time, then, with a smug smirk, he leaned in closer, sealing his lips with MC’s.

The passionate kiss he gave them was rough, filled with emotion, just like the first time when he kissed them. MC was addicted to the feeling as they pulled Lucio closer, trying to deepen the kiss, holding his face firmly. Even though he enjoyed all of this, he hadn’t had enough; he needed more thrill. And so he granted his own wish as he grabbed MC’s exposed collarbone with his cold golden hand, making MC shiver below him.

MC’s lips formed a small curve as they played with the loose strands of Lucio’s hair, not even thinking about breaking the kiss. They decided to tease him back, touching Lucio’s exposed chest, tracing his abs with their nails. Lucio tried his best to suppress the gasp, frowning once MC pulled their hands away. MC is such a tease, always pulling away at the best part…

“Lucio,” MC gasped for a moment, not taking their eyes off of Lucio’s lips, “While I do appreciate all of this, your problem with spending enormous amounts of money still stays.”

He knew how stubborn MC can be, but he also knew that MC never did anything with ill intent. 

“Fine. I’ll sort out anything unnecessary and sell it off,” he said, pouting.

“Thank you, my love,” MC said with a smile as they gave him another kiss.

Muriel

MC and Muriel have been walking together in the forest, looking for some mushrooms. The two of them happily walked on the trails known only to them, trying their best not to disturb any forest animal along the way. Sure, MC wasn’t used to walking on the dirt-covered in grass and wood roots, so they found themselves, slipping and falling quite often. This never stopped them, as they would stand up quickly, brush the dirt off as they laughed with Muriel at how clumsy they are.

Finally, they found themselves in a small field filled with non-poisonous mushrooms. They collected them together, taking small breaks in between, playing with some rabbits passing by, as well as trying to approach deer who didn’t mind the two of them at all. Overall, they had a great, as well as a rather productive time since they were able to collect enough mushrooms for the whole winter.

They returned to the hut together, making some jokes about how they are better prepared than squirrels along the way. It was only when they were in front of the hut that MC had a feeling of sadness wash over them. Muriel lived in a small, minimalistic hut, having enough just to survive. For God’s sake, he didn’t even have spices for his food! All of this made MC feel terrible.

“Muriel,” they started talking as they took all of the mushrooms out of the basket, cleaning them in one of the buckets Muriel kept outside,” I’ve been thinking a lot lately and I would love it if you would move in with me.”

He turned to them, taking a glance at them then at the doors of his tiny hut. After a moment, he responded with a shrug, “No.”

“Why not?” MC asked them.

“Because I enjoy it there,” he said with a smile, looking at his hut once more. Sure, he didn’t have much, but he had a warm place, a roof over his head, food and most importantly, MC; what else does he need?

“But, but you don’t even have a bathroom.” MC noted with a frown as they prepared to grill some of the mushrooms for dinner,” Don’t you think that you should live somewhere with minimal living conditions?”

“I don’t care,” he said with a slight puff. This conversation started to annoy him,” I’d rather be in my hut than in your busy shop,” he stopped for a moment, realizing that this sounded a lot harsher than how he intended to say it.

“Is that how you feel?” MC responded, offended by his words,” Then what does my shop have that your hut doesn’t?”

“Peace,” he simply responded, hoping that MC would drop the topic.

“What are you talking about? Both of us know that apart from the customers there are no people! It’s pretty damn peaceful!”

“It’s not the same, though,” he insisted, not wanting to make eye contact with MC.

“How?!?”

“It’s just…” he stopped for a moment to think,” I don’t know how to explain it, it’s not the same as in here.”

“You know what?” MC asked him, knowing deep down that they were overreacting,” If it’s so much better in your hut than in my shop, then why don’t you take your things and live in this hut for the rest of your life?!?”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said with a smile as he grabbed MC’s waist, picked MC up, staring at them directly in the eyes because he knew that if he stared down he wouldn’t be able to hold in his laughter. The height difference between them was just too funny to him sometimes. With a small smile forming on his lips, he went back into the hut, putting MC on the bed.

“I don’t think I’ll need anything else from your shop,” he said as he took a glance at MC’s flushed face as he went back outside, being proud at how smooth he was. Not long after he returned with some wood, starting the fire, then grilled the mushrooms. He walked back to MC, sitting right next to them, handing over the food.

“MC, I didn’t mean anything bad,” he said, snuggling closer to MC.

“I know,” they said as they finished the meal, standing up so they could kiss Muriel’s forehead, ” I overreacted,” they said as they took Muriel’s plate, going to the other side of the hut. They gently put the dishes into the bucket filled with water and started washing them. At that moment, as they washed the dishes in silence, they understood what Muriel was talking about not so long ago.” I have to admit it, you do have a point. It’s much more peaceful here.”

Vulgora

“MC LOOK!” Vulgora said one fine morning as they walked into MC’s shop without even knocking, holding a skeleton’s arm proudly in their hands.

“Eek!” MC screamed at the sight, jumping back which resulted in them accidentally breaking an empty jar.

“What’s wrong? Why so scared all of a sudden?” they asked, confused.

“Vulgora…” MC said as they stared at them from the safe distance,” Is that a hand?”

“Yes,” they said with a smug smirk, puffing their chest out,” It’s an old trophy of mine,” they said proudly,” Thought I should clean it.”

“Well I think you should throw it away,” MC said with a frown, cowering in fear. How did Vulgora get an arm?

“What?!?” they turned their head to MC, not believing what they were hearing,” NO WAY. DON’T YOU KNOW WHOSE HAND THIS WAS?!?” they said as they lifted the hand.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” MC said as they backed off a little,” Just get it out of my shop.”

“BUT THIS WAS A HAND OF ONE FAMOUS GENERAL!!!” they started explaining as the memory of them cutting off the hand of the man who begged them to spare their lives in the middle of the battlefield. Those were great times. They still couldn’t believe all of that happened 130 years ago. They remembered it as if it happened yesterday… Then, they got out of their trance, remembering where they are and what they were doing. Right, MC dares to disrespect this fond memory of theirs, ” YOU HAVE NO CLUE HOW MUCH PEOPLE WOULD PAY JUST TO SEE IT!”

“Well you have no clue how much I’d pay to throw it away,” they said as they couldn’t take their eyes off the skeleton hand.

“What?!? NO.”

“Please, just, just get it out of my sight…” they begged, feeling hopeless.

“No way!” they kept arguing, however, they felt like their anger started to wear off. They just couldn’t be mad at MC for long periods of time,” I wanted your help with cleaning.”

“Why would you need my help with it?!?” they asked with disgusted. They aren’t going anywhere near that thing.

“You know, for ‘bonding’” they said as they made quotation mark with both of their hands, still holding onto the skeleton,” And other bullshit humans believe in.”

“Couldn’t we just… I don’t know,” they said sarcastically as they shrugged,” Not clean the fucking skeleton?!?”

“But it’s all dusty!” they said as they extended the skeleton’s hand to MC.

“Vulgora,” MC said with a sigh as they massaged their temple,” Why do you have to do so many gruesome things?”

“SINCE WHEN WAS CLEANING GRUESOME?!?!”

“You know what… just…” MC said with a sigh, tired of everything,” Take that hand and any other ‘trophy’ of yours and leave. Please,” they gestured at an animal right above the entrance doors of their shop,” I can’t bear to look at that poor deer’s head anymore.”

“But you were the one who killed it!”

“Yeah and I cried because of it,” they said, remembering how sad, the deer’s eyes looked at MC.

“Weren’t those tears of joy?!?”

“NO!”

“Ugh, fine,” Vulgora said, feeling like they got tired of the argument themselves,” I’ll take what’s mine and go.”

They carefully put the hand in their pocket, then picked MC up with only one hand, like an absolute madman chad that they are and went back to their estate as if nothing happened.

“What are you doing?” MC asked, trying to get off.

“Exactly what you wanted!” Vulgora said, getting a bit frustrated at how difficult MC was to please.

Just before MC was about to tell them they never told them to do any of this, they realized what Vulgora meant, leaving them like a blushing mess all the way to Vulgora’s estate. As soon as Vulgora set a foot into their mansion they put MC down.

“So… this means no more deer hunts?”

“At least not with me,” MC said, looking down, trying to hide their flushed face away from Vulgora.

“That sucks,” they frowned, not noticing how embarrassed MC was,” It’s always more fun hunting with you…”

“I fall off my horse nearly every time. I can’t even hold a bow properly,” MC explained, naming just a few things at the top of their head.

“That’s exactly why it’s so much fun.”

MC rolled their eyes, letting a chuckle escape their lips, however, they stopped as soon as they saw Vulgora take out the hand.

“I want to never, ever, see that again,” MC said as they pointed at the hand.

“But-”

“No buts.”

“Ugh, fine,” they groaned, rolling their eyes,” I’ll hide it somewhere you won’t find.”

Even though MC would have much preferred that Vulgora would just throw the hand away, they knew this was the best solution they could get, “Thanks.”

Valdemar

“My dear, don’t you worry, this is just a usual protocol,” Valdemar said with a grin as they cleaned their scalpel.

“Are you, are you sure?” MC asked, a bit worried. Was a scalpel necessary for this wound?

“I have centuries of experience,” they said, not breaking eye contact with MC,” I’m sure.”

Half an hour later, MC stared at their patched arm. They were grateful for what Valdemar did for them, but was it so necessary for the process to be this painful? Once they took a glance at Valdemar happily writing down in their notebook, they got an answer. This was just another attempt to further their research. MC groaned in frustration,

“Oh my, guess I’ve carried it a bit too far, hm?” they asked as they walked back to MC, checking the wound once more.

“You think?” MC asked, annoyed.

“Come on now, my dearest,” they told MC as they checked to see if MC was hurt anywhere else,” It was just a little research about muscles. It’s nothing too much.”

“But you promised that it’s not going to be extreme.”

“Please, don’t make too much of a drama, I’m just,” they stopped for a moment, trying to find the right word,” Enjoying the moment.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, but this makes me uncomfortable…”

“I can assure you, you’re in…” they stopped themselves from saying ‘in good hands’ since they knew they had questionable morals,” Hands of a professional.”

“You do realize that I don’t want to, nor have to be in the hands of a professional, I just want to be in the hands of someone who won’t perform an experiment on my wound.”

“Why my little MC,” they joked as they checked the rest of MC’s body for any other wound, “If you minded me getting a better look at your body, you could have said something.”

Even though Valdemar gave them a reassurance, MC still felt uneasy, like their words weren’t enough, “It was that easy?” they asked, to which Valdemar only nodded, “Why do I feel like as soon as something else happens to me, you’ll be back on using the opportunity to further your research?”

“You worry too much. I stand behind what I said.”

“Right… just like when you promised Vlastomil you won’t lay a hand on his worms, or when you reassured Lucio that his peacock is in safe hands.”

“Oh please-” they wanted to add another remark, but MC interrupted them.

“If you can’t keep your word to them, then how do I know you’ll keep your word now?” they didn’t even bother to let Valdemar say anything else as they continued on with their rant, “Honestly… sometimes I feel like the same thing will happen to me. I think it would be best if we…” they stopped for a moment, feeling guilt choke them. They didn’t want to break up with Valdemar, “… Just take your things out of my shop. I need to think about all of this for a while.”

“Why would I go all the way to the shop when all of my things are right here?” they mused as they picked MC up, to which MC started kicking and demanding to be put down. Valdemar only sighed as they extended their arms, being at a safe distance from MC.

“Put me-” they couldn’t finish their sentence as Valdemar gave them a gentle, playful shake.

“Please be silent for a moment. You don’t want me to drop you accidentally, no?” they simply responded as they took a walk back to their estate. Once there, Valdemar put MC down, leaning closer, “I’ve taken what’s mine. What now?” they asked with a grin.

MC stared at them for a moment, trying to calm down from all of the kickings. Once they comprehended what Valdemar wanted to say, they started blushing like mad.

After a moment, Valdemar got impatient, so they simply stated, “As I said before, you could have just told me you’re uncomfortable. I can assure you that nothing bad will happen,” they repeated what they said in the dungeons, giving MC a gentle pat on the head, “So tell me now, my little guinea pig,” they said with a wide grin, “Would you like some tea?”

[diskwrite-ffxiv]

ffxivwrite 2021 - #21 Feckless

Continued from #18 Devil's Advocate ( first | second | third | fourth | fifth )

Gridania, 1565 6AE

By the next morning, Shandrelle made up her mind- she wasn’t going to do it.

It could have been any number of things. The way Ezette’s hand lingered on her waist that morning as she leaned past her at the vanity, or the muffled chatter of high voices through the door. The burnt umber flash of Devone’s new dress as she twirled in the foyer one way, then the other, like a flower blooming and furling in rapid succession that danced to the tune of life flooding through the kitchen. A morning’s routine, as the teapot’s wail cut through the clatter of pots and scrape of utensils, and Shandrelle poured the girls’ tea first before sitting down with her own. She lifted it to her nose, but the faint floral bouquet was undercut by the cloying scent of fresh porridge spiced with cinnamon and cloves and the thicker aroma of sausage sizzling on the stove.

As the four of them sat down at the table for breakfast, the girls chattering about a nook beneath a footbridge they discovered yesterday, Shandrelle met Ezette’s eye. Pools of deep brown, in the shadow they often gleamed as black as her hair. But now, as a sliver of morning sun fell across her face, the light scattered through her irises like a pair of twin jewels, splitting into a topaz sunset.

And in that moment, as the girls’ conversation devolved into incessant giggling about normal bodily functions, it was as if the light painting Ezette’s face touched her too, blooming a warmth into her core that spread up her skin as if she was a corrugated flower, Shandrelle beamed.

Of course she wasn’t going to do it! The warmth carried with her as she strode on to the Stillglade Fane, like a sun-kissed stone tucked into her middle. Her family needed no interruption. Her family- not her father or her mother. And certainly not her relatives. The most important thing was the girls, and her wife. She would brook no interruptions- no unnecessary dangers. Whatever Ojene’s business was, it wasn’t with her. She wouldn’t aid it, but nor would she stop it. If her kin was up to something foul, eventually the truth would out.

Two days later, her father found her.

She hadn’t heard him coming. Caught up in the Fane, her thoughts lingered on her smallest patient from earlier that day- a small Hyur boy with a terrible rash spreading up his throat. His voice splintered on every word, or what little he could manage before it shattered into wheezing coughs. Half mindlessly her fingers glided across the shelves, drifting over small jars before plucking down one or two. A poultice, she decided- it’d soothe the ravages of what the elemental’s succor could not. She’d only just reached for a mortar when his voice struck her from behind, melodious and cool.

“Ah, Shandrelle.” Efrault Roiveaux emerged from the hall. His once chestnut mane of hair, struck white at the temples and bound with ribbons of grey and platinum, was tied tightly behind his head with nary a loose strand in sight. Its long tail trailed over the shoulder of his robes, the deep azure of the Fane bound with the embroidery of his station- the sort that made the new apprentices quail into silence when he passed.

“You’re back,” she said simply- she didn’t turn around.

“I am, and a couple days early at that.” The smile he tossed at her was easy. Relaxed, as it pleated the wrinkles collecting around his mouth, crinkling through skin so much paler than her own- she’d been born with her mother’s complexion, and thank the Matron for that. “Your mother and I were wondering if you and your family would like to come over for dinner.”

The pestle scraped against the side of its bowl a little too hard, stone against stone, before it stopped short. “Tonight,” she said flatly, though it was more of a question.

“Not necessarily tonight. But this week perhaps? It has been too long since we’ve seen the girls- and Ezette, how is she doing? Is she still working on that wardrobe for the Guillenoix?”

“No.” Shandrelle twisted her wrist sharply, grinding a flake of leaf to dust. “She finished that a moon ago.”

“Ah,” he said simply. “Well, how about on Earthday? If you’ve plans I expect Astralday would work just as well.”

“I’ll ask Ezette,” she hazarded. “Now, I really must get back to work-”

“Of course.” He cast a glance down at the jars at her elbow. “If you need any advice, I’ll be teaching today. Just a little ways down.”

“Thank you, father,” she said dryly. “Goodbye.”

It was only when he left that she released the pestle, and she struck a trembling hand down the side of her robe, her palm slick with sweat.

Dinner? The thought snapped at her heels the whole way home that evening- just before the turn that would take her within sight of their respectable house Shandrelle kept going, clasping her empty lunch basket tight to her side. Her father hadn’t invited them to dinner in moons- and granted he’d been on his usual sojourn through the Twelveswood. A person of his ability was in frequent demand after all. But even when he was home, these days he rarely came to call. So why now?

Why now indeed. A shiver sluiced down Shandrelle’s spine.

Perhaps she wanted to spare her family the trouble, but it was already too late.

[mithrilwren]

Closed Hold

The long awaited next installment of the Shadowgast Figure Skating AU (inspired, as always, by the amazing art of @fiovske) is finally here! I don’t know if it’s cheating, since I was already planning to write this, but I’m also counting this as my submission for Day 7 of @essek-week because hey, it’s definitely an AU! :D You technically don’t have to read the first two works in the series - Inside Edge and 3 Turn - to enjoy this one, but some details may make more sense in context. Also, warning that things get a little NSFW by the end, in case that’s not everyone’s cup of tea! [Also on Ao3] [Find the whole series of one-shots in this AU here!]

(cw. implied past dub/con, chronic pain)

Essek never thought he’d find himself in a place where he could call sharing a hotel room with someone else ‘comfortable’. Yet here he is, sitting at a little table with his laptop open while Caleb slouches against the headboard, too engrossed in his novel to care for posture or dignity, Essek finds himself at ease in a way he didn’t know he was capable of - at least, not in another’s presence.

A bottle of wine sits open and half-finished by the tray on the nightstand, and every so often Caleb reaches over and takes a bit of carrot from the remains of Essek’s salad. He eats absentmindedly, the motion so regularly spaced that Essek can’t believe he’s aware of what he’s doing. He should find it disgusting, but not a single drop of dressing spills onto the sheets, and there’s something about the movement that’s almost mesmerizing in its steady, involuntary rhythm.

He almost wants to tell Caleb that they can order more food, if he’s still hungry. He doesn’t need to pick the scraps from Essek’s plate. But he knows enough now to say that the suggestion would be ill-advised - or rather, he knows enough now to say that he doesn’t know what Caleb’s reaction would be, and that is a good enough reason to be cautious. Slow steps have worked well for them in the last few months. There’s no reason to take unnecessary risks with something so delicate.

These evenings, where they share the same space - conversation - a good meal - are still difficult to come by. There are murmurings of renewed hostilities between the Dynasty and Empire, and orders from the Bright Queen to reduce contact while the situation cools, and fewer and fewer public spaces they could go where privacy would be assured. Essek is certain that some would find the idea of the two of them sneaking off to hotel rooms together, only to do nothing more illicit that talk the night away, an utterly unbelievable story. But truthfully, it’s only after long nights of competition that they find themselves in the same countries - much less the same cities - and neither has the energy for much else after so many hours at the rink.

And besides, this quiet time - where both are engrossed in their own worlds, but still close - it’s just as soothing as a calm bath, just as warm in his chest as a hot drink, and Essek wouldn’t trade it for any more exciting diversion.

Caleb stretches, the book’s spine knocking the top of the headboard as he curls backwards like a cat. As he settles once more, there’s an audible creak - not of the wooden bedframe, but of tendon against bone. Essek glances over again in time to catch a wince of pain in Caleb’s jaw, and his fingers pushing gingerly against the small of his back. Eventually, he flips on his stomach and resumes his reading.

“Are you alright? That sounded... unpleasant,” Essek says. Caleb doesn’t even look up from his book to reply.

“Sorry to bother you,” he says coolly, “I’ll try to keep it down.” A note of dry humour laces his voice, and as always, Essek’s heart lifts to hear it. They’ve gotten easier around each other, slowly but surely, and Caleb’s knife-sharp, often obscure wit is one of the greatest discoveries he’s made in the process.

Still, Essek’s concern isn’t assuaged. Caleb took a hard fall this evening - not so disastrous as to knock him out of the running, but ugly enough that Essek had ached in sympathy as Caleb picked himself up off the ice. If he isn’t bruised from calf to hip, which Essek quietly expects, he’s at least likely to have twisted something in his back from the awkward one-handed press he had to do, to get back on his feet in time for the next element.

