#and then i hope whoever writes after him isnt terrible. can we just have good dr who ever

[lesbiten]

anyways not to imply anything positive about steven moffat but at least no one disrespects past writers like chris chibnall

[calumcest]

you and i were fireworks that went off too soon - chapter four

[ao3]

ok remember when i said this isnt going to be a long fic and now here we are at like 26k. never listen to me when i say anything is the moral of the story here clearly ! also i promise you i have an actual plot in mind we’re getting there i’m just very slow-burny with this but please dont think every chapter is going to be more of the same and get bored i promise you it is actually going somewhere in the next chapter

also tw: mentions of suicidal thoughts

Luke’s week is filled with research. 

He wakes up with bated breath, checking the tattoo in his bathroom mirror just to see whether it’s grown any more but still unable to breathe easy when he finds it hasn’t. The black ink bleeding across his pale skin makes his heart twist every time he sees it - it’s a beautiful reminder of the most terrible time of his life. Luke’s pretty sure he didn’t really understand the meaning of the word bittersweet until the tattoo appeared on his shoulderblade. 

Every spare moment of his day is spent reading scientific reports with words that he has to Google and make his head hurt. He scrolls through pages and pages of studies looking for any explanation of tattoo growth that isn’t it’s going to grow indefinitely unless you sort something out with Ashton, which seems to be what the London study was concluding. He looks into people who don’t have tattoos, into people whose tattoos are unfinished, into people whose soulmates have died, into people whose soulmates are violent criminals (which makes Luke feel a little melodramatic, for the first time, because there are people who actually want to be with their soulmate but find out their soulmate’s a serial killer, while Luke’s all torn up about his just because he broke Luke’s heart). He reads journal after journal detailing research into how the tattoos form, how they grow, what happens on people’s eighteenth birthdays, but nothing mentions the tattoos growing after that point. Everything seems to start and stop on people’s eighteenth birthdays.

Calum and Michael help, because of course they do. Lunchtimes and evenings are spent huddled around phones and computers, occasional mumbles of “This one says...oh, wait, no, never mind,” punctuating the silence. Luke’s not sure whether the lack of information on tattoo growth should make him feel better or worse, give him hope or discourage him, but it kind of manages to do both. 

The following Tuesday, Michael decides to suggest something they’ve all been thinking, but none of them have wanted to say, because uncertainty might be better than its potential consequences. 

“You should email the researchers,” he says. He doesn’t need to say which ones, even though they’ve looked into endless researchers over the past week. Luke sighs, and lets his eyes flutter shut. He knows. They all know. 

“I know,” he says. “I should.” He can hear the trepidation in his own voice. 

“We can write it together,” Calum says, rubbing at his eyes, because he’s been staring at screens on Luke’s behalf since the minute he woke up. 

“What do I even say?” Luke says, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “‘Hi, my soulmate is my archnemesis and my tattoo grew, tell me how to stop it?’” 

“Archnemesis?” Michael says, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Well, who else would my archnemesis be?” 

“Whoever originally named Clifford?” Calum offers. 

“Hey,” Michael says, pointing at Calum accusingly. “That might be your surname one day.” Calum scoffs. 

“Calum Clifford? Are you insane?” 

“What, like Michael Hood is any better?” 

“Not my fault you have a shitty name,” Calum says, with a shrug. Michael makes a noise of outrage, like he’s gearing himself up for a point-evidence-explain destruction of Calum’s point, and Luke busies himself with opening up his email. The idea of Calum and Michael getting married is more than enough to bring that bitter taste back into his mouth, to make him have to forcibly quash down envy and sadness and anger. Calum seems to sense it, because he shoots Michael a look and turns back to Luke. 

“Have you got their email?” he asks. Luke clicks back onto the report that he hasn’t shut for over a week, scrolls to the bottom and nods. 