“Did you stretch enough?” he asks. Caleb hums noncommittally, nose still pressed into his book, and Essek thinks back to the moments after Caleb’s routine finished. “I didn’t see Beau there this evening. Were resistance bands enough, or did someone else help you?” Again, there’s no answer except a grunt. Essek gets the sense he’s being purposefully ignored. “Caleb,” he says, more loudly. “Please tell me that you stretched.”

“Stop worrying,” Caleb says, flipping another page. “I did stretch.”

“Clearly not enough,” Essek chides, standing so he can better survey Caleb’s posture. Even prone on his stomach, he’s still favouring his right side. Not a good sign. “You need to take care of your body, or you’re going to injure yourself, permanently.”

Caleb shrugs. “I’m old, Essek - too old for this sport, according to most people. How much worse could it get?” A twinge of heat sparks in Essek’s stomach, something low but simmering to a boil, until his hands are clenched and his jaw clicks with the effort of not snapping.

“Worse,” he says, and at last, Caleb looks up. The rising frustration fades just as quickly as he clocks Caleb’s assessing gaze, and pivots to embarrassment at his own unguarded reaction.

They need to choose another subject, and soon is not quick enough.

“Just… will you let me help you? At least to work out the worst of it, before you fall asleep on that book and wake up with a cramp.”

Caleb’s eyes narrow. “You want to... help me stretch?”

Essek clucks his tongue at Caleb’s dubious tone. “I assure you, I’ve had many years of practice, and it’s always easier with a partner than with a band.”

Caleb’s gaze grows more distant, less like he’s looking at Essek, and more like he’s found a ghost at the edge of the room.

“...I know,” Caleb says, voice softer than before, but still, he doesn’t move from his place on the bed. Essek sits down on the other side, leaning closer, but not so close that his weight disturbs Caleb’s half of the sheets.

“Then let me help. It would set my mind at ease, at least.”

“Well,” says Caleb, with a small smile, still not quite meeting Essek’s eyes, “if it would set yours at ease… give me a few minutes.”

Caleb pushes himself up at last, closing the book while trailing a rather forlorn finger down its spine, as though saying a reluctant goodbye to an old friend. Then he walks to the hall between the two rooms of the suite, and begins jogging lightly in place.

Caleb’s warmup gives Essek plenty of time to consider his plan of action. He closely watches the muscles twist beneath Caleb’s long-sleeved tee and loose sweatpants, searching for a place to start. Pain in the lower back often stems from tightness of the hips, which is also one of the most difficult areas to stretch without help. Essek notices too that his shoulders still ride up to below his ears as he runs, creeping higher and higher with each footfall. That could use work, and maybe his obliques as well, if the side Caleb jarred today isn’t too bruised…

At last, Caleb finishes and returns, slightly more cherry-cheeked than before, but not huffing and puffing - just enough to get the muscles warm and limber.

“Show me what you usually do for cooldown,” Essek says, still seated on the bed, and Caleb launches into a series of standard stretches, ones that any skater has in their arsenal. Essek does notice the age difference between them as he watches, but not in a significant way. Caleb’s joints don’t bend with quite the same arc as they might have for a dancer ten years younger, but he’s still very flexible. His arabesque reaches past his head - though Essek notes a small tremor in the inside of his thigh as he holds the position, and there’s an unsteadiness there that concerns him. It could be hip tension, as he suspected before, but Essek worries-

But it’s one in a million chance, as it was for him. There’s no logical reason to believe the tremor is anything more than fatigue.

“That’s it,” Caleb says, rising back into a standing position after his final lunge. Essek presses his fingers to his lips, considering.

“Let’s start with your shoulders,” he suggests. “You have a good range of motion overall, but I’d like to loosen them up, the right one especially.”

He moves behind Caleb, bracing one hand on his left shoulder while placing a flat palm against the apple of the other, and begins to gently rock the joint in its socket.

It’s a position he’s quite accustomed to, having done the same for others on his team when he was far younger - back when he still had peers, rather than admirers. And yet, there’s something strangely more aware in coming back to the action as an adult. He feels the differences between his own body and Caleb’s keenly. Though Caleb is far from stocky - very few figure skaters are - the muscles beneath Essek’s hands are less lithe than his own. Broader, as though bred for a different purpose, and whittled down to their current lean shape. He wonders if Caleb grew up doing manual labour of some sort, a kind his body still remembers in form, if not in substance.

For the first few pushes it almost feels as though those muscles are getting tighter. Like Caleb is tensing, resisting the movement. Essek frowns.

“Breathe,” he instructs. Caleb, with effort, takes a deep breath, and the catching of the tendon finally releases with a soft click. The process goes much more smoothly after that, the joint sliding like butter in his palm by the end of the seventh rotation. He moves to the other side, and has no more issues.

As Essek steps away, Caleb swings his arms forward and back experimentally. “Better?”

“Much,” he says, smiling a surprised grin. “Thank you.” Essek nods.

“Of course.”

“Anything else?”

“Hips, I think, if that’s alright with you.”

He guides Caleb down to the floor and onto his back, and takes a position on his knees at his side. Though Caleb ordinarily has a few inches of height on him, from this position, he feels very high up. Caleb waits, motionless, as Essek hooks a hand under his knee and raises it up slowly, watching the microsmal twitches in Caleb’s expression for any sign of pain or discomfort as he pushes the leg up towards his chest. But Caleb’s eyes fall closed, and whatever resistance he had offered before, he lets Essek’s hands work now without any complaint, bodily or otherwise.

When he spies the first twinge in Caleb’s jaw, Essek slows his pace, but continues pressing, trusting his hands to feel when the resistance is too great. It’s a delicate balance; too little pressure, and the stretch does no good, but too much, and he risks injuring Caleb. He could strain muscles, even tear ligaments, if he’s not certain of how hard to push.

It requires a great deal of trust, he muses, to let someone do this for them. Since his days as a trainee, he has allowed few others to help him, unless they’ve proven themselves time and time again to understand the nuances of his own situation. Mirimm is one of the small number on that list, and his own mother, when she still had time for such things.

Who has Caleb - cautious, reserved Caleb - given such trust? He knows he’s seen Beau follow Caleb into the locker room at least once, so presumably her, but have there been others?

He presses one more inch. Caleb winces, but does not fight him. He remains perfectly still.

An awful, nauseating thought floats into Essek’s mind.

He lets the leg float gently down to the floor, bowing the knee out ever so slightly so that the joint has a chance to rotate, then removes his hands to his lap. Caleb cracks one eye open, looking up at Essek and raising an eyebrow, as if to say is something wrong?

Yes, Essek thinks, I’m afraid there might be.

“Caleb,” he says quietly. He does not want to ask this question. He must ask it. “Did… Did Ikithon ever-”

Both of Caleb’s eyes fly open.

“No,” Caleb says, the clipped syllable harsh, and it sounds believable, and Essek so wants to believe him. “Whatever you are thinking, no.”

Essek breathes out slowly. “Then this sort of thing-”

“I would not have done with him.” Caleb turns his head to the ceiling, staring up at the hospital-white plaster, and Essek is still very conscious of his height, so he leans back on his hands into an uncharacteristic slouch. “He was… he was not a hands-on sort of teacher, so to speak. He preferred to instruct, and trust the three of us to do as he asked.” Caleb falls silent for a moment. “With them, yes,” he says at last. “We did this sort of thing together, always.”

Astrid. Eodwulf. Names never to be forgotten, though Caleb has only spoken them aloud once. They are burned there, in Essek’s mind, along with every spare detail Caleb has told him of his past. He wishes, some nights, that he did not know. That he could exorcise the names from his memory, and the pain from Caleb’s as well. But at least the burden is shared between them now, and he has to believe that is better than the alternative.

Essek reaches out and pats Caleb’s ankle. “I’m sorry to bring it up,” he apologizes, and Caleb’s smile is acknowledging, and forgiving too. “Do you want to keep going?”

He’s gratified that Caleb seems to genuinely consider the question before answering. It gives him hope that he hasn’t, yet again, overstepped a line, one hidden beneath the layers of uncertainty between them he fears he’ll never fully unravel.

“I think so.” Caleb shifts his hips. “It was already feeling a little better.” He lifts his other leg, just slightly, and as Essek shifts around to take it in hand, he thinks again of trust. Of Caleb putting his body in his hands, believing he will treat it kindly, even when others have not. The warmth in his chest grows, and grows.

He presses down, and this time Caleb keeps his eyes open.

When Essek is satisfied that both hip flexors are as loose as they’re going to get without professional help, he asks Caleb to sit up, then kneels behind him. He leans his weight into the space between Caleb’s shoulder blades until Caleb bows, forehead touching his knees as he curls his arms beneath them. Already, Essek can see the difference in the fluidity of the movement from earlier, and he presses with his thumbs at various points of the lower back, pleased to discover that most of the tension there has been released. He guides Caleb back up, then prods at his upper back. The left side isn’t bad, but his right… Essek can barely go five inches without finding another knot.

This isn’t the result of a night or two of inadequate stretching after a competition. This is months, years worth of stress gnarled up beneath the skin and never adequately dealt with, if addressed at all. No wonder Caleb’s shoulders rise so high that the judges take off points for it. No wonder relaxing at all is a force of will. His body is wound so tightly that Essek barely needs to dig deeper than the surface to find the evidence.

“How long has it been since you’ve had a massage?” he asks, curious. Caleb’s incredulous little laugh ripples out beneath his palms.

“A very, very long time. That’s a kind of luxury I can’t usually afford.”

Essek wants to argue that it isn’t a luxury - that it is, in fact, essential to the proper functioning of a figure skater’s body. The benefits in terms of flexibility and mobility are incalculable. And yet, without sponsorships or other income, the calculation must be done.

How very far Caleb has managed to go, despite his lack of resources, continues to impress Essek, but scrappiness doesn’t equal a healthy body that will outlast the competitions to come.

“They have a spa here, downstairs,” Essek suggests. “It might be closed now, but I’m sure if I called the front desk-”

“No,” says Caleb, just as clipped, though his voice softens much more quickly than it did before. “Thank you. I don’t- it doesn’t appeal to me.”

“A massage?”

“The environment,” Caleb replies. “The table. All of it.” Essek doesn’t press for more details, sensing he’s hit upon another wall neither is eager to dismantle tonight. Caleb’s shoulders are already rising again beneath his hands. He smoothes them back down with his hands, not fully conscious of what he’s done until the motion is already complete.

“Would a bed be better?”

“What,” ask Caleb, glancing over at the bed, mere feet from where they currently sit on the carpet, “order up?” He chuckles again. “I think that you might have a harder time explaining that expense to your superiors than an extra plate of room service.”

“True.” It takes Essek far longer to offer the second suggestion, because even though he fully expects Caleb to refuse, he still has to work up the courage to speak it. “Or, I could try my hand?”

Caleb swivels, his face so close to Essek’s that his bangs tickle the tip of his nose. “...Oh?”

“I’m no professional, but I have some experience.” No need to explain more than that, about the hours spent frantically massaging his own legs in the bathroom, willing the cramps to release in time to make it onto the ice. He knows that he can coax a bitterly stubborn muscle into functioning, and Caleb’s would be far easier than his to manage.

And still, he’s nervous in the seconds after speaking - not for fear that he can’t do what he’s offered, but that Caleb will say no, and be upset or offended.

That he will say yes, and the place that leaves them.

“...Ok.”

Caleb stands, then turns back to Essek, who still kneels on the floor. His hands flutter nervously at the hemline of his shirt, first tugging up the fabric, and then letting it fall back down. “How do you- I’m not sure what the procedure is. What do you need me to do?”

Essek swallows, fighting down the lump of anxiety in his throat. He pushes himself to his feet, and tries hard to project his usual air of confidence, one he does not currently feel.

“It would be easiest if you took off your shirt - if you’re alright with that, of course. I have some oil in my bag.” He goes to fetch the bottle from the other room: massage is still an essential part of his travel regimine, and he keeps it with him at all times. By the time he returns to the bedroom, Caleb is still standing where he was before, but now barechested, clutching the discarded shirt in his hands. Essek pauses at the doorframe, momentarily caught off guard, then shakes himself and continues on.

“Lie on your front.” Caleb does, still watching Essek as he approaches from the corner of his eye, and the look in his eyes is apprehensive.

Essek can feel it too - the difference now. The tension in the air that wasn’t there before. What they did for the last fifteen minutes was accustomed. They’re both athletes, used to having their bodies maneuvered by others for very specific purposes. The practice of guided stretching, while still sensual in the more general sense, doesn’t carry the same implications for them as it might for those outside their world.

But as Essek sinks down onto the side of the bed, and as he ghosts his cool hand over Caleb’s skin and watches the goosebumps rise at his almost-touch… he realizes this is something different entirely, and that they’re both aware of it. Caleb turns his face into the mattress, out of embarrassment, maybe, Essek can’t quite tell, but he knows his own face is burning just as bright as the flush creeping down Caleb’s neck.

It’s intimate, to a degree that frightens Essek more than it excites him.

“A little closer,” he murmurs as he sets the bottle aside and warms a generous squeeze of oil between his palms. Caleb shuffles over far enough that their hips brush, and Essek leans forward and places his hands in the shallow plane between Caleb’s shoulders. The skin there is pale, and freckled, and he traces lines between the marks with his fingertips before running them down the length of Caleb’s spine with one smooth stroke.

Up and down, he moves his fingers through the hollow places of Caleb’s back lightly, not pressing yet. For now, his only aim is to warm the oil further, and to make sure Caleb is comfortable and relaxed. And that when he finally leans over and begins the massage in earnest, his heart will have calmed sufficiently that Caleb won’t be able to hear it beating through his skin.

It’s not as if they’ve never touched before. This is not their first kiss, nor even their first fumble in the dark. But it had been dark, those times. Here, in the dim glow of the lamps over each nightstand - here, in a hotel room only they share, with trays of food set aside and Caleb’s toothbrush by the bathroom sink - here, where he can’t pretend the depths of his feelings aren’t evident to anyone who would dare look - he can’t see Caleb’s face, but he can see his own hands, and what they’re doing, and how much he wants to keep doing it.

He wants this. He wants Caleb under his hands, breathing out slowly as Essek’s fingers find the hidden spots within him where pain festers, and begin to work in slow circles, drawing out gasps of discomfort as Essek presses deeper, and deeper, and deeper still. Caleb arches his back and he runs his other hand down his shoulder, comforting him in a way Essek wasn’t taught, but what he learned to do for himself, when his own agony became too great to bear. A muscle shudders beneath his knuckle, spasming involuntarily, and he watches chills run down the nape of Caleb’s neck: raised goosepimples of referred pain. He knows that sensation well. If one part aches, the whole of the body is affected. You might never be able to name the true source of the pain.

At last, the first knot loosens, and Essek eases off. Caleb visibly melts into the mattress as the pressure releases. “My apologies,” Essek whispers, and even so, his voice sounds too loud for the intimate space they’ve created in this room. “I’ll try to be gentler on the next one.”

“It’s alright,” mumbles Caleb. “I can take it.”

They’re not unaccustomed to pushing through pain, the two of them. One cannot be a figure skater and not learn how. One cannot have lived through what they have lived through, and not be an expert in the subject.

“Alright,” Essek says, “I’m starting again.”

He goes over each half of Caleb’s back in quadrants, feeling for the places where the muscles draw together and kneading the tension out. Each time, Caleb tenses, but as soon as the knot releases, his bones become looser, his body sinking deeper and deeper into the bed and his breath coming in slower intervals, and though at first every wince was followed by screwed-tight eyes and clenched fists, by the time Essek finds the last problem spot, his expression has slackened to something almost dreamlike.

“Caleb,” Essek murmurs. “Are you awake?”

“Mm,” Caleb hums. “Yes.” His voice is lower than Essek has ever heard it before.

“Shall I continue?”

Caleb hums again. “I wouldn’t complain.”

Essek smiles at that, adding a little more oil to his palms and returning to his earlier broad strokes. Caleb’s shoulder blades shift more freely under his hands now, the muscles relaxed and uninhibited. He raises the arm that lies closest to the bed’s edge experimentally, testing the range of motion and watching the way the shoulder glides easily in its socket. Encouraged by a tap on his side, Caleb shuffles a little more towards the bed’s edge, and Essek slides off it. He pulls Caleb’s wrist out until the ligaments are stretched to their fullest extent, then lays the arm back in place at his side. Ideally, he’d want to do the same for the other arm, but Caleb looks so peaceful now, half-asleep in the sheets, that Essek is reluctant to force him to reposition.

He’s not unaware of the scars exposed by their current situation, and no more so than in this moment, as he gazes down at the roughened brown and white patches in the space between wrist and elbow. He’s glimpsed them before, and he knows part of their story, can even guess at the rest. But not tonight. Not here. This isn’t the time for more questions. He doesn’t need to know more than that Caleb is with him, and that he trusts Essek enough to do this, despite his history.

Essek has caused his own share of hurt. He has done selfish things, with no other purpose than to advance his own career. He has been cruel, and uncaring, in order to achieve all he has in his life. But Caleb trusts him, and that is enough to make him desperate to live up to his expectations, unrealistic as they may be.

When he’s satisfied with the rest of the back, only the neck remains. Caleb’s hair is still pulled into the remnants of his elaborate show ponytail, but as usual, bits have begun to fall out. Essek sweeps aside what strands have caught in the oil, caught off guard by how soft it remains. Most skaters with hair as long as Caleb’s cake their hair in hairspray before competition, to prevent loose ends and flyaways. Even Essek’s hair, so carefully gelled at the beginning of the day, would likely crunch like fresh snow under another’s hands. But Caleb’s hair is loose, and just slightly curled at the ends, and for a moment, Essek’s mind flashes with a vision of pulling the tie fully free. Of running his fingernails against Caleb’s scalp, of feeling those auburn flames pour between his fingers, of leaning down and pressing his lips to the place below the ear where hair and skin meet and breathing deep of hotel soap and his own shampoo and Caleb-

He startles out of the daydream with a small hitch of breath. This is not what this is about, he reminds himself sternly. Essek panting after him like a schoolboy is not what Caleb needs. He may ache to try all things new and unexplored, all the things he never thought he would have the chance to experience, but he is, as always, in control of himself. He has to be, or it will all go wrong. In what way, he does not know; the things he fears are undefinable, but that does not make them less of a yoke around his neck.

Essek runs the pads of his thumbs along the spot where he’d just been imagining his own lips pressing, smoothing out a path to Caleb’s shoulders. He takes care not to let his other fingers encircle Caleb’s throat, and so they bat like moths around the empty air, without a place to land. Caleb arches up again, but this time the noise is pleased, rather than pained. Essek shifts his hips, reminding himself again that this is not the situation they’re in. That he cannot read too much into the sound. That he should never assume what Caleb has not explicitly agreed to.

There isn’t a part of the back before Essek left untouched by oil, though the lower parts are drying, leaving the skin tacky but still warm from friction. Essek does one last assessing stroke with the flat of his hands, and finds nothing remaining to fix. He sits back, and considers what to do next.

With Caleb on his stomach, there has been a safe screen of separation between the two until this point. Essek did not need to work hard to hide any reaction of his to the experience, other than in his voice. But there are still muscles on the front of Caleb’s shoulders to work, and an incomplete massage can be worse than no massage at all. He doesn’t want to leave anything tight enough to pull his back muscles out of alignment again.

But then Caleb may see him, and know.

Know what, again, he cannot say.

It takes a few taps on the shoulder to rouse Caleb from his comfortable state, and even then his words are slurred with pleasant doziness. “Do you need me to move?” he mumbles, before pressing his face back into the mattress.

“I’d like to finish your shoulders from the front, if that’s alright.” Caleb murmurs his assent, but makes no attempt to move from his current position. “You’ll… need to roll over. For me to continue.”

Caleb grumbles good-naturedly, but does manage to turn himself over, immediately flinging one hand over his eyes to block out the - thankfully, dim - light. Essek starts to reach for his wrist, meaning to maneuver it back down on the sheets, but after a moment of thinking, he instead reaches over and grabs a pillow from the other side of the bed. Essek tugs the pillowcase off and tosses the pillow itself to the floor, then folds the fabric neatly into a band, which he lays over Caleb’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Caleb murmurs, and another thrill goes through Essek’s body. He can see Caleb’s mouth moving now when he speaks, his lips that are slightly parted, soft and unconcerned as he breathes in and out, as his chest rises and falls with the same rhythm. Essek has never dared to look so long.

He chides himself again. Caleb is blind in his current state, and any unnecessary stares on Essek’s part are as good as leering in this context. This feeling, of towering over someone… it isn’t something to enjoy. He’s always relished the feeling of control, of being above the rest. But with Caleb, Essek is an equal, and so when he offers him control, Essek cannot take pride in having earned it. He can only fear betraying the trust he’s been given.

Essek starts again on the massage, letting the discomfort flow out of himself and into the motion of his hands. With every breath Caleb takes, his collarbone rises to meet Essek’s palms, and he bites the inside of his lip, and keeps his own breath steady, and his eyes focused on the task at hand. His body is a distraction, but one he is proficient at ignoring.

The front takes far less time than the back. Caleb is so loose by now that his muscles want to follow Essek’s lead, and do so without complaint. The only stir Caleb gives is when Essek’s hands stray too close to his windpipe, but even then it’s more a twitch than a flinch, and Caleb settles back down immediately into his previous boneless state once the fingers retreat.

Essek has kept his eyes in line until this point, but in a moment of weakness, he lets them wander down the expanse of Caleb’s chest - slim, but defined muscles, skin waxed smooth save for the trail of hair that runs past his navel, and there, yes - a bruise along his side, as ugly as Essek expected, but already beginning to yellow at the edges. He carefully avoids it as he runs his hands down Caleb’s sides, drawing trails of oil like paint strokes all the way to his hips, just shy of the band of his sweatpants. Caleb shivers, and that’s when Essek notices, though he tried so carefully not to put himself in the position to.

Caleb is hard. The bulge isn’t obscene, but noticeable, and impossible to ignore, once Essek makes the realization. His mouth goes dry, hands stuttering to a stop halfway back to Caleb’s shoulders.

Of course, he knew it was a possibility, that Caleb might be affected in the same way… touch is a powerful thing, even absent of desire, and he knows that Caleb does desire him, at least under some circumstances…

“Are we finished?” Caleb asks without moving his head, sounding regretful, but not displeased.

He must be aware of it. How could he not be, of his own state? But he hasn’t said anything. Hasn’t made any effort to hide it, or to call Essek’s attention to it, as though he’s simply unbothered whether Essek knows or not.

What courage that must be - to accept that others see you, without any shame.

He… he wants to find that courage as well.

Essek reaches up with one hand and removes the folded pillowcase from Caleb’s forehead. Bleary blue eyes squint up at him, half lidded against the light. The other hand, he moves to the sharp bone of Caleb’s hip, fingertips just skimming the edge of the bruise, and then the place where Caleb’s waistband pulls away from his skin. He waits until he’s sure Caleb is looking at him before he speaks.

“Do you want me to go lower?”

He brushes his fingertips again at Caleb’s waistband, so that his meaning is clear. And even still, he hesitates to do it, unsure he’ll be able to go through with the offer, regardless of Caleb’s reply.

He is still so uncertain, about so many things.

“...I wouldn’t complain,” Caleb says, echoing his previous words with a wry smile. It’s that smile, that humour, that utter expression of ease... he only realizes in hindsight, that that was the only thing that would have convinced him to move forward. The only way he would have been alright with it.

“A word, and I will stop.”

“I know.” Caleb’s eyes have already begun to drift closed again, but they open once more when Essek taps him on the shoulder.

“And still, I’ll say it again. A word.”

Caleb’s humoured smile shifts to something softer, almost fond, and he lifts one hand to cover Essek’s and pats it gently.

“I know my limits. You can trust me to say how much is too much. Right now, I am happy for more.”

“...Then I’m happy to give it.”

Moving to Caleb’s other side so he can recline on the bed as well rather than perch at the edge of it, Essek gathers what oil hasn’t yet dried on Caleb’s skin in one hand and reaches down past the waistband, fingers grazing through a thicket of coarse hair before settling on heated flesh. Essek draws Caleb out, grateful that his eyes are closed, so he can’t see the full extent of Essek’s embarrassment. His experiences prior to Caleb had been… limited - which is to say, non-existent - and even if this is not the first thing they’ve done together, he still finds himself impossibly shy, when it comes to it. For lack of anything else to concentrate on, he returns again to Caleb’s hair, leaning forward on one elbow to touch the tresses spooled across the pillow, as his other hand begins to move up and down.

Some of the curled tips are still damp with oil, but most of it is dry, and fans out in a beautiful array of red and copper highlights. He follows their path to the crown of Caleb’s head, where his bangs are swept to one side, not hanging over his eyes. Though his other hand is on Caleb, he’s still seized with the impossible, unfullfillable urge to touch. To be closer than they are, closer than they could ever possibly be. He threads his fingers into the hair around Caleb’s forehead, dragging his nails gently against the scalp, and Caleb tilts his head back into Essek’s hand.

Caleb’s lips part, but his breathing isn’t ragged or hurried. It’s still slow and relaxed, if a little heavier than before. His eyes are closed, but not held shut tight. His shoulders stay where they are, content to remain immovable after Essek’s ministrations, and his mouth still holds a little smile at the edges, and his face, a softness, like what Essek is doing is just another part of the massage.

The atmosphere isn’t even particularly erotic, Essek realizes, and realizes too that the lack of gravity in Caleb’s response is settling his own nerves. There are no shouts of ecstacy or scrambling hands, no open mouthed devouring kisses, or desperation, or even lust. Just… comfort. Just pleasure, without expectation of rapturous release. Just being together, in this way, because they want to be. Because it feels good to be.

Caleb’s shoulders only begin to tense near the end, and even then it’s easy to coax them back down, so that when the final moment comes it’s with a long, slow exhale, and a body more relaxed than before. Essek’s right hand stills, but his left keeps on stroking Caleb’s hair, until at last Caleb’s eyes open.

“I’m very tired,” is the first thing he says.

“I can tell,” Essek replies fondly, then lowers himself down to the mattress, so that they’re at eye level when Caleb turns his head to him.

“That was wonderful.” Caleb smirks. “You have been holding back your skills from me. What else are you hiding, I wonder.” Essek chuckles softly, and Caleb nudges forward and presses a tender kiss to his mouth. “I should treat you as well, hm?”

Caleb turns his body to Essek, reaching down between them to tease at the drawstring of Essek’s leggings before hooking his fingers into the waistband and beginning to slide them over-

Essek jerks to the side, catching Caleb’s hand before it can go any father.

The lights. The lights are still on, and Caleb will see-

“Essek?” Caleb asks, eyes confused.

“You should relax. You said you were tired,” Essek says, and Caleb shakes his head, and begins to move his hand again.

“I’m happy to-”

“Don’t.”

Caleb stops this time for good, and Essek sits up quickly, pulling at his waistband to make sure not a single inch of skin is showing.

“Essek-”

“I trusted you to know your limits. Trust me to know my own.”

There’s nothing but silence for as long as Essek can bear to look away, and when he finally turns to look at Caleb once more, he expects to find frustration in his eyes, or annoyance at Essek for having soured the mood.

Instead, Caleb’s expression is one of quiet understanding.

“Of course,” he says, and sits up too, so they’re at eye level again.

He wants to apologize, but can’t bring himself to, so he sits there, staring at the floor and saying nothing.

At last, Caleb gets off the bed.

“I should shower again, get cleaned off.”

Essek nods, eyes still on the carpet, until his vision fills with the sight of a kneeling Caleb, his face impossibly close.

“Thank you,” he says, “for telling me.” Caleb cups his chin and leans forward, kissing Essek gently on the cheek. The ice in his bloodstream begins to thaw, in slow waves. “Take some time for yourself. I’ll come to bed soon.”

Then he’s gone, and Essek stares off at the light from under the bathroom door for a good few minutes before folding over onto the mattress. The heat of Caleb’s body hasn’t yet faded, and Essek curls into the warm spot where he lay, and pulls the sheets over his shoulders.

He lets the tactile comforts that remain - the smell of oil, the warmth of the blankets, the sound of running water - seep into every part of him, and waits for Caleb to return.

[ctoastwrites]

stars

for the past three days, robin had been on edge for no apparent reason. after the four fought some weird monster (magic and energy sword extra required), they had been unable to relax.

maybe it was the fact that the monster disappeared. or, maybe, it was something else. it was as if there was a ball of electricity bouncing around in their body. jemma had offered a (magic) solution after realizing robin hadn't slept for two days, but they refused. the night before, they'd run off into the forest to try and see if punching a few trees would help. they felt bad for disturbing the wildlife and tried to not be noisy or too damaging. as soon as robin attempted to power the sword the marks running down their arms from previous sword-fighting incidents became an electric blue and began to burn. robin hadn't had that happen in almost a year. they'd only been gone from 'home' for maybe.. nine months? ten? they couldn't recall. it had been almost twelve since they'd swiped the sword out of it's box and tried to use it without any practice- which is what caused most of the marks in the first place. who knew that suddenly forcing an excess amount of energy to an object could have negative consequences? robin felt the inside of their mouth lose most feeling (which was typical for them when they did their "odd energy stuff" as alex called it) and almost burn (not typical). they had become afraid. especially because all of a sudden they felt exausted yet shocked awake at the same time and their whole body felt like it was covered with pins and needles. so, they went back and didn't bother trying to fight a tree. they were practically vibrating for the entire day and then some. when they accidentally shocked jemma, they realized that they really needed to do something about their problem. she hadn't noticed, but there was a small mark that disappeared in moments. robin knew how that could escalate, if the mark on their old bedroom door was anything to go by. so, they decided to go on a walk. maybe they actually would fight that tree. they only meant to go for a bit. and then pastel followed them out. "hey, are you okay?" pastel slowly moved closer to robin. "you know you can talk to me, right? it's okay if something's wrong." robin was the worst person ever when dealing with emotions. they had a tendency to shove it all in a jar and hope that jar wouldn't shatter. (which may have been the reason behind robin's energetic outburst, but i digress.) "nothing's.. wrong." they mumbled, looking away almost shamefully. they were lying and felt bad for doing so, but didn't want to rope pastel into anything. she didn't deserve it. pastel looked at them, concern dulling her usually bright pink eyes. robin gulped when they looked back and tried not to wince. maybe they weren't getting out of this one so easy. "i just..." robin turned and crossed their arms. pastel took note of their missing gloves and dull blue markings on their arms. "'m scared." they whispered, pastel taking a second to realize what they had actually said. "scared..? of what?" pastel's voice was almost as quiet as robin's, but not quite. she wanted them to clearly understand. "i.. mm.. i shocked jemma." "oh.. is that all?" pastel smiled. "i'm sure she doesn-" "no, you don't get it!" robin whipped around and raised their voice. their eyes brightened for a moment and they felt the scar on their face begin to burn. pastel took a step back. robin took this as a sign of their danger. "even though it was just for a moment, i got jemma and.. she wasn't upset, but i am! i- i- i did a bunch of other weird stuff too! the stupid stove, the dresser- pastel, there's a fucking mark on the dresser because i gently opened it!" they emphasized the gently, and pastel realized this wasn't about jemma being mad. they were scared of themself. "robin, it's alright! we'll figure it out, and jemma can probably find some spell or alex can make something for whatever this is to stop!" "i'm not dragging anyone else into my messes, it's bad enough you have to deal with it right now." their voice became strained as unnecessary guilt weighed down on them. they turned again. pastel lightly put her hand on robin's shoulder as they shook. "hey.." that was all she could say before robin reacted out of fear. they didn't really think first, and realized pastel was behind them too late. they turned, grabbing pastel's hand and practically throwing her off. they registered their hand going numb for a minute as their vision flashed white and then... pastel was on the ground, shaking. a fading, jagged blue mark ran from her hand up into her sleeve, getting thinner as it went up. she groaned and tried to sit up, but hissed as a bolt of pain went through her arm. they gasped and closed their hands tight, scared something else bad would come from their exposed fingertips and palms. alex was outside in moments to help pastel. (he'd been watching from the window.) jemma followed him soon after, more confused because she hadn't been there to see it all. "i'm sorry! i'm so sorry, i- i didn't-" alex looked back to robin. "just.. go do whatever it was you were going to." he didn't mean to sound harsh, but he was upset and his mind was focused on making sure pastel wasn't too badly hurt. robin realized alex wanted them gone and nodded. "right. yeah. i'm.. uhm.. goodbye. i'll be back. 'm sorry." jemma gave alex a concerned look when robin was out of sight. "don't look at me like that! when they get back, we'll talk it out and solve whatever it is that's going on. i promise." alex tried. he wasn't one to break promises. jemma sighed and nodded before helping alex get pastel inside. she was fine, just needed some rest. robin gripped the leather strip of their bag tight. they were just going on a walk, nothing more. nothing. more. the rustling from the bushes seemed to have  other plans. robin soon found themself face to face with a much angrier version of the creature they had fought days ago. yet there was four people fighting that time, and robin was only one. the beast growled and bared it's teeth. robin trembled and fumbled for their sword. they were doomed. > four hour timeskip < robin was gone much longer than alex thought they'd be. the sun was nearing the horizon and there was still no sign of them. "i'm going to go find them." he thought aloud, not expecting anyone to hear. alex pulled on his shoes and prepared to head out alone. yet, pastel and jemma were waiting at the door, ready. "where are you two going..?" he asked, puzzled. "with you." jemma smirked. "did you think we weren't going to come?" "maybe.." jemma gasped. pastel giggled at her overdramatic reaction. "how dare you?" alex chuckled. "okay, okay. let's go then." - the four eventually came to the same place robin did. it was darker now, but bright enough to see clearly for the most part. alex pointed towards a bundle on the ground. he was going to head towards it, but was interrupted by growling and a large being towering over him. "oh, hello." he squeaked, stiffening and reaching for the sword on his belt. jemma took that as her cue to stand defensively and rack her mind for things she had read (she, of course, did not bring her book because she didn't think she'd need it.) while pastel hid and prepared herself in case she needed to help someone. (she too hadn't brought a weapon.) the creature attacked first. both alex and jemma were running around and trying their best to fight it off. alex realized that the bundle was robin. he assumed they were playing dead, and called out. "hey, robin, it'd be great if you could help right about now!" his sword clashed against one of the beast's claws. he realized they didn't even shift in response to their name. "robin..?" jemma struck the being in the face with something that looked rather unpleasant. it stumbled back and howled in pain, retreating so it could heal. alex swiftly made his way over, kneeling down to see what was wrong. pastel popped out of her hiding spot, and both her and jemma cautiously approached. there lay robin, cold and still with closed eyes and dried blood trailing from their mouth. there were huge claw marks running down their body. their sword lay abandoned on the ground not too far away, as if it had been flung from their hands. jemma gasped as alex checked for a pulse. he spent what felt like hours (but was actually only ten minutes) searching until he realized it wasn't working. "oh no..." was all he could force out before allowing warm tears to slide down his face. - pastel had tried to heal robin, but it proved useless against their injuries. the four had gone to a quiet pond (robin included.) to say their final words before letting robin be. they were silent underneath the stars. alex thought about what robin had told him once before. "i think we become stars- or spirits of sorts, at the least. our bodies become gardens for beautiful flowers to bloom and for bees to use. i don't know if we stick around but... i wouldn't mind sticking around now that i know all of you." he hoped robin was able to stay, even if it was just for that last night. - a box that once held a ring now sat on their dresser. inside was a button, yellow and star-shaped. their glasses sat there too. both had been taken off of robin before they'd been buried to become part of the earth. otherwise, the room was nearly undisturbed. occassionally someone would walk in there. maybe they'd stay for a bit and think. eventually, they moved on. not forgetting of course- but those sad first few weeks turned into days where they could smile and joke without feeling absolutely terrible. and robin did grow a garden. an assortment of flowers reached out to the sky and allowed the bees to take their nectar. the bees spread the pollen, and allowed their flowers to grow elsewhere.   the flowers were their favorite color as well- a beautiful shade of blue. nobody touched those flowers. not even the animals who would've otherwise ate them entirely. they seemed to just... know. sometimes, when one (or all) of them sat on the roof, they could see a bright star that stood out among the rest, calling out to them. they could almost feel robin sitting there with them, happily spouting fact after fact about the beautiful void that surrounded them. robin avi hyde would not be forgotten.

[jincherie]

intermission • iii | moonchild

• ☽ — pairing: bts x reader • ☽ — genre: crack, fluff, angst, college/uni au • ☽ — words: 4.6k • ☽ — rating: sfw • ☽ — warnings: rabid old ladies and tree-climbing shenanigans • ☽ — notes: another intermission! this is my last part for now, miss zee will be writing the next two and then we will see my return!!!! but until then, please indulge us n show miss zee some love!! she works hard for it :’< also because with zee’s next chapter... we see a bit of a twist arise!

— posted; 09.06.2019

When the love letter you wrote and submitted as an assignment is leaked to the entirety of your university, it becomes a race against time to dispel rumours and convince the seven suspected muses of the poem that they aren’t the subject before anyone realises that you are the author. Easy, right? Well… maybe not as easy as you think.

— • masterlist | prev | intermission iii | next • —

— some time in first year —

 The afternoon air is cool and the sun is a soft, comforting warmth against the exposed parts of Kim Namjoon’s skin, chasing away the slight bite of the cold that lingers in the breeze due the transitional season as he walks home. He’s just finished fulfilling his third ‘help wanted’ poster duty of the day, collecting the sheets, both handwritten and printed alike, from shopping mall billboards like Pokémon. He has a thick wad of them folded up and wedged in his back pocket (he’d forgotten his trusty messenger bag this morning that, despite being two snapped threads away from falling apart completely, has always managed to see him through the day) and a comparatively much smaller wad in his other back pocket, of the odd jobs his managed to complete through the week.

His rationale for being such an upstanding citizen and going out of his way to help anyone and everyone he can? Two things—experience, and references. He knows it’s a harsh world, and to succeed you have to prepare yourself as much as possible for everything to come. So when the time comes that he steps into the adult, working world after graduating… he doesn’t doubt he’s going to be one of the best prepared people they’ve ever seen.

Plus, sometimes the little old ladies and distraught pet owners he helped gave him a few dollars as a tip. Unnecessary and not something he asks for, but Namjoon isn’t one to turn away a gift when it could do wonders for his loose change jar. It satisfies him to see the little glass thing with a cork lid get fuller and fuller each weak. He blames the deep, primal part of his monkey brain that likes seeing a big collection of shiny objects like coins. It sparks joy, one could say.

The odd job he’s just completed was a little dryer than the rest, if he’s being honest. It was much simpler than the ad for it had made out— just helping some fellow uni student as clueless as him fix their broken toilet roll. All he had to do was find the screw that came out and the student gave him, like, a whole box of frozen chicken patties in return. Which… isn’t so bad but also, Namjoon considers himself an intellectual and while he may be bought by food he still longs for a mental challenge. So despite how usually he gets in about three a day, on a good day, but even thought this is his third one he’s still… hungry for more. He’s also hungry in the literal sense; the last job made him miss lunch and now his stomach is performing an acapella version of ‘feed me, feed me, you bastard’. A classic hit, one he is especially familiar with. He’ll have to rifle through the papers in his back pocket and suss out whether any of the posters seem the type to provide food for the help.

He’s still toying with the idea when he happens across an unexpected scenario that seems to have been dropped into his path by the fates themselves. Along one side of the footpath are suburban homes and their small front yards and cute little mailboxes, and to the other is the occasional tree and then the plain asphalt of the road. About a yard in front of him, just far enough that he can’t really see even with his glasses on, there seems to be a bit of a commotion occurring near one of the larger trees lining the street.

Excitement probably shouldn’t be his first reaction, but it is, and Namjoon hurries his long-legged gait so that he can reach the spectacle sooner. He doesn’t know what he looked like but walking like this, he feels a bit like those spiders with the tiny bodies and disproportionately long, spindly legs. And here he is, going to help out like the friendly neighbourhood spiderman. He slapped his thigh, eyes wide. He might be an iron man enthusiast at heart, but damn that’s a good line for his resume.