“What do I say?” he asks. His stomach is churning, already nervous for the response to the email of which he hasn’t even typed a single word yet. He might not even get a response, he tells himself. They’re busy people. They might not have time to read their emails. Or maybe ‘themightyhemmo1996@gmail.com’ is embarrassing enough to get sent straight to junk mail. 

“Describe the situation,” Michael says, scratching Clifford behind his ears. Clifford almost purrs, leaning into Michael’s touch. “Say you dated, and it didn’t work out, and you both know you’re soulmates but given that you’ve tried it and it didn’t work you’re not sure why your tattoo has grown.” Luke nods, typing as Michael speaks. 

“It might help if you gave the reason,” Calum says, a little tentative. Luke’s fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “I mean, like, if you specifically say Ashton fell out of love. That’s got to mean something, right, given that they’re soulmate tattoos?” Luke hesitates another moment, considering - he’s not really a big fan of sharing all this personal information, but Calum’s right, he might get a more accurate answer the more he shares - before nodding and typing. 

From: <themightyhemmo1996@gmail.com> To: <c.r.johnson@ucl.ac.uk>, <j.m.newbury@ucl.ac.uk>  Subject: Soulmate Tattoo Growth

Dear Mr Johnson and Ms Newbury,

I recently stumbled across your soulmate tattoo growth study and was hoping you could provide some insight into my own situation. My soulmate and I dated prior to the tattoos appearing, which ended due to him falling out of love with me. Both of us are aware that we are soulmates, and we have had a conversation about what this means for us and ultimately decided to remain apart. However, since this conversation, and having had a chance meeting, both of our tattoos have grown. Given that we have already dated and it did not work out, I am looking for an explanation and, if possible, a method for preventing it growing any further. 

Yours sincerely,

Luke Hemmings

He reads it out to Michael and Calum, who both nod thoughtfully. 

“Sounds good,” Calum says. Michael nods his agreement. Luke presses send before he can reconsider, and then slams his laptop shut and stands up, stretching. Clifford jumps off Michael’s lap and runs over to Luke, wagging his tail. 

“Thanks for helping me,” Luke says, bending down to pat Clifford’s head and trying his best to push the email out of his head. There’s nothing he can do about it now, he tells himself, willing the knot of anxiety in his stomach to loosen.

“Don’t worry, we didn’t do it for free,” Michael reassures him. 

“We’ll be calling in this favour at some point,” Calum adds. 

“As long as it’s not for doing the Wellson report for Chris,” Luke says, cracking his back and relishing the way it makes Michael wince. Calum winces too, but Luke thinks that’s probably more to do with the Wellson report than his back. “Fuck, I can’t be arsed to cook. Pizza?” 

“Why even bother phrasing that as a question with him in here?” Calum says in exasperation, nodding at Michael as Michael’s eyes light up. 

“Fuck you,” Michael says, but there’s no heat behind the words and he’s already pulled his phone out. “Arty’s?” Calum and Luke nod, because where else would they order from, and Luke flops back onto the sofa with a heavy sigh. 

“I’m not letting you bring a Hawaiian pizza into my house, though,” Luke warns Michael. Michael blinks innocently at him. 

“Hi, I’d like to order three pizzas,” he says, maintaining eye contact with Luke. “Two pepperoni, and one with ham and pineapple.” Luke rolls his eyes and flips him off. “Oh, is that a Hawaiian? I had no idea. Yes, just one, please.” 

“Dickhead,” Luke says, and Michael smiles at him sweetly as he flips him off in return. 

 -------

 On Friday, Luke oversleeps. 

That’s not particularly out of the ordinary, except this time, Luke really oversleeps. Like, he-should-be-at-his-desk-by-the-time-he-gets-out-of-bed kind of oversleeping. 

He swears under his breath as he fumbles with his phone, firing off a text to Calum to cover for him if Phil happens to walk into their office and ask where he is, and tries to pull his clothes on as he’s brushing his teeth. He doesn’t have time to check whether or not he’s got everything he needs, just tears out of the house and sprints all the way to the station. There’s a train to Central idling at the platform, looking like it could close its doors any minute, so Luke legs it onto the nearest carriage, swinging himself into the first empty set of seats he can find and trying to catch his breath. 

The train doors close about twenty seconds later, when Luke’s breathing is starting to even out, but Luke barely notices, already engrossed in his phone. He’s so engrossed in sending Calum a text to say he’s on his way, in fact, that he doesn’t notice someone looming over him, until he hears a “Luke?” that startles him into looking up. His face drops into a scowl almost immediately as his stomach plummets, because what the fuck. 

It’s Ashton fucking Irwin. 

Again. 

“What the fuck?” Luke says, not sure whether he’s saying it in surprise or anger. 

“Hi,” Ashton says, and he’s definitely just surprised. “You’re not usually here.” 

“I woke up late,” Luke says, even though he doesn’t owe Ashton an explanation for his movements. 

“Can I sit down?” 

“No,” Luke says, because it’s early, he’s frazzled, and he’s late for work. “The train is empty. Sit somewhere else.” 

“We should talk,” Ashton says, which seems to be, like, the only fucking sentence he’s capable of saying. 

“About?” Ashton stares at him like he’s an idiot. 

“Uh, the tattoos growing?” he says, and, yeah, okay. That’s kind of fair. Luke had hung up on Ashton mid-conversation, after all, and then sent off an email about their situation to some researchers without telling him. 

“Fine,” Luke says, indicating the seat opposite him with one hand and placing his phone on the table between them with the other. Ashton slides into the seat opposite him, raking a hand through his black hair, and Luke can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to Ashton’s biceps with the movement. He’s definitely more muscular than he’d been the last time Luke had seen him. Well, not the last time, but the last-last time. Actually, it’s the last-last-last time, now. Luke doesn’t like that.  

“I’ve been looking it up,” Ashton begins, and Luke waves him away. 

“The London study?” he says, cutting to the chase, because he really doesn’t want to talk to Ashton any longer than he has to. Ashton bites his lip, and nods. “Yeah. I emailed them.” He waits for the frown, for the you told them? Luke, I really would have liked to have been part of that decision, but it never comes. 

“Me too,” Ashton says. Luke frowns. It’s hypocritical, but that doesn’t sit well with him. It makes his skin crawl, that Ashton’s emailed them too, because he’s probably spun the story in a way that makes him sound better. 

“What did you say?” Luke says, a little sharply. Ashton shrugs, but Luke sees the edge of tension in his posture. He pushes down the discomfort that arises at the realisation that he still knows Ashton’s mannerisms, that the little twist of his mouth means he’s uncomfortable about something. 

“I told them the truth,” Ashton says. 

“The truth?” Luke says, arching an eyebrow. “Or your truth?” 

“I told them my side of the story,” Ashton says, which means he’s given them this whole I was just scared of commitment, I still loved you bullshit, with maybe a smidge of I tried to win my soulmate back over but he wasn’t having it. “Wait, what did you say?” 

“That you fell out of love with me.” Ashton stares at him for a moment, and then shakes his head. 

“Fuck,” he says, and Luke thinks that summarises it pretty aptly. “Have you heard back?” Luke shrugs. He never really checks his non-work emails - it’s usually full of junk he signed up to ten years ago and has never been bothered to unsubscribe from. 

“Haven’t looked,” he says. 

“I haven’t,” Ashton says, even though Luke hadn’t asked. 

“Good for you.” Ashton bites his lip, like he wants to say something else, but then sinks back into his seat, like he’s thought better of it. Luke’s glad - this morning has been shitty enough without having another lengthy conversation with Ashton about their feelings, or whatever. 

Ten minutes pass, and Luke unlocks his phone to do something, anything other than give Ashton any indication that he’s open to another conversation, ending up playing Tetris and shielding it from Ashton’s view so it looks like he’s possibly texting a cute guy, or something. He’s actually doing pretty well, getting close to beating his high score, when Ashton says: “What’s yours?” 