The closer Namjoon gets to the commotion he’d spotted from afar, the more he realises he might have hit jackpot. The source of the loud yelling and frantic movements seems to be a woman, a little on the elderly side, with her wild salt and pepper curls defying gravity in some places and clumping in others—it takes Namjoon a moment to realise that she’s actually attempted to tie her hair back and that’s why it looks a little bit deformed from the distance. As he draws closer, he notes that she looks a little unhinged. His reaction to such a thing should be caution, and he should feel wary, but all he can think is hell yes this woman clearly needs help and he is going to help her, damn it.

“Pudding, come down! Please! I’m sorry for calling you fat, Pudding! I didn’t mean it!”

As soon as he’s within earshot, he hears the woman sobbing hysterically as she claws at the thick trunk of the tree. She’s too small to reach the lowest hanging branch, and has taken to draping herself pitifully against the leaning trunk as she scrabbles against the bark with her nails. The woman wails, pitifully, voice piercing the air like a siren, or a banshee, “Pudding!”

Confused as he may be, he’s sure that as soon as he asks the lady what happened, he’ll be as clued in as possible. Namjoon clears his throat and composes himself, before stepping forward and speaking loud enough that the woman can hear him over her own loud weeping.

“Excuse me, ma’am, is everything alright? Do you require assistance of any kind?”

The lady spins around, a crazy glint in her eye, and belatedly, Namjoon begins to feel a little wary in addition to the wave of concern that seems to have caught up to him from where he left it in the dust.

“My pudding,” the woman wails, lurching and attaching herself to Namjoon like he is the tree she’d just been attempting to scale. Her nails dig into his arms, and the male is suddenly thankful for the long sleeves of his shirt and jacket protecting them from being punctured by her claws. “My pudding is stuck in the tree.”

A few beats of silence sound in Namjoon’s head, before finally a thought spawns into being. This woman…. Did she fling her dessert into the tree? God, it’s worse than he thought. He never expected to walk upon such a tragedy.

“I’m so sorry to hear that, ma’am,” Namjoon says, sincerely sympathetic. Being prone to trips and falls as he is, he has been victim many a times to accidentally flinging food all over the place. His heart goes out to her, his hands coming to pat her forearms with only a little hesitance (distantly, a part of him wonders if the crazed look in her eye is due to rabies, and the whiteness of what he assumes is snot all over her face and mouth makes him a little nervous). “Would you like help? I can get the pudding down from the tree, and then you can go on ea—”

“Oh, would you, dear?” the woman’s grip tightens like a vice as she cuts him off, wide, glassy eyes gleaming with hope. Is she starting to froth at the mouth a bit? Namjoon chooses to ignore that observation. “Please, please get him down. He’s the fat bastard on the second highest branch, and he -hic- must be so scared.”

Namjoon resists the instinct to make a face just barely— is she referring to her pudding as a he, and did she just call her pudding a fat bastard?— and instead follows the old woman’s shaking hand as it point to the top of the tree. Realisation slaps him in the face.

There, sitting right on the thickest part of the second highest branch near the trunk and somehow still managing to bow it, is both the fattest and the ugliest but most oddly endearing cat Namjoon has ever seen. At least, he thinks it’s a cat. It’s a cat until proven otherwise, he decides.

“Oh,” Namjoon says, staring at the cat. The cat stares back, and Namjoon gulps at the sudden goblin energy it seems to be radiating. “Pudding.”

The woman, still babbling incoherently while Namjoon creates a half-assed sort of mental plan for how to proceed and reach the top of the tree, starts shaking him slightly in her distress. Being a music major doesn’t prepare him for shit like this, he laments. This lady better have some food on the table for the trauma she’s currently inflicting.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get pudding.” He gingerly brushes her grip off him, surprised she let go with such little convincing, and makes his way to the trunk of the tree. The cat stares him down the entire time, lidded yellow eyes peering into the depths of his being and pulling out his innermost fears. Namjoon feels like this cat is the kind of thing you peer under your bed as a child and see balled up in the corner, hissing, with big fangs and ominous man-eating energy. This cat looks like the second Namjoon is within reach he’s going to claw his face off or eat his ears. A shiver rolls down his spine, but he pushes on. He’s going to climb this tree, make this cat his bitch, and bring it back down for the crazy old lady who has started breathing extra heavy the closer he gets to the tree. Distantly, one of his braincells knocks around and whispers that this feels like when Hansel and Gretel got tricked by a witch and her candy house— except in this situation the candy house is Namjoon’s incredible need for good references and experience. Annoyed at the errant brain cell, he flicks it away mentally and tries to think of a way up the tree when he reaches the base.

Well, he supposes he’s just gonna have to go up branch by branch and see which ones he can reach with his long noodle legs. He has to bring his foot up past his ear to clamber onto the first branch, and amongst the pain of essentially doing the splits he feels oddly proud of himself. Kim Namjoon; outstanding citizen, academic, genius music major, now gymnast. It has a nice ring to it. Perhaps he should consider broadening his horizons and extending his athleticism.

Scaling the tree is actually much easier than he anticipated. None of the branches are too far or too high to reach, and he’s satisfied with the effortlessness this job has taken so far. This will look fantastic on his record— he can’t forget to get a written statement from the rabies lady.

Before he knows it, he’s come face to face with the cat. Up close, it radiates even more demonic goblin energy, and Namjoon feels his knees quake slightly in response. It doesn’t meow, doesn’t even growl, merely bares its teeth in greeting, and the male gulps. Alright, time to make this cat his bitch for a moment and save that old lady’s day.

“Hey puss,” Namjoon greets, a little rusty on his cat conversation etiquette. “Come here puss, here, tch tch.”

The cat, fearing neither god nor man, merely sits and looks at Namjoon as he makes kissy noises in an attempt to lure it. ‘You think you can control me?’ It feels as though the cat says to him, with its apathetic, golden-eyed stare, ‘I belong to no one, fool. I will perish before I move at your will.’

Alright, seems like he’s just gonna have to scoop him up and go. Hopefully his nature is a docile as the name Pudding implies and his intimidating outside is just a farce.

Namjoon leans against the trunk of the tree as he reaches for the cat and takes it into his arms successfully— it’s too fat to put up much of a fight, and for that the male is thankful, even if it now feels like he’s holding a boulder in his arms and they’re going to fall off if he doesn’t deposit it soon. What does that lady feed this cat?! Cement?!

Having secured the old lady’s bag, Namjoon directs his gaze downwards and goes to embark on the next step in the plan to climb the tree for the cat and then climb down with the cat— as expected, it’s time for the latter. Wait, speaking of—

A ladder? God he wishes he had one of those right now, because he’s just realised that he has no idea how to get down. The cat’s belly gives an almighty rumble and, expectedly, it throws Namjoon a little off balance. The old lady is calling out hoarsely several many feet below them, and Namjoon feels a little overwhelmed as he considers possibilities and analyses paths down.

Gulping, he makes a calculated decision— unfortunately, he was never that great at maths.

x x

An afternoon stroll through the streets surrounding your dorm is just what you need, some fresh air to sooth your tired, university student soul and refresh your mind.

At least, that’s what you decided like ten minutes ago. Currently, you’re not sharing the same sentiments as past-you so much. This is mostly due to the abundance of unhinged elderly and zombified youth that seem to have had the same idea as you and that are now milling about unchecked. You accidentally stepped off the footpath before and stepped maybe ten centimetres onto someone’s lawn. That someone happened to be a short, stout middle-aged couple that had matching outdated hairdos, and they were not happy about you ‘messing up their lawn’. Before embarking on this walk, you could have proudly said you’d never been chased down the street by some screaming woman with a broom before. Now though, you’re no longer a virgin to that particular experience. You’re not going home as the same woman you were when you left.

The street that you’ve just turned onto, on your journey back to your dorms, is remarkably less chaotic than the rest and you feel yourself letting out a breath of relief. Finally, you thought you were going to combust from the stress alone. As relieved as you are though, you don’t let down your guard; you’ve been burnt before, thank you very much.

Not even three houses down the street, your reservations are proven right. There is an elderly woman, who appears afflicted with a sickness of some sort if the fluids all over her face are anything to go by, who is sobbing and moping at the base of a tree in what you hope is her front yard. Confronted with the strange situation, a part of you instinctively wants to help her— the other part tells you to turn tail and go down another street because this could be one of those traps where they trick you with a crying child or old lady and then mug you, taking all your money and any candy still surviving in your pockets.

Ultimately, the more empathetic side of you wins out and you hesitantly begin to walk closer to the woman clawing at the tree and screaming about desserts.

“Uh, excuse me ma’am, are you o—”

You don’t even get to finish before there is a sudden series of snaps and cracks from the tree above you and a mass comes hurtling down from the foliage. You scream, the sheer blood-curdling nature making your throat ache, and just about shit yourself as you launch away. Where you stood, a shape smacks into the ground with a hearty thunk that shakes the earth a little beneath your feet. You were right, you’re about to get mugged!

“AHH FUCK WHAT THE FUCK FUCK OFF I KNOW KATANA!”

The mass on the ground groans and you blink, watching with absolute dumbfoundedness as it shifts and suddenly the fattest cat you’ve ever seen is parting from it and running towards the woman in hysterics by the base of the tree. For such an absolute unit, it moves fast, and barely a moment passes before the massive load of a cat is wrapped firmly in the old lady’s arms.

“Pudding,” she weeps into his coat, the cat pinning you and the lump at your feet with an ominous, dead-eyed stare over her shoulder. “Oh my sweet, fat bastard— don’t you ever do that again, okay? Oh my sweet baby—”

She turns, mumbling into the fur of her cat as she begins to depart from the tree and make her way back to the house that you presume to be hers. For a moment you forget about the lump at your feet, until you hear it let out a pathetic whimper.

“My reference and commendation…”

You let out another scream, for some reason not at all expecting it to speak words. When you look down, however, you instantly feel guilty.

The thing that fell from the tree was a man and he landed right on his ass.

“Oh wait holy shit are you okay?!” Now that you’re over your fear of being mugged, you run over to the man and pop a concerned squat next to his curled up form. “What the hell were you doing up there? Did you steal that crazy lady’s cat?!”

The male at your feet groaned, bereft. “No, I was helping her get the cat down. Holy shit, my buns…”

You turn your gaze to his heinie, realising that with how hard he hit the ground he very likely has broken something. God, now that you think about it, he could have broken his tailbone. You have a friend that did that in highschool— it wasn’t fun, and it wasn’t pretty. And the thought that this poor man who fell from the tree and scared the absolute shit out of you might have done the same… oh, you felt for him. He attempted to roll and let out a pathetic groan. Oh yeah, he definitely broke it.

“Wait, don’t move! I think you broke your tailbone when you fell! Don’t move too much.” You hurry to halt him, and all he can muster in response is another sad groan.

“God, I- I can’t see…” he dropped his head against the earth, eyes shut. “The light… it’s growing closer.”

“H-hang on!” You panic, hands flying into the air. “We need to get you help! We need to get you to a hospital! Please don’t go into the light!”

The male groans again, and you flounder— you have to get him to the ER! It’s more serious than you thought. Panicked, you scramble for a way to get him up and mobile. Finally, an idea occurs to you, and you survey the man’s lanky form to try and assess how well it’s going to work out. A grimace finds its way to your face.

You’re going to be so sore later.

x     x

For forty minutes, you carried the long-limbed male on your back like nothing but a pack mule. Twenty minutes of that you spent walking, feeling like that Atlas bitch carrying the heaviest thing imaginable on your back and shoulders; and the other twenty was spent taking (read: waiting for) public transport. By the time you arrived to the hospital and got the man on your back checked in (you learned his name is actually Kim Namjoon and he’s a student, much like you), you felt as though at any second you were going to pass out. You still feel like that, actually, as you sit in the chair along the wall across from the male’s bed, which has the curtains drawn as the doctor inspects him, and attempt to recover. You’re sweaty, and gross, and desperately want a coffee. You even considered slipping some of the paper from the mysterious wad in his back pocket before you realised it isn’t money. You didn’t get to see what was on the papers, since you lost interest as soon as you realised it wasn’t cash.

You don’t get to lament too much about it before the curtains are being hauled back, a brightly smiling man greeting you; the doctor appears just as exuberant and overjoyed as when he first walked in.

“Well, good news and bad news!” he chirps, tucking his clipboard under his arm. His nametag reads Dr. Lee Minhyuk, and you can’t help but think that your new friend Sera would probably be frothing at the mouth at the mere sight of him. You catch sight of Namjoon adjusting himself on the bed behind the doctor, cheeks red.

You send the doctor a probing look, knowing he is waiting for a response. He beams, delighted at your acknowledgement.

“Good news first!” the Dr. Lee clicks his heels together before shifting his stance, gesturing his arm widely to Namjoon. “His tailbone is not broken! Thanks to the uneven distribution of his ass cheeks— ahem, sorry, his buttocks— all of the force of impact was absorbed by the, uh, dominant butt cheek, if you will. His tailbone is fine!”

Namjoon chokes behind him at the words that come out, and a part of you is mortified for him but the rest of you finds that too funny to even begin unpacking everything else yet. One of his ass cheeks really pulled a hard carry and did the lord’s work and absorbed all the impact. The power… A sigh of relief escapes you at the doctor’s words, though, and you go to speak up your relief when the doctor cuts you off.

“Whoops, actually I take that back! That’s the bad news— his tailbone isn’t broken, but it is bruised.” Dr Lee clicks his tongue, taking out his clipboard to scribble something short down. He then turns to Namjoon. “I kind of have to go— since you came in through the ER but this isn’t an actual emergency— but I’ll send a nurse in with directions for you on how to manage this, and after that you’ll be free to go. I recommend not climbing any more trees for a while! Also I hope you don’t sleep on your back, that might be a bit difficult like this.”

With that, he clicks his heels once more before saluting you both, and then he’s striding out of the room, off to tend to actual emergencies, you presume. You’d gotten an earful earlier for bringing him to the ER when it wasn’t a life-or-death emergency, but you stand by your decision.

There are a few long moments of silence in the time after the doctor leaves, and you decide to break it by standing and moving to the table beside his bed, where you’d left your phone like a fool. Avoiding his face (he’s still blushing so it’s a courtesy, but also because while sitting and waiting for the doctor you’d realised he really is quite good looking and your mind is having trouble associating that with the man who fell out of the tree earlier), you reach for the phone amongst the water cups and chocolate wrappers, from when he’d emptied his front pockets. He’s a nervous drinker and a hoarder, it seems.

“Wait,” His hand shoots out, long fingers wrapping around your wrist before you can grab your phone. Your heart jumps, perhaps in fright. You look to him with wide eyes. “I’m gonna need you to sign a non-disclosure about what you just heard.”

“I…” you give him a pained look. “Please, tell me you carry them with you at all times. Please. If you don’t tell me, I really might die.”

Namjoon lets out a great, big sigh, releasing your wrist somewhat petulantly. “I don’t… please hold your tongue until I can print some more.”

More? You’re having a field day with the implication that he has had instances where he’s needed to hand out non-disclosure agreements before, but he seems a little sombre. So instead of mocking him, as per your first instinct, you decide to try and make conversation. You know the nurse is coming soon, but you would feel bad leaving him alone until then. You feel like, having carried him on your back for miles and miles, almost an hour, you’ve really gotten closer and crossed the bridge from strangers to acquaintances.

“So…” you begin, tapping your fingers against your thighs. You search for another nearby chair before grabbing it and pulling it over, flopping down. “What do you study? Where?”

You feel like a new language learner asking questions using only the limited vocab you have, but Namjoon is unphased and answers as though you’d asked him something much more natural.

“CCU,” he says, fingers picking at the threads on his blanket, before he looks up to glance at you. “I’m a music major.”

Surprise filters through you at that, a noise of wonderment escaping before you can really stop it. “Oh! Hey, me too! I think you’re in one of the years above me, though, because I haven’t seen you in any of my classes before.”

Namjoon, who had been somewhat withdrawn and had put up a wall of sorts between you since entering the hospital and regaining control of himself (and a donut cushion to sit on), seems to do an absolute one-eighty at your words. “Oh, your major is music as well? Where are you specialising?”

You tell him with an eager smile, and he responds with one of his own. Just like that, the two of you fall into a conversation that comes much easier than anticipated, talking about your majors and music inside and outside of school. The nurse takes forever and you spend a good amount of time there, just talking to this upperclassmen who happened to fall out of a tree while you were walking past. Eventually, he confides in you about a rough draft of his, something he has really high hopes for. It’s a song called Moonchild, and it’s barely half done but he drums and beat boxes the rough rhythm out for you and you feel your cheeks heat in awe as you listen. That’s amazing, you can’t help but think, and it’s all him. You don’t think you’ve ever liked the demo of a song as much as you like that one.

The afternoon passes with the nurse eventually visiting, and all too soon you’re waiting with the long-legged noodle man at the drop-off and pick-up zone, watching with a note of sadness as a car pulls up and some mint-haired twink that looks vaguely familiar sticks his head out and calls for Namjoon. Namjoon thanks you for your help and bids you farewell, and then he’s climbing into the car with an abrupt wail of pain— he forgot to put his donut down first— before the doors shut and the car is pulling away, disappearing into the dusk and leaving you by your lonesome. You stand a few minutes, before letting out a huff and turning to leave yourself.

The whole way home, and throughout the rest of the week, you can’t help but think about the beautiful tune of moonchild and how it rings serenely through your mind when your thoughts quieten just enough. You hope you get to hear it again, someday; you hope you get to hear it when it’s finally completed and Namjoon’s name is on the credits.

— • masterlist | prev | intermission iii | next • —

{let us know what u think!! who are u rooting for?? who do u think is the muse?? hit us up!! & thank u for reading, btw!}

[nascent-chaos]

I'm curious how the boys would react if reader suddenly became a bitty, especially how they would show affection without smothering her

Sans :: … Shit. Did he do that?

He tries brushing off the entire thing like there’s nothing to worry about, though it’s clear from his strained grin that he’s a bit off-put by the entire ordeal. But once the initial shock dies down?

The prank-potential he sees in this is a once-in-a-lifetime thing.

He’ll make sure to keep a socket on her at all times, sure - the lodge isn’t exactly easy for someone who could sit comfortably on his shoulder to navigate, but with a bit of caution and his blue magic to lend him a hand… well, he’s just thrilled she shares the same sense of humor as he does. Soul-mates, indeed.

From having her sneak into small places to set up an annoying airhorn or whoopie-cushion to ‘accidentally’ misplacing her on the blades of the ceiling fan or ‘losing’ her in the ventilation system, the others are going to be in for a tough time. The real bonding moments come in the form of Sans’ tinkering, which she’ll be only too happy to lend a hand with. She’s the perfect size to help work with some of the smaller bits and bobs of his projects and can easily get in and out of places that he might otherwise be unable to reach. The two will actually spend a good deal of time together while she’s like this, and it won’t be uncommon to find her hiding in his hood during her downtime.

Papyrus :: At first he’s a bit fretful, worried sick as he is that anything she does might result in her hurting herself - sure, he and Reed quickly learn how gravity and terminal velocity affect her differently now that’s she’s only a few inches tall, but the fact that her jumping from, say, a countertop to the floor will only jar her legs a bit won’t be enough to deter him. Nevermind that this is just one of the many excuses he uses to have a reason to carry her around all the time (his big heart just melts every time she sits on his shoulder!). He’ll work alongside Blue to design a full system around the house to help her come and go independently, but isn’t it so much faster to get a lift from your favorite friendly skeleton?

He sees everything they do together now as an adventure. Gardening? The flower beds are just the sort of fabulous jungle his bitty friend would love to explore in! Cooking in the kitchen? Fetching the ingredients he needs is an adventure all its own (of course he’ll keep her far from the actual cooking, lest she get hurt!). And let’s not forget his knack for creating adventures of his own! After all, what kind of great puzzle master would he be if he didn’t first design a smaller mock-up of his grand projects and have his smol assistant help test them out?

Red :: He’s freaking out and is doing a poor job in hiding it. How the hell did this even happen? Is this permanent?! 

It takes a bit before he’s able to calm down and, even then, he’s seeing the lodge in a completely different light now. She sleeps on the fourth floor, and that’s a shit-load of stairs she could break her neck on if she made one wrong move. Going out in the yard? Aren’t there snakes and birds and all kinds of other weird shit that’d try and eat her?

Fuck that - he’ll try his damnest to keep her inside. It’s only after a gentle scolding from Reed that he’ll realize how overbearing he’s been. Still, seeing him fret over her the way he does is enough to keep her from doing anything too over-the-top in his presence. And though he tries his darndest to hide it, Red deeply enjoys the more laid-back moments the two of them share, even if it’s just napping or laughing together as she tries (and fails gloriously) at playing video games with him. As with Classic, you can bet this duo will be up to all sorts of mischief together whenever the opportunity presents itself, And of course, a good, long nap on the couch together at the end of the day is a given. As much as their seemingly endless onslaught of pranks has driven the others - especially Edge - up the wall, even they’ll admit it’s endearing, the way they’ll find Reed nestled in the fur lining of his coat as the two enjoy an afternoon snooze together.

Edge :: He thinks this is the most ridiculous thing ever. Look at her! She’s been reduced to four inches of utter uselessness!

He’ll huff and complain even while he’s keeping an eye light on her, quickly scooping her out of reach of any trouble she might find herself in. While she’ll earn an earful and have to deal with his prattling on about how much trouble she’s now causing him, however, she’ll quickly learn it’s all just hot air he’s blowing off. He clearly seems to relish in every moment she comes to him for help, disguising his genuine happiness at her choosing to rely on him to assist with something behind his usual preening of 'OF COURSE YOU WOULD COME GROVELING FOR MY AID! I AM THE BEST, AFTER ALL! NYEH-HEH!’ Every moment she spends with him, from cooking (okay, so he might find the sight of her rolling a tomato half her size over to him the slightest bit endearing) to chores (did… he just hear something fall into the dishwater?) is a moment he won’t admit he enjoys.

No place is safer for her than atop his shoulder, no hiding spot better than the folds of his scarf. And of course, being the fashionable and immaculate skeleton he is, there is no way he’ll stand to see her in those cheap plastic outfits she considers taking from a dollar-store barbie. Those are hardly sensible for a bitty for whom durability and a wide range of motion is a must! He’ll take it upon himself to create an entirely new wardrobe for her (made to his sense of style, of course), cutting and sewing every last stitch personally because… well, let’s face it, who could do a better job than him? She’d better be grateful for it, though!!

Blue :: Blue is very much like Papyrus in his fretting, but he seems to have more confidence in Reed’s ability to take care of herself. Not that he’s not the first on the scene to lend her a hand when needed, though - you can bet he’s going to be keeping an eye light out on her whenever she’s up to something new. You know, just in case! It’s obvious to see how enamored he is with the entire situation as he now hardly if ever leaves her side. Yes, everything she does seems so much cuter now that she’s only a few inches tall, and yes, he’s going to let her know every chance he gets. The entire pulley system that appears across the lodge practically overnight was his idea, and he’s positively thrilled every time he sees her use it. Although… he does have a bit of a habit of offering up a hand to give her a quick lift to her destination anyway.

‘Why did you guys build all this if you don’t want me using it?’ She’ll tease.

Stretch :: Like many of the others he appears to be a bit nervous from the get-go, but that uncertainty soon evaporates when he sees how quick she is to adapt to her current situation. He, like the Mutt, give her the most freedom around the house, only offering her their help when she’s requested it. He doesn’t like the idea of smothering her with unnecessary concern, even though you can bet he’ll be looking out for her when needed.

The quiet time they’d shared during their little reading sessions together may have been changed up a bit, though - it’s kind of hard for her to flip the pages of a book when said book stands taller than she is. Reed will often settle on his shoulder while they share a book together, the taller skeleton reading aloud as she listens happily (reading along can be a bit strenuous on the neck, but damn if he doesn’t find her head moving along with his words to be the most adorable thing ever, regardless). They’ll often take to her little hideaway in the woods for this, and enjoy some casual chatter with one another along the walks to and from the locale. As with Sans, Stretch’s hood quickly becomes a preferred place of hiding for her.

Hickory :: His adorable human just became travel-sized, and this mutt couldn’t be any happier with the world right now. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a moment when these two are together that our playful pooch isn’t holding Reed, content to go about his day with her tagging along just to watch. Of all the boys he seems to be the most nonplussed by this change, even with the near-constant contact he seems to have with her. Black chalks it up to some residual instinct their world left them with, and the Mutt’s want to make sure no harm comes to her under his watch. But hey, she’s all for tagging along with him as he goes about his day, and she’ll happily sit at the edge of his desk as he works on his latest tune if it means she gets to be the first to hear it~

Black :: Oh, for the love of the Angel -

As if he didn’t have enough on his plate as it is, now his human has gone and been reduced to the size of his phone! He’s clearly irritated by the whole of the situation, not only because of the countless challenges that seem to crop up over the most mundane of topics but because… well… just look at her! How can she be expected to go about her day when something as simple as sitting on the couch involves a ridiculous amount of climbing to do so?!

Right from the get-go, Black is easily the most pessimistic about this entire situation. Like Red, he’s now seeing the threats and challenges the environment is going to present her, and his mind is already working on how to overcome them all in the most efficient way possible. Of course… it’d be a whole lot more helpful if Reed wasn’t so reckless all the time! There will be no less than four separate occasions on the first day that nearly give him a soul attack, and he’ll have to sit down and give her a stern talking-to before he’s finally gotten his point across. Tiny doesn’t mean invincible, after all, and he knows keeping her safe 24/7 would mean being only too overbearing - which certainly isn’t something that needs to be added to his already long list of tasks!

Alright, so… maybe at the end of the day he finds it the slightest bit endearing, seeing how she’ll tackle any task put before her with that glint of determination in her eyes that he admires so, but he’ll sooner die than ever openly admit it!

Dust :: This is the best, most entertaining day of his damn life.

He’s getting an absolute kick out of this entire situation and he’s not afraid to show it. For the most part, he is perfectly content to remain on the sidelines and watch as Reed tackles and overcomes problem after problem. There is a part of her now that reminds him of the 8th fallen child in that she’s only too determined to tackle and succeed over any obstacle that comes before her, and in a way… he’s sort of hoping she’ll fail? There is more than one instance of Dust stepping in when no one else is looking to actively make things more difficult for Reed - moving something she’s been struggling to get to further out of her reach, or flat-out picking her up and placing her on a shelf across the room to see how she’ll deal with the new challenge before her, but he won’t deny the slight hint of gratification he experiences when she just glares at him and accepts the new challenge as what it is - just another challenge. Would he actively put her in a life-threatening situation? Well… not intentionally, but hey. Mistakes happen.

At the end of the day he’s left with a peculiar feeling of satisfaction and bitterness but is pleased to know she’s yet alive and well regardless.

[sweetbyte]

Lessons in Magic 

Intro

Rated | T

Pairing | Bakumomo (Friendship/Brotp) | Implied/Mentioned Todomomo

Harry Potter AU Short Stories

    She huffed as she pushed the portrait closed behind her and closed her eyes in efforts to keep a calm composure. If she knew him as well as she thought she did, (and she really should after 14 years or so) he would be at her door very shortly and she did not want him to see any cracks in her façade. She started counting numbers in her head, not bothering to move from the entrance, enjoying the stillness of her dorm. She got up to 75 when she felt his hard, impatient knocks from the other side and tried not to jump in surprise.

She gave herself another 10 seconds before reaching for the door.

“You’re overreacting.”

“I beg your pardon?” She frowned, the portrait being completely shoved open.

“You bloody well heard what I said, Yaoyorozu, don’t act coy.” He bit as he pushed his way into her living quarters and plopped onto her sofa.

“I hardly think I am! Additionally, you cannot just barge your way into my dorm!” She chastised, exasperated, while softly closing the portrait who was outraged at the ‘unmannered brute’.

“S’never been an issue before, princess.” He replied, eyebrow arched, arms folded behind his head, feet kicked on her coffee table.

“Must you be so difficult?” she sighed, as she made her way to the small kitchenette to prepare tea, seeing as her uninvited guest was obviously not leaving anytime soon.

“Not anymore than you.” He snorted from his seat.

Momo rolled her eyes as she continued to make the tea in silence. When finished, she carried the cups into the living room where a lounging Bakugo had proceeded to rest his head back, eyes closed, in her absence. She ‘tsk’d’ at the sight of his feet still on her table and nudged them off as she set down the cups of tea. He growled “witch” but she briefly returned to the kitchenette in order to get sugar and a small jar of milk.

Momo sat down and prepared her tea to her liking aware of Bakugo’s staring. She finally looked up when she felt her skin prick at the intensity of his gaze. “Yes?”

“What good is it being the brightest witch in class if you don’t even use your magic outside of it?”

“One doesn’t need magic for everything. You know, muggles have managed to build empires without it. It’s rather fascinating, really.”

“You’ll end up sending your mother to St. Mungos if you keep talking like that…” She narrowed her eyes at him in warning causing him to roll his eyes. “Please, I’m far from being a bloody snitch”

“You maybe far from a snitch, but being a pureblood supremacist makes you no better”

“You’re overreacting-“ Bakugo hissed out again. “You know I don’t care about that blood bullshit.”

“You called him a mud-“Momo trailed off, feeling vile at the thought of completing the word causing Bakugo to scoff.

“Am I wrong? He is-“

“Enough!” Bakugo froze at her outburst as it was not in her nature nor upbringing to loose her temperament. “I do not know what it is that you have against that poor boy, but you must quit being so despicably cruel! We are not like our ancestors who fought and lost in an unnecessary prejudiced bloodbath, or even our parents who refuse to learn from their mistakes!” She quiets to regain her composure before continuing. “We are all people Katsuki; muggles, wizards and witches...even werewolves to some extent. We all have a right to live, regardless of blood status.”

  “When did you turn into such a righteous bleeding griffindor?” She pointedly chooses to ignore him and continues.  “Furthermore, to answer your previous question, you are in fact wrong. Midoriya’s parents are not muggles you know. You’ve been calling him an incorrect slur this whole time.”

 “So you’ll feel better if I call him a squib instead? Doesn’t matter, his mother is a-”

 “I would appreciate you stop tormenting him, period. You can’t call him a squib either since he can indeed use magic. His magic is quite brilliant you know, if you would set aside whatever grudge you have on him you would see an immense similarity between the both of you.”

 “You expect me to look over the fact that he was born a sqiub and suddenly has awoken a fucking ‘grand magic potential’ just after being snuck into this school?”

“It could have been dormant...”

“Not likely. He is stealing that magic, and I’m going to prove it.”

“Doubtful.” She mutters, more to herself and they settle into a moment of silence.

“So, are we going to prance around the fact that you’re suddenly so invested in muggles because of your infatuation with that half-blood?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Momo responds, grateful she hadn’t been drinking tea for she surely would have choked.

"Don’t be daft now, I told you it doesn’t suit you.” Bakugou drawls, amusement very much evident in his tone. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”

“It would be hopeless to lie to you, I indeed fancy him....” She sighs in defeat knowing full well that he can read her better thank anyone else.

“He’s a ponce”

“Regardless, I’ve been rebellious enough, don’t you think?” Her voice is small as she begins to fiddle with the handkerchief in her lap.

 “You? Rebellious?” He snorts

“One thing is getting myself sorted into Ravenclaw-“ “Were you not just lecturing me about this?’ He sneers, and she huffs. “This is different...”

“What happened to change and shit?” He demands, and she can only shake her head at him.

“I will fight for change, I’ll make sure our child’s future is different. They won’t be raised into the same toxic environment we were”

“Or you could be the change and fight now and be happy. Honestly, what’s stopping you?” He’s pushing her, like he always does when he knows she is lying.

“I’m afraid.” She confesses, finally bringing herself to meet his gaze. “You are my safety net, you know. We’ve been betrothed since before we could walk and while you can certainly be exhausting to deal with at times, you are also always there...”

“Fuck, now I’m the bloody ponce.” Bakugou groans into his hands before standing from his seat to hover over her resolutely.

“Look, we’ve been together for a long arse time, but breaking this” He gestures between them. “doesn’t mean you’re losing me. I’ll still be there to fight the bad guys for you, even if I have to start with our parents.”

“Why?”

“You’re my safety net too, you dense witch, but I don’t want to keep being told what to do and how to live. I told you I don’t care about that shit. Let my parents strike me off the damn family tree. I’m the only heir they have.”

“Katsuki!” He only shrugged in response before plopping next to her and bringing his feet to the table again, making her his in distaste and swat at his legs. He, of course doesn’t budge and she just resigns with a final half-hearted shove.

“What happens now?” She asks out loud, more to herself if anything but he scoffs nonetheless.

“Court his trousers off, shouldn’t be too hard.” He nudges her as she tries to lean against him, and she starts to play with his hand in retaliation.

“I’m not exactly the type to court others, it’s usually the other way around.” She pinches

“Oh?” He teases

“I didn’t mean it like that! I’m just saying it’s not in my set skills. I’m extremely awkward, and I’m aware of it.” She blushes.

“Come off it, awkward or not, you’re quite the number. Blokes feel the need to let me know all the time. I’m apparently extremely lucky, blessed even” He boasts

“I’d rather you not tell me. I don’t want to be seen as just a number to impress.” She sighs

“Impress him with that bloody brain or yours then. I’m sure he’ll find that sexy. Or, maybe shorten that skirt, you’ve got killer legs.” He suggests, mischievously.

“Please, do hush up.” She implores

“Then again, you’re quite virginal. A walking wet dream.” He continues

“I will banish you from my quarters, after I spill this tea over you” She threatens

“We both know you won’t.” He dismisses

“How they made you Head boy is truly beyond me.” She mutters

He smirks.  “Because I’m smart as fuck.”

‘Not smarter than me’ She thinks

A/N : Yes, hello I live! I'm slowly getting out o my writing block/hiatus so please take this as an offering? Life has been dominating every aspect of me and I apologize for the lack of activity, specially when updating Say When. Thank you for sticking with me. 

Also I just binged a whole bunch of HP content so this came about, it'll just be a type of anthology/drabbles. enjoy

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @cryptomoon!

Merry Christmas! I hope you enjoy!

Read on AO3

*****

Figure it Out

Stiles didn’t run into the sheriff’s department so much as stomp, carrying a bat and duffle bag filled with supplies of every kind—ranging from cold medicine to chains in cases of accidental lycanthropy.

Jordan met him by the front desk. “He’s in his office,” he said tersely. “We don’t know what’s going on, but he hasn’t spoken a word all day, he’s forwarding all calls to the rest of us, and then forty minutes ago…” He showed Stiles his phone. “He sent this.”

“He’s sending out memos?” Stiles nodded. “Okay. Keep everyone away from his office. If you don’t hear anything in ten, I might need backup.” He checked his duffle—the cold and flu meds were at the top, mixed in with tissues and large wound gauze pads and suture kits, sequestered away from the wolfsbane and mountain ash in sealed jars.

“Got it.” Jordan retreated to where the rest of the deputies were hovering.

Stiles squared his shoulders and went into the office marked “Sheriff”.

John was at his desk, reading glasses perched on his nose while he squinted at his computer. He glanced up when Stiles walked in and winced.

“What’s going on?” Stiles demanded. “What happened?”

His dad’s face sort of…twitched, mouth opening as if to respond, before he twisted his lips and grabbed a pen.

“Oh my god. Okay. Just—write it down and tell me—is it a cold, or some horrible injury? Did you sell your voice to a sea witch?”

John made a face at him and held up the paper he’d been writing on. ‘NOT A COLD. I CAN STILL TALK. MIGHT HAVE ENCOUNTERED A WITCH.’

“Well, good to know you write just like you text,” he muttered. “Okay, if you can still talk, why don’t you? And how do you know you encountered a witch?”

John sighed wearily, like these were unnecessary and inconvenient questions.

Stiles threw his hands up. “Okay, how?”

John turned his monitor around; he had the department security footage pulled up. The timestamp on the screen was from around 7 that morning. John was at a desk helping a woman with some paperwork, smiling as he spoke to her. Nothing unusual happened until she was leaving, when she shook his hand for a second too long and he flinched before she let go.

John tapped the desk, drawing Stiles’s attention to his newest note. ‘AFTER THAT, I TOOK A CALL AND THIS HAPPENED.’ He sighed heavily and lifted his office wastebasket.

It was brimming with flowers of all colors and types, some crushed, others whole.

“Uh…hang on.” Stiles frowned at the flowers. “Flowers appear when you talk?”

John grimaced, shook his head, and sighed again. “Not…exactly,” he said, fumbling over the lily that fell from his mouth. Something thunked heavily onto his desk with it. He lifted a small, red gem and showed Stiles.

Stiles’s jaw hung open like a broken hinge. “Uh, uh…okay. Wait, hang on, I need…backup…” Scott was out of town, Lydia was busy… He grimaced and poked his head out of John’s office. “Hey, Jordan could you get—buh!”

Derek crossed his arms, glowering at Stiles from beside the door.

“What, do you just eavesdrop everywhere?”

Derek’s eyes narrowed; he was somewhat rumpled, though he still wore that damn uniform well.

Ugh. “Fine, since you’re here anyway, I need your…help. Come on.”

Derek sighed through his nose and followed Stiles into the office.

Stiles flapped a hand back at Derek. “Show him the video, maybe we can find her with his-”

John was scribbling furiously before Stiles even finished speaking. ‘HE GAVE HER THE TICKET I WAS HELPING HER WITH.’

Stiles whipped around, but Derek was gaping, too. “How did you not know this?”

Derek shrugged, looking incredibly uncomfortable.

“Okay, I don’t—I don’t understand, are you both cursed? I mean, why not curse the guy who gave you a ticket instead of the guy helping you with it?”

Derek looked at John sharply, brows furrowed.

John gestured limply at the flowers.

Derek frowned harder.

Stiles yanked at his hair. “I haven’t heard of this curse, what is it doing to you? Oh, god, what if it-”

“He isn’t cursed,” Derek said suddenly, “I am.” As he spoke, no less than three lizards tumbled from his mouth. He caught them before they hit the ground, clutching them in folded fingers.

Stiles dropped his hands as a memory stirred from the deep recesses of his brain, the pieces slotting together like a puzzle. He felt his mouth twitch, fought it, and ultimately lost. He laughed his ass off. “Oh my god,” he gasped. “Derek, you were so rude to a witch that she gave you the curse of Toads.” He snickered and looked at John. “And you were apparently so nice she gave you the opposite. It’s a fairy tale curse,” he said, voice trembling. “Dad, you’re the Nice Daughter,” he giggled.

One of the lizards escaped Derek’s grasp and Stiles started laughing again.

“If you don’t stop,” Derek snarled, spewing frogs, “I swear, I’m going to-” He hiccupped out a python and fell silent.

“This is no laughing matter,” John tried, nuggets of gold and silver scattering over his desk. “We can’t exactly wander around like this.” Emeralds, sapphires, and roses dropped into the pile of gold and silver. “I don’t know enough ASL to get by for long.”

Stiles wiped his eyes. “Fine, fine, don’t get all worked up.” He bit his lip to keep from laughing again; the office was filled with flowers and lizards, gems and frogs. It was amazing. “Just…don’t talk. Give me the witch’s info so I can try to figure out how to break this curse.”

John wrote, ‘TAKE DEREK WITH YOU.’

“I got it, I don’t need help.”

Derek snorted.

Stiles glared at him. “Hey, she cursed you. I doubt seeing you is going to give her the warm and fuzzies.”

Derek lifted a brow and smirked, wide and arrogant.

Unimpressed, Stiles drawled, “I said warm and fuzzies, not hot and gooeys. She clearly doesn’t like you. If I take you with, she’ll probably make your curse worse or get pissed off.”

John dropped his head in his hands.

“I am coming with you,” Derek growled, enunciating carefully. Snakes slipped from his mouth.

“Fine, fine, just—stop.” Stiles looked around. “Uh, let’s, um, go get the witch’s address. You have that from her license, right?”

Derek nodded, so Stiles hustled him out.

“Hey, what about these-” John coughed, and something thumped heavily.

“I’m sure animal control can help, Dad, good luck!” He shoved at Derek’s shoulder to get him moving faster.

Darian Vanderpo, the witch, lived in one of the nicer suburbs in Beacon Hills and drove a red sports car.