“Huh?” Luke says, momentarily distracted. He drops the piece in the wrong place, and swears under his breath. Fucking Ashton. 

“What did you get?” Ashton presses. “When it grew?” 

“Spot,” Luke says. 

“Oh,” Ashton says, in a small voice, like it’s an answer he hadn’t wanted to hear. That piques Luke’s interest, despite himself. 

“Why?” 

“I- uh.” Ashton looks out of the window at the grey buildings bathed in summer sun. “Mine’s your dog. Clifford.” 

“Right,” Luke says slowly, because he feels like he’s missing something here. 

“Do you think-” Ashton says, and then cuts himself off, biting his lip. 

“Do I think what , Ashton?” Luke says, a touch irritably. Ashton shrugs, and Luke’s about ready to throttle him. “Spit it out, Jesus Christ. I don’t have time for this.” 

“It’s just- we got them after meeting in the dog park,” Ashton says, all in a rush. “Do you think it’s going to happen every time we bump into each other?” Luke blinks at him. 

“What, you think I’m going to get a fucking train on my back now?” he says sarcastically. 

“I don’t know,” Ashton says thoughtfully, completely ignoring Luke’s sarcasm. It makes Luke’s blood boil a little bit, that Ashton’s disregarding him like that, and he clenches his teeth. Professional. Arm’s length. No emotion. “But it seems a bit coincidental, doesn’t it?” 

“No,” Luke says, through gritted teeth. “There’s only so many things about you the universe could turn into a tattoo. Spot’s one of them.” 

“What if whenever we see each other-” 

“Jesus, Ashton, it doesn’t matter ‘what if’, because we’re not going to see each other anymore, are we?” Luke snaps. “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear.” Ashton looks a little taken aback, blinking at Luke. 

“Luke,” he says slowly, patronisingly, like Luke’s a child that needs something obvious explaining to him, as the train starts to slow down. Luke’s going to dust off his old boxing skills and break Ashton’s nose. “We broke up two years ago. How many times did we see each other in those two years?” 

“None, until a month ago, which is what I fucking wa-” 

“Exactly,” Ashton says calmly, cutting Luke off. The train judders to a halt, as Luke stares at Ashton furiously, trying to work out what he’s saying. He’s so fucking full of himself, honestly - exactly, what the fuck is that supposed to mean? He’s always liked speaking in tongues, making himself feel intelligent, like he’s better than Luke- “This is your stop, isn’t it?” 

Luke grinds his teeth, but Calum can only stave Phil off for so long, so he gets up and gathers his things together, grabbing his phone and bag and getting up while counting down from ten in his head to stop himself saying something he regrets. 

“Bye,” Ashton calls, when Luke rounds the corner to the doors, like they’re fucking friends. 

“Go fuck yourself,” Luke spits back, earning himself a shocked look from the guy he shoulders past to get off the train. It’s not professional, it’s not arm’s length, and it’s definitely not devoid of emotion, but fuck, it feels good. 

 -------

 “What the fuck crawled up your arse?” Calum asks, when Luke snaps at him for the fifth time in about half an hour. Luke sighs, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

“Ashton was on my train this morning.” 

“What?” Calum’s irritability is suddenly replaced with pure shock. “Is he stalking you?” 

“Possibly,” Luke says. “God. I fucking hate him, Cal.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He always thinks he’s better than me,” Luke says angrily. “Like, he’s always been the one that’s into philosophy, reads seven hundred newspapers every morning, does yoga and reads religious texts and all that, and he’s always looked down on me for not doing that, like that somehow makes me less intelligent than him. He talks to me like I’m a fucking kid , talks to me in riddles because he likes it when I have to ask him what he means, likes the fucking power trip-” 

“Hey,” Calum says, cutting Luke off, and Luke stops, breathing heavily. “I know.” 

“I hate him,” Luke says again, but it’s smaller this time, and he feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. Jesus. He’s so over crying over Ashton Irwin. 