Stiles tsked lightly. “I’m guessing she was going about eighty in a forty?”

Derek nodded seriously.

“And then, while giving her the ticket, you were lecturing her about the dangers of hurtling around in a three thousand pound hunk of metal and gasoline?”

He nodded again. “Road safety isn’t a joke!” he snapped, and two lizards scampered free.

Stiles snorted. “That’s so funny coming from you. Catch them,” he added, pointing at the lizards. “I’ll be right back.”

“Stiles-!”

He jumped out, slamming the door on Derek’s swearing. He fully expected the witch to dramatically sense him and appear on the front porch or something, so when he made it to the door unimpeded, he was a little surprised, unsure. He knocked, because what else was he supposed to do?

“Ugh, what?” The door swung open, revealing a glowering woman with a robe on, her nose red and chafed, eyes watering.

“Uh…” Stiles glanced back and swore when he saw Derek coming. “You—you cursed my, er, friend. You need to undo it.”

She stalked toward him.

He narrowed his eyes, ready to meet her nose to nose, and was thrown unceremoniously to the yard.

“I don’t have to do shit. Get off my lawn.”

Derek helped Stiles to his feet, fangs bared.

Stiles glared at her. “You can’t just go around cursing people because you’re mad you didn’t get your way.”

“Why not?” She grinned and lifted a hand.

Derek shoved Stiles out of the way, knocking him into the grass again, and braced his legs.

Darian pursed her lips, gaze flicking between them. She rolled her eyes and pulled a tissue out of her pocket, wiping her nose. “Ugh, whatever. If you bring me the ingredients for the counter curse, I’ll break it.”

Stiles got up, carefully testing his bruised hip before putting weight on it. He shot Derek a dark look. “What are they?”

“Just three things.” She fluttered the fingers of her free hand; a rolled up piece of paper dropped into her palm. “Here. Bring these to me, and I’ll break the curse.”

Derek took a step, but she backed away, glaring.

Stiles took it from her. “On my dad, too?”

Her brows furrowed. “Your dad?”

Fuck. “The sheriff.”

Her face cleared. “That isn’t a curse. It’s a blessing.”

“Uh-huh…”

She rolled her eyes. “Fine, that, too. But I’m insulted.” She stomped back to her house. At the slam of her door, Stiles found himself in the jeep, seated in the driver’s seat clutching the paper she’d given them, as if he’d never gotten out.

Derek was in the backseat, strapped in with three seatbelts. “Shut up,” he muttered when Stiles laughed at him. A frog landed in his lap.

Stiles texted John that he and Derek were handling it and drove back to his place. He was dying to read the ingredients, but he had a feeling Darian wasn’t the most patient of witches, and she’d made it pretty clear that she wanted them away from her.

Stiles shooed Derek to the couch. “Stay there, don’t talk, I’ll be three seconds.” He ran to the bathroom for the mop bucket he kept with his cleaning supplies, and thrust it against Derek’s chest. “There. Keep your critters contained.”

“Thanks,” he muttered.

Stiles unrolled the paper and started reading. “‘Bathe in living water, and once cleansed, collect Nerites’ shield. Dry it out in the light of the moon.’” He looked up, frowning, but Derek gestured impatiently for him to go on. He rolled his eyes and looked back at the paper. “I can’t read the rest.” He tilted the page, squinting.

Derek snatched the paper out of his hands. Instead of trying to read it, he lifted it to his face. He scoffed and thrust it back at Stiles. “She spelled it. We probably have to complete the first thing before we can read the rest.” He caught a toad before it could escape the bucket.

“Great. What the fuck is Nerites’ shield?” He pulled out his phone and leaned against the side of the couch, tapping quickly. “He’s a shellfish,” he muttered. “That’d have to be abalone, wouldn’t it?”

Derek blinked at him, then smirked. “I forgot how quick you are at that.” He grimaced deeply as more frogs came loose.

“Uh-huh. Here’s hoping that’s actually what she meant. Let me go get you some water.” Stiles left the room at a quick clip, filling a cup at the dispenser, and fortifying himself. “Okay, frog mouth, let’s get to work.”

Derek glared at him.

“What? We’ve got to go to the ocean, get a shell, and dry it out in the light of the moon. So we have to get it before dark,” he explained slowly, annoyed. “So it can dry all night.”

“Oh. Alright.” The lizard that scampered out with those words had blood on it this time.

Stiles caught it. “Did you bite him?” he demanded, but it didn’t have any visible injuries.

Derek shook his head, looking puzzled.

Stiles released it into the bucket. “Come on,” he said slowly. “We should go so we have time.” He updated John and checked that he was doing okay before they hit the road.

They swung by Derek’s apartment so he could change, then headed out of town with towels, the paper, and Derek’s newly emptied bucket.

The beach was fairly empty when they arrived—considering it was December and about 53 degrees, this wasn’t that surprising.

“This is going to suck,” Stiles muttered as they walked out into the sand.

Derek shook his head. “I’ll get in the water. You’ll freeze,” he added.

“I can handle it. Besides, I think I’m supposed to do it. She wouldn’t let you take it, remember?”

“She doesn’t like me, and I’m a werewolf she just cursed. She was probably worried I’d rip her throat out.”

“Well…”

He glowered.

Stiles patted his shoulder. “You stay up here so you can warm me up when I get out, lizard lips.”

“I hope you step on seaweed,” Derek hissed.

Stiles laughed as he yanked his shoes off. “Well, you’ll certainly know if I do. The code word will be, “Argh!” and I will levitate.” He tossed his shirt on his socks and shoes, followed by his jeans. “Oh, god, this is going to suck.” He sucked in a huge breath, embraced the goosebumps all over his body, and ran. “Oh, holy motherfucking balls,” he cursed as he hit the water, but he didn’t let himself stop. “Dear purple licking son of a bitching hag, oh my god, I hope she suffocates on her own snot.” He got in up to his ribs and dunked himself under, then looked back at the shore. Derek was bent over his knees, laughing and just pouring reptiles and toads from his face.

“Dick!” Stiles shouted. He was shivering so hard, his jaw didn’t want to open, so he took the opportunity to wonder how long he had to stay in the water. The paper had just said “bathe”. He halfheartedly went under again, longer so that his hair was fully saturated, then bounced back up. He shuddered, swearing, and wiped water out of his eyes. Now he just had to miraculously find an abalone shell. Sure. Did it need to be whole? There were plenty of fractured ones around.

He spent three minutes searching, then started back to shore. “I’ll t-try again later, I’m too c-cold. I have to—ow!” He’d stepped on something. Without pausing to think, he curled his toes around it and lifted it to his pruned, half-frozen hands. “Yes!”

On shore, Derek grabbed a towel and ran for the water. He met Stiles in the shallows, wrapping him up tight in a warm towel.

“How’d you keep it so warm?” he wondered dazedly, letting Derek usher him to the jeep.

“I put it under my shirt.” He shoved Stiles into the jeep and cranked the heat.

Stiles used the edge of the towel to wipe his eyes. “I got the shell, go get the paper.” He sniffled. “I can’t believe how easily I found that shell, that was awesome.”

Derek just nodded. He flipped another towel over Stiles’s head, scrubbing over his hair for a second before grabbing the paper and unrolling it. “Says-”

A frog landed on Stiles’s lap, making him flinch. “Dude! Where’s your bucket?”

He grimaced and backed away, holding the instructions out to him.

Stiles took the paper between two fingers. “‘Burn jasmine, bay, and wintergreen, waft in circular motions, and put ashes into moon-dried shell.’ So we have to wait until after it’s dry.”

Derek held his hands up near his mouth. “We could go get the herbs we need now so when we can use them, we have them.” He dumped all of the critters into the bucket at his feet.

Stiles nodded. “Let me get dressed, there’s one of those new age-y incense shops up the road, next to that gas station that should have all of those.” He squeezed the towel tighter around himself for a moment before throwing it off.

They decided to stay near the beach, just in case the third set of instructions required anything nearby. They put the shell on the hood of the jeep and Derek made an illegal campfire for them to keep warm as it got dark. This left them in awkward silence, eating from family sized bags of Doritos and fending off the seagulls brave enough to try to take Derek’s food.

Stiles wasted time texting John an update, filling Scott in, and browsing social media, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t multitask, and it was awkward just sitting there. “So…how’re things as a deputy?”

Derek lifted his brows.

Stiles shrugged. “It’s just weird, seeing you with a real, actual job, let alone as law enforcement.”

“Thanks,” he said dryly.

“You didn't exactly make a good first impression, you set the bar pretty low.”

“While you decided to throw the whole bar out.”

Stiles sneered at him. “Can’t fail to meet expectations if there aren’t any.”

Derek laughed. “Don’t be stupid, you don’t fail at anything.” He turned away swiftly, flicking a Dorito at a seagull.

Stiles looked down, smiling to himself.

They took turns napping in the jeep until, while Derek was sleeping, dawn began to creep up on them. Stiles figured he’d leave Derek to sleep while he was burning them and grabbed the herbs. He’d bundled them together after they’d bought them, so he just snatched the lighter he kept in his duffle and crept away from the jeep. He glanced back, but Derek was still asleep in the passenger seat, head tipped against the glass, fogging up the window.

Stiles lit the bundle and grabbed the shell. He flipped it over so the cupped part was facing upwards and began wafting. They didn’t burn as quickly as he’d expected, a slow smolder with lots of smoke, which made it easy for him to follow the circles with the shell, catching the ashes as he went.

They were half burned when Derek lurched out of the jeeps, boots sliding in the sand, and caught Stiles around the waist, yanking him off balance and burning the tips of his fingers.

“Hey, quit it!” He managed to keep from spilling the ashes by planting his feet. “What’re you doing? Stop!”

Derek let go, panting, and stepped around in front of him. He glanced at the burning herbs in his hand. “What the hell, Stiles,” he snapped.

“Excuse me, did you want to keep spitting up pythons for the rest of your life?”

His nose twitched, but he didn’t respond.

Stiles looked at the smoldering herbs in his hand, burning toward his already overheated fingertips. “Oh. Sorry. I thought you’d sleep through it.” He avoided Derek’s gaze by focusing on wafting the smoke in circles.

Derek muttered something and stalked away.

Stiles tapped the last of the ashes into the shell and leaned into the jeep to put it in a cup holder so they wouldn’t blow away. He caught up to Derek by the water, shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets. “Hey, I’m sorry. I thought I could get it done before you woke up.”

Derek shook his head. “Thanks. I was confused,” he added defensively, and a lizard fell from his mouth. They watched it scamper over his boot and then out of sight. “That’s all.”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, totally. You were sleeping, couldn’t have known.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Let’s go get that third ingredient so you can throw away your promising future career of providing the entire reptilian cast for Snakes on a Plane 2.”

Derek kicked water at him, making him howl with fury, and raced him back to the jeep.

The paper was stashed in the middle console, rolled up around a pen. Stiles glanced over it and grunted.

“What?” Derek caught the frog before it could hit the ground.

“‘River clay mixed with the blood of the gatherer. Mix with the ashes and put all in the shell.’ Ugh, I knew I was gonna have to do something gross for this.”

“Why you?” Derek snapped.

“Blood of the gatherer, dude. I got the shell, I bought the herbs—and I’ll definitely be getting the river clay.” He glowered at the instructions. “Gross. At least it probably doesn’t need much blood.”

“No,” Derek muttered, “wouldn’t want that.” He sputtered slightly over a little green snakes with red spatters all over it.

Stiles stiffened, eyeing it while Derek didn’t seem to notice or care. “Just…get your phone and find us a river, dude.” He shook his head and went to his side of the car. He leaned against the door to check on John, paranoid that he, too, was spitting up blood.

John merely sent a photo of his desk, which was piled with gems of various colors and sizes, gold, silver, and flowers.

‘Congrats,’ Stiles responded, ‘you can retire now.’

John didn’t find that very funny.

“Found one,” Derek called. “Turning on the-” he coughed- “GPS.”

Stiles glanced at him through the windows and wondered if he suspected what Stiles suspected—that the curse was doing more harm than just inconveniencing him.

The river was off some obscure hiking trail and was very small, but it was in fact marked “Forthead River” so he guessed it counted. He gathered the clay into an empty cup he’d had in the backseat.

The shell wouldn’t hold nearly that much, but he figured having extra wouldn’t hurt, just in case they messed up. Then came the real problem.

“No. Absolutely not.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “So it’s okay for you to ask me to cut your arm off, but I can’t ask you to cut my arm a little?”

Derek glared. “Would you let that go? And it’s different.”

“How? Because it isn’t you?”

“You’re human,” he said, spitting a frog out without even flinching, which was frankly impressive. “I’m not asking you to bleed for me, and I’m certainly not cutting you.”

“One, I’ve bled for you before, and worse, and two, you’re being unreasonable.”

“How’s that?”

“I don’t have anything sharp enough to draw blood and you know how I feel about blood, so you’re—you’re being—mean!”

Derek’s jaw dropped. “Mean? Are you in third grade?”

“Yep. You’re being mean.” Stiles pointed at the reptiles and frogs at their feet. “Now, do you want to stop that or not?” He walked back to the jeep before Derek could answer. “I have bandages and peroxide, we’ll be fine.” He smiled when he heard Derek following him.

“How much do we need?” he muttered while Stiles was digging through his bag for the bandages.

“Uhh, we’ll go with enough to mix with a bit of the clay.” Stiles shrugged. “I don’t know how witchcraft works.”

“Uh-huh.”

Stiles took his top two layers off and rolled his sleeve up. “Okay, I have another cup here-”

“Why?”

“-because I’m prepared for everything, so we’ll try to get the blood in that, add a little bit of the clay at a time, and see what happens.” He moved so he was sitting in the jeep and held his arm out. “Okay. Hit me with your best shot.”

Derek made a disgusted face at him.

Stiles shrugged. “What? I’m nervous. I could just swoon if you’d prefer.”

He just rolled his eyes and took Stiles’s arm, turning it gently as he chose a spot.

Stiles averted his gaze. “Um, so, make it, y’know, deep enough to bleed, so we only have to go once. But, obviously, not deep enough that I’ll need stitches,” he squeaked.

Derek muttered something, and sharp pain lit up Stiles’s arm just a second before numbness spread. “Sorry, I tried to do it at the same time.” His thumb pressed gently into the bend of Stiles’s elbow, rubbing. “Gonna need the cup.”

Stiles passed it over without looking. The only thing worse than blood was his own blood. He felt Derek pressing and prodding at the cut to coax more blood free and hoped they wouldn’t need to make another cut.

“I think that’s enough,” Derek said in a strangled voice. He set the cup beside the tire and turned around to cough out two snakes. They were both bloodied.

Stiles grimaced and turned his attention to cleaning and covering the cut on his arm. It was smaller than he’d been expecting, stirring concern that it wasn’t enough to make the spell work. He grabbed the cup of clay and a butter knife, hopping out to combine and stir.

Only a little would fit in the shell, even tightly packed, so they’d certainly gotten enough blood. Stiles wrinkled his nose as he studied the poor shell. “Ugh, I hope she’s not gonna make you eat this or anything.”

“Gross.” Derek looked at the shell cupped in Stiles’s palm and grimaced.

“At least you won’t be spitting up Kermit every time you speak anymore,” Stiles pointed out. “Not that you talk that much anyway.”

“Who can get a word in edgewise when you’re around?”

“I let people speak when they have something worthwhile to say, and since you’re currently spewing snakes like the Chamber of Secrets, well…”

“There was only one snake in the Chamber of Secrets,” Derek said after a second.

“Yeah, that wasn’t my best work.” Stiles jerked his shoulder. “Come on, I need some coffee so I can insult you properly.”

They were halfway to town when Derek said, “Thank you.”

Stiles glanced at him. “For what? You bought the coffee.”

“For helping me.”

“Only the best for the fine deputies of Beacon County,” Stiles said lightly.

“Are you a faerie?” Derek blurted.

Stiles frowned. “Uh—what? In what context?”

“Fey. The Fair Folk. Because you have this maddening habit of just never accepting thanks and I’d like to know if you have fey magic before I strangle you.”

After a few long moments of silence, Stiles said, “You’re welcome,” as casually as he could.

They both started laughing hard enough that he had to pull over for a minute.

John looked dubious when they met outside of Darian’s house. “You two look like you’re in good spirits.” He had a bucket of his own to catch the flowers and gems he was dropping.

“Just ridiculously tired,” Stiles chirped.

“And caffeinated.”

John shook his head and shrugged, waiting beside the jeep as they climbed out.

Stiles took his duffle bag up with him to ring the bell, since he wasn’t sure how she would react this time. John and Derek stood to his right, tense.

Darian looked like she was still sick; she bared her teeth when she saw them. “What?” she croaked.

Stiles held the shell out to her. “I got everything you asked for.”

“What?” she snapped.

“For breaking my friend’s curse,” he said through his teeth. “You said if we got this stuff, you’d-”

“Right.” She snatched the shell, looking shifty, and set it on something out of sight next to the door. She frowned, shooting Derek a disgusted look. “All you had to do was kiss, you morons.”

Derek and John looked at each other with open horror.

Stiles felt revulsion run so deeply through him that he couldn’t do more than wheeze.

“Goddess,” Darian muttered. “Not him, the other one.” She rolled her eyes and snapped her fingers. “There. Curse gone.” She turned her head away to cough violently into her elbow.

“Is mine gone, too—Well,” John said, looking pleased, “guess that answers that. Thanks.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Derek?”

“I think I’m good,” he said, unimpeded by reptiles. He looked puzzled, staring at Darian.

“You didn’t actually need any of that stuff, did you?” Stiles growled.

Darian shot him a flat look. “For that curse? No.” She scoffed. “What kind of witch do you think I am that I can’t break a curse I cast without tools?” She sniffled and wiped her nose on her balled up tissues, then looked over at Derek. “You. You’re incredibly rude and apparently pretty dense.”

“Hey,” Stiles snapped, “you’re the one cursing people because you have a cold.”

John shifted his feet awkwardly, like he wasn’t sure if he should try to diffuse the situation or not.

Darian studied Stiles, then stepped over to Derek, lifting a finger and pointing at him like a scolding teacher. “People don’t wade into the ocean in December, hold fire, and bleed for just anybody. Get it together.”

Stiles darted a quick, nervous look at him, and winced when he saw the blank expression on his face; his cheeks had reddened, eyebrows had drawn down, but that was it. He swallowed.

Darian hmphed and stalked back to the door.

Stiles said, “Wait!” without thinking it through. When she turned toward him, he dug the cold/flu meds out of his duffle bag. “Here. Thanks.” He shoved it into her hands.

She looked at the box, frowning, so they all made a quick retreat while she was distracted.

“Well,” Stiles said cheerily at the cars. “That was awesome, glad it’s done. Dad, you can drive Derek, right? Great!” He jumped in the jeep and drove off before they could answer.

Unfortunately, recently cursed or not, Derek was still a werewolf, and beat Stiles to his apartment. He was sitting outside when Stiles got there. “I told your dad that I didn’t need a ride,” he said casually.

“I guess,” Stiles muttered. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, rubbed a hand over his head, and sighed irritably. “What?”

“What?” Derek repeated.

“What do you want? You’re just…sitting there.”

Derek stood.

“Not what I meant, asshole.” He scuffed his shoe, then shrugged and decided to bluff his way through the awkwardness. “Whatever, I’m starving, do what you want.” He unlocked his door with stiff, uncomfortable movements, acutely aware of how close Derek was standing. Fucking witches.

Predictably, Derek followed him inside. “I just wanted to talk to you,” he said once the door was shut.

Stiles spun around to face him with a wide, almost manic grin. “Okay. You’re talking. What’s up?”

“About what the witch said,” he said slowly.

“Oh, the ‘get it together’ thing? I don’t know, man, I think she was wrong, I mean, you’ve got a job and an apartment with an entire roof now, I think you’ve got it together.”

“Stiles-” He stepped toward him.

Stiles threw his hands up. “She wasn’t wrong,” he said, “I’m your friend and I’d do anything for my friends. Okay?” His voice sounded light to the point of fragile, even to him. Why’d she have to do that? he thought desperately. We were fine. They only saw each other rarely, and Stiles was happy in his bubble of denial, and then he’d helped someone out and here he was, having a crisis over feelings? Over Derek? He wished he could curse her.

“Okay,” Derek said gently. “Do you want me to go?”

Stiles started to say yes—too much to risk right now, there was a lot happening—when he noticed, on the table by the door where he kept his keys, the damn shell, still filled with clay and ashes and Stiles’s own blood, which he’d let Derek draw. “No,” he said, “you could stay for dinner.”

They ended up making out on the couch and burning the stir fry Stiles was making, but it was worth so much more than the price of the pizza. Even if Derek shoved Stiles right off the couch when he said, “Mmm, talk froggy to me,” mid kiss.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

All Eyes on You

Maybe it could have been a regular weekend for me, but there’s no way for me to tell if I was the one who screwed everything up. I was a bit hungover from the night before, so my head weighed a ton and every source of bright light made me cringe in pain—whether it was the fluorescent neon tubes overhead or the daylight streaming in through the store’s front windows.

Every single beep of the cashier running items over the scanner at checkout was like a tiny knife being stuck into my skull, over and over and over again, even though I was fairly far away from it, browsing the unnecessary amount of different brands of laundry detergent.

I grabbed some random one that had nice soft colors and chucked it into my shopping cart. It caused the whole thing to shake and rattle and a person pushing past me gave me a dirty look.

Under any other circumstances, I wouldn’t have wasted any thought on this, but today was different. Now, everything was different. Now, as I looked up, and past that guy shooting me the disparaging glance, I realized that everybody in the store was looking at me.

“Feeling watched” would have been the understatement of the century.

It was so weird and jarring that I forgot about the effects of my hangover for the next few minutes. In part because my heart was racing, in part because my mind was going wild with conspiracy theories and rampant paranoia.

Although I pretended to not care or not notice, I could tell that everybody in the store was looking at me at one point or the other. Normally, I would have chalked this up to something silly, like one of my friends having written something on my forehead with a magic marker while I was passed out.

But with what had happened the night before, I knew better. I knew something was wrong. Horribly wrong.

It didn’t help that some of these people would pretend to not be looking at me, either—furtive glances, eyes quickly darting down to study a shopping list on their phone, or to act like they were looking over grocery items on the shelves. Anything to avoid eye contact with me.

I know what you’re thinking. Just allow me to dial back and explain before you make up your mind.

The night before, I was feeling pretty depressed. I was still pretty new in this town and knew nobody around there. Just some backwater town in the middle of nowhere. The rent on the apartment I had found there was cheap, and the commute to my workplace only an hour which was a vast improvement over my last home.

So I grabbed some beers, drove up to a lonesome little picnic area on the forest’s edge that I had seen on the first day I had visited town when I went to go scout out the apartment a few months ago, and decided to chill out there and watch the sunset after a tedious Friday at work.

The whole day had dragged on at a snail’s pace and I just wanted to unwind and not stare at any screens for a few hours.

I sat there, nursing my first beer, sitting on top of the backrest of the bench like a rebel, when I spotted a mansion near the forest’s edge. I mean, I had seen it before when I first took a drive through this town, but it was only now that I noticed a few funny details about it. And when I say “funny,” I don’t mean the amusing sort.

It had a large red brick wall encircling the entire yard—and that place was as big as a football field. The large mansion matched that appearance, also featuring red bricks and sandstone and wood in its construction, and a lot of unusual details like a tower built into the corner of it. Everything was overgrown with lush green ivy, and there were some nice-looking trees on the property.

So far, so idyllic.

The weird part were the men in green camo clothing, carrying what I think were assault rifles. They patrolled around the inside of the walls, so it was no wonder I hadn’t seen them when I drove through town earlier that year, but being up on the hill at the forest’s edge gave me some elevation and allowed me to see over the walls somewhat.

They were all pretty big-looking dudes. I pegged them for soldiers or something like that—though my imagination wandered to this being a mafioso’s estate and these guys being some well-armed thugs.

It would make sense for some gangster boss to be living well out on the countryside where everything’s nice and quiet, right?

I downed two whole beers and while I had been trying to distract myself with unpacking everything that had happened over the course of the week—both at work and in my personal life—my curiosity got the best of me.

I had to know what the hell this mansion was.

With a simple plan in mind, I packed up everything, and drove back down from the picnic site, now taking a detour so I could casually roll past the mansion. A large steel gate obscured any way of seeing into the mansion’s premises, which was frustrating. In my mind’s eye, I had expected one of those metal fence gates that you can see through, but this one was just a solid surface instead.

Tossing out my original plan, I parked my car across the road by the grass, got out, and walked over. You may be thinking that I was crazy, and I can assure you I am. I was always a bit of a tomboy growing up, and I possessed a fearlessness that got me into trouble every now and then—and because I always got away with playing dumb or innocent, I always got away with my shenanigans and I never learned. Not until this day.

I pressed a button by the gate that I figured to be a buzzer and waited.

Within seconds, a small metal slot opened on the gate, from which a man wearing sunglasses peered through, and it was so sudden and swift in response to my pressing that button that I nearly choked in surprise.

“Yes?” asked the man behind the gate.

“Uh, I was, uh, I was,” I started stammering until my wit finally kicked in. “I was up at the picnic site up here to relax and I had no reception on my phone whatsoever, but I need to make an important call. I figured I could ask here if I could use your land line, or something?”

I slung out my phone and waved it around like a magic wand while flashing this man a dumb smile and shrugging. He looked over his shoulder as if he was responding to someone behind him, but he didn’t say a word. I think he looked up at the picnic site and I could feel the blood draining from my face. Because he turned, though, I saw a weird tattoo on his neck: just a single eye.

Not like I know anything about ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, but if I had to describe it, that’s what it reminded me of. No fancy elaborate details, just a simple eye. Wide open.

His head turned back with a painful slowness. I could sense the gears churning behind his forehead.

“My phone’s got reception just fine,” said the man. “Here, you can borrow mine.”

I guessed my charm had worked its magic. He held out his phone through the small slot, offering it to me.

Realizing way too late that all of this was a terrible idea, I glanced at my phone and flicked its display on, then chuckled—way too nervously, I presume, “Hey, look at that! I got a bar back. Maybe it was just up at the woods that was not working out for me. Thanks, though.”

The guard slowly withdrew his phone and even though I couldn’t see his eyes, I could have sworn he was glaring at me. I smiled back at him, hoping to disarm any ill will, and started getting really scared about this being some sort of gangster hideout.

“Have a nice day,” he said. But it sounded more like a threat.

He shut the slot with lightning speed and I turned to leave, holding up my phone and pretending to make a call. I yapped away into the void of the non-existent phone call, cringing at my pathetic attempt at emulating a one-sided conversation and the resulting blandness, until I had gotten into my car and slammed the door shut behind me.

My palms were sweaty and cold when they clasped the steering wheel and stick, and I drove away. I was pretty rattled for the rest of the evening although I got back home without any further incident. On the whole ride home, I kept looking into my rear-view mirror to see if I was being followed. And in my paranoia, I thought that some people on sidewalks were shooting me looks, but I dismissed it at the time.

Back at home, I drank the rest of my beers and distracted myself with lousy TV shows until fell asleep.

Then I woke up the next morning, sporting the splitting headache, and decided that things couldn’t be so bad. Because, hey, when it feels like gremlins are pounding the inside of your skull with a jackhammer and your brain’s a funny soup, a lot of worries stop existing. With that state of mind, I went to do my grocery shopping for the week.

And now—this. Everybody watching me. In the confines of my own head, I was calling myself names and cursing myself out for being such a paranoid idiot. There was no reason to be afraid.

But my heart wouldn’t stop racing. Even outside, as I put my groceries in the trunk, I knew that even the people driving in and out of the small parking lot were looking at me.

Watching me.

Worse: I saw that tattoo again. On someone’s forearm. Some lady returning an empty shopping cart to the storefront. She never looked at me directly, but with my back turned to her, I had felt a burning gaze transfixed upon me.

What the hell was this? As an avid reader of strange fiction and horror movie enthusiast, I immediately thought they had to be some sort of cult. What if this entire town was run by a cult? Stranger things have happened.

This was all so surreal. I felt very small and like I was just a passenger in my own body. Everything tingled. My fingers felt numb.

I drove home and shut myself in for the rest of the weekend. I tried to distract myself with TV and video games and even talking to a friend who lived halfway across the country, but nothing helped. I couldn’t help it. I kept thinking that this entire town was crazy and that I was being watched now. I even started getting paranoid if they could tap into my phone or hack my computer, so I avoided telling my friend about anything I had witnessed here.

Just shot the breeze about how life had been for her lately, and put up a good show in pretending that everything was normal on my end.

Come Monday morning, I snuck out of my home and got into my car. Paranoia got the better of me again, so I started checking my ride quite thoroughly, not caring if I would be late for work that day. I had watched too many stupid shows to not think that someone might have tampered with my car. I checked to see if the brakes were working, if there were any bugs, pawing underneath my seats for foreign objects, you name it.

I’m not any sort of professional and if anything was there, I probably missed it. But hey—I tried. Still, I found nothing.

After wasting half an hour on this exercise in futility, I drove off. I never felt so exhilarated to go to work as that day. Because work, for the first time, felt like an escape from something worse. It also felt like an escape from my own head, because I was questioning my own sanity. Surely, the whole town couldn’t be in a cult, right?

I cranked up the music on my radio and sang along to a song I normally hated. And I felt good. For a short while, at least.

It stopped when I drove down the road I usually take to leave town to go to work. A nice narrow road meandering through the wooded area, just like the ones you see in horror flicks.

There was a roadblock in the way once I rounded a curve, with a small jam of cars lined up in front of it. Two police cars obstructed the path and there were some officers standing beside them, one of them talking to the driver in the car at the front of the line. My heart sank, plummeting right into my gut region. I could feel my belly pulsing with my accelerated, anxious heartbeat.

I wonder—does everybody get as nervous as I do whenever I see cops nearby? It’s not like I’d ever done anything wrong, but it had always made me nervous. Even under normal circumstances. Even before this weekend.

But today was different. The events of this weekend had multiplied my paranoia—they had mutated it. If this whole town was run by some weird cult, what if the cops were in on it? What if they were looking for me?

Right when one of the cars was let past the roadblock and drove off, I panicked. I steered out of line and made a U-turn, swerving back onto the road with screeching tires and driving off. It took me a few moments to realize in retrospect that this made me grind my teeth and may have been a stupid move, but I started speeding up and driving away.

The trembling started when I saw a cop car show up behind me, half a minute later. They let the siren wail at me for a split second to grab my attention, and used their blinker to signal me to pull over.

With growing dread, I planned to play along, but step on the gas if things went south.

Even with all the adrenaline rushing through my body, and my attempts to stop my trembling by gripping the steering wheel way harder than natural, I gently steered the car as best I could, driving it onto the roadside and letting it roll to a stop. But I kept the engine running.

A police officer emerged from the car behind me and approached. His hand was resting on the gun at his hip and I wondered if my running motor had anything to do with that.

Or because of this damned cult. Or whatever the hell was going on here.

I rolled down my window once he had arrived there and he looked me up and down. My resolve crumpled and I cut the engine as a token of good will.

“License and registration, please?” asked the police officer in a gravelly voice.

His whole posture was rigid, like a statue—his body language tense. So was I.

Remembering what can go wrong in such an encounter, I carefully leaned over to retrieve the documents from my purse and hand them over. I could feel him watching me all the while, and for the first time in days, I felt like someone watching me was the appropriate action, given the circumstances.

I handed the cop my license and papers and he looked them over, his hand now finally away from the gun, and taking off some of the edge. He studied my face after inspecting my ID.

Then he handed back everything.

“Pardon the interruption, ma'am. Have a nice day,” he told me, and swiveled.

Right when he was walking away was when I saw the tattoo on his neck. The eye—staring at me. Almost as if the damned tattoo itself was watching me.

I never believed in the supernatural or UFOs or any such bunk. But my paranoia was really taking me for a ride now, and I questioned everything I believed in.

When I revved up my engine again and drove off, I still felt the officer’s eyes on me.

Anyway, now you know. That’s how—and why—one day, I bounced from that awful little town, leaving all my belongings behind. How I drove halfway across the states, and started a new life after changing my name.

I’d tell you the town’s name so you can avoid it, but I keep seeing that tattoo in my nightmares. In some of them, it’s like people have an extra eye on their body where there shouldn’t be one, in place of that tattoo. Like the skin breaks open and some bloodshot, weird eye stares at me. Always the same eye.

I still feel watched out in public sometimes. Hell, sometimes I even feel like someone’s watching me at home. I know I should talk to a therapist about this, but I’m afraid they won’t believe me. Or worse.

I got an anonymous call from someone telling me not to talk about what I had seen, but I had to get this off my chest, and maybe nothing bad will happen if I don’t tell you where this was.

—Submitted by Wratts

[takerfoxx]

Looking back, was Madoka Magica really that dark? Only three characters actually die, two of whom are later resurrected through the power of love. Blood and gore wise, most blood is offscreen, and that which is shown is fairly tame compared to other dark magical girl shows. Yet somehow, this show the show managed to hit me in the gut more than far more horrific and bloodier dark magical girl shows ever have. Why?

That doesn’t sound surprising at all, and it all comes down toexecution. 

See,people often have this false idea when it comes to “mature” stories, inthat things like character deaths, blood and gore, and suffering are thebuilding blocks of maturity. But they’re not. They’re tools, and like all tools,they can be wielded correctly and incorrectly. Quite often, less is more, andtoo much grimdark results in an edgy, tryhard mess of a thing that isn’t maturein the slightest. This is one of the reasons why Blood-C got such a negativereaction, or why Elfen Lied is so divisive. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I loveme some Elfen Lied, but even I admit that it’s a schlocky white-hot mess. Itjust so happens to be my kindof schlocky, white-hot mess.

So yeah, I know this is weird coming from the apparent king ofTouhou Grimdark (cut me some slack though, I learn as I go), but gratuitousviolence does not, in of itself, equal maturity or anything of substance. Atbest you get the adolescent view of maturity, which is just so cynical andtiresome.

Madoka Magica, on the other hand, is a different sort of beastentirely. That show’s been out for years, but I am continuously impressed byjust how well-crafted it is, and how the creators used the tools at theirdisposal to get so much out of so little.

First of all, there’s the genre itself. Now, darkdeconstructions of Magical Girl shows are nothing new. Utena had already poppedthat cherry years ago, and you already mentioned how others had…less of animpact than PMMM did. But even so, the Magica Girl genre is one that’s almostuniversally associated with little girls. So, lots of bright colors, optimism,and cute, and the good guys and bad guys are easily distinguishable, and goodalways triumphs over evil. So even if new viewers know that something is up,their guard is still automatically going to be dropped, at least a little.

Second, we have the art style. Now, this is very interesting, inthat they went with a very Hidemari Sketch sort of style, where the girls allhave designs that are cute, appealing, and very distinctive, but never goingoverboard with the cuteness to the point where it becomes obnoxious. Even withthe fairly cartoony designs, their actual movement is pretty realistic, and isnever exaggerated for comedic effect or goes super-deformed and all that.Furthermore, rare for something of this nature, they are never objectifiedand/or used for fanservice in the slightest. A more realistic or a more adultstyle wouldn’t have been nearly as effective, nor would something sexier. It’sjust enough to make you like the girls and want the best for them, but notenough to get annoying or ruin the mood with unnecessary fanservice.

So basically, to get a little neckbeardy with it, the art styleis meant to make the viewers want to protect and comfort the girls, but notstrangle them for being way too moe, or fuck them for that matter.

…

Well, I mean, lots of people still do, but it’s the internet,so…

…

Moving on.

Anyway, continuing with theanimation, let’s talk about the witches. In sharp contrast to the somewhatcartoony designed but mostly realistically animated real world, the witchbarriers go for a surreal, dream-like feel, with the weird, jerky, low framerate movements of the witches and their familiars to the bizarre designs thatstick more-or-less to aesthetic themes but still have no explanation and anoverall look that, rather than being overly and obviously dark and evil, isinstead…wrong. Off. Alien. Discomforting rather than outright scary. Thewitches are meant to clash with the characters’ animation in a way that isdeliberately uncomfortable without spilling into cheesy. I mean, puffballs withbutterfly bodies and big handlebar mustaches? Spotted mice in nurse hats? Howis that scary? But just look at how they move, how they sound, and it becomesincredibly unnerving. Even before the big episode three twist, until which PMMMcould still pass for a more standard Magical Girl show, it still stood out withjust how bizarrely disturbing its monsters are. There is something genuinelyunsettling about them, a sense of dread that just permeates their every scene,even when our heroes are victorious.

And with that, I’ve exhaustedmost of the synonyms for “disturbing.” Let’s move on.

So, we’ve gone over how theart and animation is carefully crafted to evoke a specific reaction from theviewers, but what about the story itself? Well, like what was discussedearlier, part of what makes PMMM work so well is that despite its grandambitions and epic feels, the bulk of the show is…actually pretty small. Imean, save for the universe-changing repercussions of Madoka’s wish at the veryend, most of the focus is kept away from the world at large and remains on asmall group of characters and how being sucked into the contract system affectsthem. The story revolves around these five girls and is all about theirpersonal lives, and the whole Incubator thing is portrayed as alarger-than-they-can-imagine thing that’s been going on since the beginning oftime that they can’t do anything about, so why even bother trying? For Kyubey,it’s pretty much just business as usual, with the gang just being another setof marks in a long, long line of them, to be chewed up and spat out by the cogsof his machine.

And that takes us to what youmentioned earlier, about how PMMM has fewer character deaths, less violence,and nearly no gore in comparison to other shows, but somehow manages to leave abigger impact. And that comes down to one of the most important rules aboutstorytelling: it’s not what you’re about, it’s how you’re about it. Killing offcharacters doesn’t make a story mature, hurting your characters doesn’t makeyour story mature, or even using something as risky as rape doesn’t make yourstory mature; those are just the catalysts. Rather, maturity comes fromexploring how those things affect your characters, how it changes their livesand how they change and grow in response to them. Mami’s sudden and shockingdeath had profound effects on Madoka and Sayaka, and it’s by exploring thoseeffects that it feels like it has such a big impact, in that it shatteredMadoka’s perfect world and sent her into a bout of depression while motivatingSayaka into recklessness to compensate for her guilt in not being there to helpMami and overcompensate in trying to take her place. The reveal of the MagicalGirls as liches with their souls literally contained within their soul gems wasa big twist in of itself, but by taking the time to show how it set Sayaka intoher downward spiral into self-destruction coupled with having the oppositeeffect on Kyoko by jarring her out of her self-centered nihilism and motivatingher to start reaching out to Sayaka it really does feel like it has actualmeaning beyond shock value. And their deaths become even more tragic, asKyubey’s later monologue shows that they were doomed from the beginning, andnothing other than a damned miracle was going to save anyone. And being that hehad the monopoly on miracles in that universe, the audience is left bitingtheir nails and hanging on the edges of their seats through the climax, prayingthat an out would be found while fearing that there would be none to be found.Which just makes Madoka’s loophole of a wish all the more gratifying, whilestill being bittersweet. Because a happy ending just wasn’t possible, but shefound a way to prevent an all-out tragedy, a way to alleviate the bulk of thepain. And all it cost was her earthly existence.

Anyway, we’ve talked aboutthe visuals and story direction, so now let’s talk characterization. This is yetanother place where this show shines. Becauseeven though it only had a few episodes, the relatively small cast and focus ontheir personal problems allowed for a lot of character development. It helped that,save for Madoka’s, each of their wishes was something small and easilyunderstandable. Mami just wanted to live, Kyoko just wanted people to listen toher father, Sayaka just wanted her close friend and crush to get better whiletaking up Mami’s responsibilities, and Homura just wanted to save her dearfriend, who had been one of the few people to ever give her positive attention.Hell, even Madoka’s original wish was to save a cat. And like their designs,their personalities are all distinct, balanced between likeable strengths andtragic flaws: Mami is stalwart and nurturing, but also tripped up by hercrippling loneliness. Sayaka is determine and has a strong sense of justice,but also brash and prone to self-loathing. Madoka is kind-hearted andencouraging, but held back by her lack of self-esteem. As for Homura and Kyoko,they’re introduced us when they are at their worst, but do to cleverstorytelling and exposition, we then see the goodness in them and what theyused to be, and it becomes all the more easier to understand how they becamethe way they are. And again, despite its small number of episodes, the showreally takes the time to show how these personalities bounce off each other andconflict, while also showing how the consequences of their actions change them.I really like how they did it two: the show is essentially divided into fourmini-arcs of three episodes apiece, with the main focus on a different girl perarc, with Madoka being something of a passive POV protagonist throughout the wholeshow: first it’s Mami, then Sayaka, then Kyoko, and finally Homura. And as isexpected, each mini-arc ends in a tragedy, from Mami’s death to Sayaka’srealization about the truth of soul gems to Kyoko’s final stand to Homurafeeling as if she’s lost Madoka forever. But even with all that dark, it stillends on a note that is, while bittersweet, is still optimistic. Madoka is stillgone and Sayaka is still dead, but they seem to have come to terms with that. Also,Kyoko and Mami are alive and on good terms again, Homura has something new tofight for, and the universe is a little less cruel, showing that despiteeverything, it was all worth it in the end, and all of their struggles, pains,mistakes, and tears mattered.

I could go on and on and on,but let’s sum it up with a tl;dr: Puella Magi Madoka Magica may not have had nearly the amount of death and despair as other shows and very littlegore, but it had a far greater impact because it was carefully and brilliantlyconstructed from top to bottom to hit you right where it hurts, twist theknife, and still make you thankful for the ride. And I wouldn’t have it anyother way.

[cesabutterflywrites]

The Duke of the Bay: Part 5 2/2

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 First Part, Ao3 Link, Next Part 

Story Warnings: Guns, threats, alcohol, homosexual slang used pejoratively and positively, internalized homophobia, ask me to add any if need be

Chapter Warnings: None that I can think of, let me know if I need to add any!

Chapter Word Count:  3803

Summary: Patton O’Hearty was a great detective. Most people didn’t take him for one at first glance, especially when he dressed casual. He was abnormally chipper; he thought everything was the cat’s pajamas. He had a smile for everyone he met. He was always tipping his hat at the dames and gents when he walked the streets of the Bay Area.

The only person he could never catch was the leader of the planted mob in Emeryville, nicknamed The Duke. The Duke was good at hiding his dealings and joints well, and he rarely had a snitch in his ranks. The few who tried, well, somehow they disappeared before they could give the police any substantial information. He was well hidden, but popular among the residents of the town. People talked boldly of his rambunctious parties, never revealing the locations though. He was hard to catch, to say the least.

So what happens, when instead, the detective is the one that’s caught?

-

Mr. Doris never failed. His job was, simply put, to make sure things would run smoothly. He was the one who oversaw all the operations. He kept an eye on the booze shipments. He set the meetings for people who wanted to speak with the Duke. He did everything around the Bay Area for the most part. The footprint that the Duke had in the town of Emeryville was his own creation. He wouldn’t say it out loud completely, but he thought of himself as the true boss of everything. 

However, this time he did fail, and he didn’t want to fess up about it to his boss just yet. 

 Virgil wasn’t mad when he had seen the man on his doorstep. He just seemed disappointed. “What are you doing here? Thought you had some broad to dump in a river or something.” 

 “As fun as that sounds, no,” Mr. Doris smirked, “Just thought I’d treat you to some…” he pulled a small flask out of his jacket’s inner pocket, “Fun?” 

 Virgil sighed to himself. He shook his head in disbelief. “It’s not even noon yet, you sneak. Get in here.” 

Mr. Doris grinned slyly as he entered the house. Virgil Vitale lived a pretty nice life. He was the Duke’s cousin. Once upon a time he was going to be second in command. However he gave the position to Mr. Doris for some reason. Something along the lines of how he didn’t want to work too much. It was a big deal in the family at the time. Though over the next few years Mr. Doris had proven himself to be a good enough replacement...until now. 

 “Why are you hiding from the Duke, Janny boy?” Virgil teased as he poured himself some coffee in the kitchenette. He was doing his best to act calm in front of his unexpected visitor. However his hands were tense in their task.

 “Don’t call me that, Vitale!” the short man hissed. He then continued with mock innocence, “Plus, who said I was hiding? Can’t a man pop in on his pal without it being work related?” 

 Virgil scoffed as he sat down in his chair. “You’re not a man, Doris. You’re more like a, uh, a slimy snake.” He smirked to hide the urge to bite his lip with nerves. 

 Virgil Vitale was a handsome young man.Though over the past month his wavy black hair had gotten too long. It was falling over his face, nearly hiding his steel blue eyes. His lips were angular, and almost always in a half smile or a frown. His skin was a somewhat darker tan, showing off his Italian heritage boldly. That was the only clue that he was even a part of the family in general, though his skin was also the darkest-but not by much.

 It was a great shame, Mr. Doris often thought, that he didn’t want much to do with the family business. He served his purpose where he was obligated. He had proven his loyalty time and time again. Most of the family just saw him as an independent man trying to make his own way in the world after the Great War.

 All Mr. Doris was able to see was a slacker who didn’t even last one year on the battlefield.

 The visitor bared his teeth as he crossed his arms. He was questioning his decision about avoiding the boss. The host was being more brusque than usual. To give him benefit of the doubt, though, they were both pretty worn down from tailing the two detectives their leader had his black eyes on. 

 “If you must know,” he answered. He turned his nose up and sniffed. Virgil held back a grimace at the gesture as his ‘friend’ continued, “I may have been chased off by that pansy cop.” 

 Virgil choked on his drink. “Pansy? Really?” There was no way in hell Mr. Doris would have been able to find out. Virgil had only just learned the night before when-

 “Well, if the noises he was making with the boss in his office were any indication,” the serpent-like man winked at him. He wiggled his eyebrows for emphasis. 

 Virgil’s brow crinkled in confusion. When had Logan been in the Duke’s- oh. Mr. Doris was talking about the other one. Patrick or whatever. The one he didn’t have to keep tabs on. 

 “Well, I don’t see what him being...ya know...has to do with anything?” Virgil looked at the rim of his mug as he sipped. He didn’t want to be talking about this at all, however getting this info would be beneficial. Even if it was only gossip. He could find a way to give the information to his...accomplice. 

 “Well, nothing, obviously, but-” Mr. Doris waved his gloved hands around as he spoke. He was sick of this unnecessary distraction. “This whole deal has been a disaster. I wish we hadn’t gone through with this plan. You know, if I was boss-”

Virgil slammed his mug down. He shouted out, “That’s enough, Janus! I may not be the boss but I’m still his blood. You’re already on thin ice,” Virgil lowered his voice to a threatening growl. “Don’t tempt me to let him know that you’re talking like that. Especially after you messed up on teaching a lesson to that doll, uh, what’s her name?” 

 “Alice Beauregard,” Doris mumbled. All of his bravado had been pulled inward. He looked like a child who had been caught digging into the cookie jar with how red his face turned. He hated when Virgil called him by his first name. He opened his mouth to say more, but Virgil’s telephone started to ring. 

 “One moment,” Virgil stood up to answer. 

 It was good timing. Mr. Doris didn’t want to keep intruding. Especially if the man was going to be so touchy. He had to go see the Duke anyways. No use putting it off for too long. He waved at his friend as he walked out the door. 

 He tapped the steering wheel of his car nervously. His favorite pair of sunflower yellow gloves stood out among the black aesthetic. He found peace in the memories that came when he looked at them. Wearing them was akin to a child carrying their security blanket everywhere. With the safe cover of the soft material hugging his fingers, he grabbed a hold of his nerves as he arrived at the Lion’s Den. 

 He walked in to see that the Duke was standing at the office window. The boss had his hands clasped behind his back. Today he was wearing black slacks, forest green suspenders, and a light green dress shirt. The man had such a preference for green that it was sort of...queer. He had told Mr. Doris it was because green was the color of money. Money was all that flowed through his veins. That was what he claimed, at least. 

 “Hello, Mr. Doris. How’d it go with our dear Miss Alice?” he asked calmly. The soft tone of his voice was foreign to Doris’ ears. 

 “Well, she didn’t have the cash,” the subordinate hedged. He sat down at the seat in front of the large wooden desk. 

 “I see. Did you take care of her?” the Duke was still eerily calm. The quiet before a storm. He didn’t seem upset about the monetary loss. Mr. Doris suspected that the questioning was formal. Maybe he was off of the hook. 

 “I didn’t kill her,” Mr. Doris answered again. It wasn’t a lie. 

 “So, where is she?” Mr. Doris didn’t see the Duke’s tight grip on the windowsill in front of him. 

 “Somewhere far away…” the shorter man trailed off. He couldn’t handle one more question without spilling the beans. He crossed his fingers and hid them in his lap.

 “Mr. Doris, one more question,” the Duke’s tone was void of any aggression. Well, no obvious aggression. 

 Why did Mr. Doris still feel like his entire body was already drowned in the cold waters of the bay? “Yes, boss?” 

 “How...stupid do you think I am?” The Duke still kept his voice calm as his body started to shake. The cool facade was dropping rapidly with each second. 

 Mr. Doris stayed quiet. He didn’t have a word to say that wouldn’t technically be a lie. Plus he could already see that he was in trouble. He gripped the arms of the chair as he braced himself for the explosion. 

 The Duke spun around wildly. He slammed his fist on the table. “I don’t know where you were mulling around, but in the meantime I got a call from the damn captain telling me his top two detectives left on a call to a girl in distress then disappeared. He’s bugging out, sayin’ that he’s been exposed. I had to offer him even more money, which means more cash lost because of this damn child!” 

 His eyes were nearly throwing flames towards his companion. His lips twitched in annoyance. Mr. Doris felt that the black rage being radiated towards him wasn’t all because of this small mistake. His boss had been more touchy as of late. This was about more than just his failure to bring the girl in. It was about who disrupted the job in the first place. 

 Ever since the detectives showed up for the party a month ago, he noticed the Duke was antsy. Mr. Doris was surprised that the cops were given so much time to decide, even though it was a formality. Frankly it was confusing. Why was the Duke even exposing himself like this to these detectives? Especially since it was all for show? There was no point in sticking his business out to their enemies. 

 Mr. Doris decided to placate the raging man for now, though. “Sorry, sir, I’ll be more careful. I’m going to find her-”

“No, I’m going to find her. I have a feeling I know exactly where she is.” The Duke started to put his things together. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk to grab his gun. His movements were loud as he got ready.

 “Where?” The second in command felt nervous about not being involved. It wouldn’t be good for business flow if he was cast aside. The Duke needed a handler when he went out on business.

 The Duke grinned softly as he shrugged on his trench coat. “Where else? With my dear detective, of course.”

 -----

 “Alright, you got the plan, Logan?” Patton asked his partner as they parked the car. 

 “Uh huh,” Logan answered vaguely. His eyes were unfocused a majority of the time since they left Alice at his home to wait for his friend. 

 “Hey!” Patton snapped his fingers towards his partner. “I can’t have you leaving me, Lo!” 

 “Sorry,” Logan shook his head. His face turned a bright pink at being caught lost in his thoughts. “One more time, Pat?” 

 Patton gripped the steering wheel. He felt so close to getting this over with, and now Logan was the one losing his marbles. Still, he wouldn’t let his frustrations blind him again. He rested his palms on the wheel and took in a deep breath. His fingers felt like they were buzzing at the thought of being the one to put the cuffs on the Duke. He smiled at the image in his thoughts of that. 

 Patton spoke quickly, “We’re going to go in and say that the girl didn’t want to file a report. Since backup didn’t see her recognize us, that might be believable. If the captain asks why we still didn’t bring her in for questioning, we say she was hysterical,” Patton shared a smile with Logan at the thought of Alice being hysterical. 

“Right. Then we mention that we suspect a plant, using your theories-except the part where you suspect it’s him,” Logan’s face hardened, “I really hope it’s not. He has a child on the way.” 

 Patton’s excited grin fell. He hadn’t had time to think that his captain, his boss, his superior-was also his friend. Captain de Rossi was a kind man. How had he forgotten? The man was stubborn at times, some may even say eccentric. Yet he had done good for their station. He’s the one who sniffed out the Duke’s gang in the first place for them. 

 He leaned back in his seat. He felt a bit of guilt at the thoughts he was having about doubting the captain. He looked at Logan, who also seemed to feel ashamed. Logan’s eyes were cast down at his hands. His mouth was frowning downwards that it seemed the gears in his mind were slowing. He whispered, “What if we’re wrong, and we doom his family to having that accusation on their heads for a long time?”  

 Patton bit his lip. “What if we’re right, and it ends up getting so ugly his kid ends up on the bad side of things?” 

 Logan was silent. He scrunched his eyebrows in thought. His gears were starting to speed up again. He looked up and nodded at Patton. “Alright,” he confidently stated, “Alright, let’s clean up our station.” 

 The two got out of the vehicle quickly. Neither of them wanted to prolong the inevitable. Patton still got a nasty feeling in the pit of his stomach. It was starting to weigh in what would happen to his friend’s family. Moreso, what would happen to the town? The captain was likable by the citizens. Would it crush their hearts? 

 He asked himself, for the first time since he met the Duke, how much he was willing to sacrifice for the capture of one man? 

 He and Logan hung up their suits. He noticed that the other cops weren’t there. For a split second he feared that the captain was out too, until he heard yelling from the man’s office. 

 “No, you don’t understand! My wife is due to have our kid soon and if you think-” 

 The yelling stopped as Logan burst into the office. The captain’s head snapped up. He froze as he saw Patton follow in shortly after. His wide eyes made him look like a deer caught on the road. 

 “I’ll call you later,” he told the anonymous voice on the line before carefully hanging up. He cleared his throat. “Good to finally see you guys,” he forced a cheerful tone in his loud voice as he spread his arms wide. 

 Captain Roman de Rossi was a handsome man. Despite his Italian features, he was able to quickly climb the ranks to get his position as captain of Emeryville Police Department. He had vibrant brown eyes that were nearly black. His black curly hair was magically tamed most of the time, though the past few weeks he hadn’t been able to manage it with his nervous habit of rubbing his hands through it. His skin was tanned, though it wasn’t so dark that most of the time people were shocked to learn of his Italian heritage. 

 He was tense. Patton could see it in his grin. His chin was tilted down, his jaw was taught, his clothes were wrinkled. He looked like a mess of a man. If Patton hadn’t known better, he’d say he looked like some of the drunks he’d brought in over the course of his years working at the station. 

 Logan shared a glance with Patton before responding. “Apologies about the delay, captain. We had some trouble with the last call.” Logan’s voice was smooth over the lie. The only tell he caught was Logan’s refusal to look straight at the captain. Patton could barely see that Logan was covering his anxiety.

 Roman nodded then sat down. “Sit, gentleman, tell me what happened.” 

 The detectives sat down cautiously. Neither of them knew what to expect, and if they could read the captain’s mind, they would have known they weren’t alone in their nervousness. It was a standoff-except they didn’t know they were on opposite sides of what was good. 

 Roman’s face morphed into a serious expression. His professional persona that he reserved for serious cases overtook his body language and face. Patton resisted the urge to flinch at the severity of that glare. “Well, sir, the girl-” 

 Patton stuttered at the raised eyebrow the captain gave him. He looked at Logan to save him. 

 “Naturally, after the perpetrator got away, she blew into hysterics. We both decided it was best to take her home to help her get calm,” the younger detective answered.

 “She also didn’t want to file a report,” Patton chimed in. He felt his old confidence return. He smiled warmly at the captain, trying to ignore the jitters his boss was throwing out. 

 “I see…” Roman muttered. He looked over to Logan directly, “What happened to the perp?” 

 Logan gulped. He hadn’t been prepared for that question to be so direct, and filled  with tense focus. “I-he-” 

 “He got away, didn’t he?” Roman asked aggressively. His voice was starting to raise. 

 “You two are good cops. I thought I could trust you to take down this gang.” 

His face was getting red. He looked down at his desk, “I trusted you two to be a force for good.” 

 Patton reached out to touch his friend’s hand. He didn’t care in the moment that the captain was likely in on the crimes being committed. They were still friends. How could he have forgotten that? 

  “We’re sorry. We underestimated them.” 

 Roman looked at the detective’s hands resting on his. Such a soft action. He was still reaching out to him. Patton was a good detective. He had a love for everyone that was immeasurable. The captain swallowed. His face told them only a hint of the storm brewing in his mind from the contact.

 “Sir, I have a theory that may help us with the case,” Logan broke the silence. His face was full of regret for what he was about to say. His words were nearly a whisper, yet they were loud with their implications. “I think there may be a plant. I suspected with the anonymous tip we received a month ago, and I know so now.” 

 The captain sucked in a breath. Patton watched his reaction-looking for any sign of deception or a clue of his betrayal. He continued to watch while Logan explained in slow, calculated words. 

 “I regret to inform you that my suspicions were confirmed when the Duke…” Logan straightened his posture to deliver with a confident voice, “When he sent one of his lackeys to my home last night.” 

 Patton turned his head sharply at Logan. His shocked expression was match for match with the captain. Logan was going off script. Patton met his partner’s apologetic eyes briefly before they were interrupted by the captain’s rage. 

 “You had a chance to capture a criminal, and didn’t call it in?!” Roman roared, shooting out of his chair. “Not only that, you let another one get away after attacking a young girl! I have half a mind to-” 

 Patton stood up. He held his hands out in peace. He saw what he needed to see about their captain. He hid his heartbreak well enough at the betrayal that was confirmed...by both of them. 

 “Fellas, please, let’s talk this out calmly,” his voice betrayed him by cracking, “I’m sure Logan was trying to-” 

 “Put the blame on someone else! He’s pointing fingers!” The captain slammed his fist on his desk. Patton looked at Logan. 

 The younger detective stayed steady. His face was resigned against the fire being thrown at him from his boss. Patton wanted to figure out what his deal was, but first they needed to get out of there on calm terms. 

 “Captain,” Logan spoke slowly. His voice was monotone. He was devoid of all emotion. “I think you’re too tired to think clearly,” the angry man’s face fell into a darker expression. Logan continued, “I hadn’t had time to notify you or Patton, it’s been a fretful day.” 

 “Logan, you just made a big mistake,” Roman growled out. Patton’s heart fell as he watched the exchange-helpless, like he had been every time he got close to something that would help him catch the Duke. 

 Roman stood tall, and Logan followed suit. They both seemed in the know about what was going on. Patton shook his head back and forth at them. He wanted to shout to clear the tension, but his throat was closed. His words had escaped his mind as soon as Logan implied he was working with- 

 “Detective Logan Smith,” the captain’s voice was rigid, “You have withheld vital information to the investigation from me, and your partner. You are hereby suspended for two weeks. Please,” Patton was held in place by his surprise, “Hand over your badge and weapon.” 

 Patton felt a cry settle on his chest. He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He couldn’t believe his ears. The captain was really suspending someone like Logan? 

 Logan took it well, it seemed. He didn’t beg. He didn’t cry. He didn’t shout. He didn’t even try to defend himself like Patton wanted to. He removed his gun from his belt, along with his badge, and handed it over to their captain with no emotion in his body. 

 Logan nodded at the still-fuming captain behind the desk. He turned to Patton and offered his hand. Patton gripped it tight as he shook it. He choked down his emotions while he was painfully aware of the captain’s eyes on them. He looked into his young partner’s blue eyes; was that mischief?

 Logan saluted them both when he reached the door and left. He stood tall. Roman deflated into his seat as Logan left. Logan had been right. The captain looked tired for sure. Patton wondered to himself what this was going to mean if he was going to capture the gang leader that plagued his every thought. 

 “Detective-Patton, you’re still on the case. Please make sure you don’t make the mistake Detective Smith did by hesitating to report new information.” Roman waved to the door, covering his face with his hand as he leaned on the edge of the desk. “You’re dismissed.” 

 Patton walked out, though he didn’t feel the ground beneath him. His limbs were not attached to his body. His head was dizzy from the quick exchange that had just taken place. The weight in his stomach was crushing his guts. His mind was swimming with questions. Questions about the captain, about Logan, about the Duke...about himself. 

 The sun was bright in his eyes as he stepped outside. He looked around for Logan, though it was futile. 

 The deed was done. Patton would have to find the Duke alone.

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