“I know,” Calum repeats, gentle and calm. “You want to get some fresh air?” Luke doesn’t, really, because it’s about thirty-five degrees outside and it’s hot enough in the air-conditioned office, but he nods anyway. Calum scrapes his chair back and follows Luke out of the office, down the stairs to the fire exit that Chris had disabled the alarm from so that he could go out to smoke and only told Calum and Luke about, and Luke gulps down breaths of the muggy December air as soon as they’re outside. It helps to ground him, feeling the hot breeze stealing across his face, and he closes his eyes and tilts his head into the bright afternoon sun, letting spots dance across the inside of his eyelids. 

“What’d he say?” Calum asks, after a few minutes have passed and Luke’s breathing is steady and even. 

“Some fucking bullshit,” Luke mumbles. “He got Clifford, and apparently that means something, because we didn’t see each other for two years. Like, what the fuck is that, a cryptic crossword clue? Does he think I work for ASIS?” There’s a pause, and then the pause becomes too long to be comfortable, and Luke cracks open an eyelid. Calum’s staring at him, something between shock and horror etched across his features. “What?” 

“Jesus, Luke,” Calum says. “Fuck.”

“What, Cal, I’ve fucking had it with this cryptic bullshi-” 

“What if the tattoos are going to grow every time you bump into each other?” Calum says. 

“Yeah, Calum, I got that, I’m not that fucking stupid,” Luke says, exasperated. “He said that, but I pointed out that it doesn’t matter either way, because I’m not going to see him.” 

“That’s exactly his point,” Calum says. “You haven’t seen him in two years, and now you bump into him twice in the space of a couple of weeks.” And, oh. 

Oh.

Oh. 

“What the fuck?” Luke demands, because he can’t think of anything better that sums up all the thoughts racing through his mind right now. 

“I mean, think about it,” Calum says slowly, a little hesitantly, like Luke’s about to bite his head off. 

(Luke might bite his head off.) 

“I’m thinking,” Luke says, and it comes out almost a growl. 

“The tattoos, they come fr- well, we think they must come from the universe, right? So what if the universe is pulling the strings so you’re bumping into each other now?” Luke stares at him in disbelief. 

“That’s the worst theory I’ve ever heard,” he says after a moment. “If the universe was pulling any fucking strings it wouldn’t have let me and Ashton date in the first place, and it definitely wouldn’t have let Ashton break up with me in a way that nearly made me kill myself.” 

The words ring harsh in the thick December air, and Luke wants to claw them back as soon as they leave his lips. It’s an unspoken rule that they don’t talk about it, they don’t say that Luke nearly killed himself over Ashton. They can allude to it, make polite euphemisms, but they don’t say it. 

“Luke,” Calum says, and his tone is soft, and Luke doesn’t want his pity. 

“No, Cal,” Luke says, and it’s a little too harsh. “Sorry.” Calum tries to protest, but Luke cuts in first- “No, I’m sorry. I’m just- it’s not been a good day, but that doesn’t mean I get to take it out on you. I know you’re only trying to help. I just...I’m sorry. Let’s not talk about it.” He exhales, raking a hand through his hair, and Calum puts a hand on his forearm. 

“Hey,” he says, calm, reassuring. “It’s okay, Luke.” 

It’s not, Luke thinks, as he tries for a weak smile. It’s not okay, because it’s Ashton, and he doesn’t know when it’s going to be okay again. 

 -------

 A text arrives from Ashton when Luke’s packing up to leave. 

Ashton Irwin I was right. 

Luke blocks his number. 

 -------

 Luke changes his routine, after that. 

Blocking Ashton’s number made him feel kind of worse, kind of jumpier and leaves a twist somewhere deep in his gut which he doesn’t really understand, so he unblocks him after a bottle of red wine on Saturday night. He steadfastly refuses to look in the mirror, though, because the more he’s been thinking about Calum’s (and, he supposes, Ashton’s) conspiracy theory, the more it seems to root itself in his mind, twining itself around all of his thoughts. It’s just easier not to think about it, to focus on the fourteen thousand other things he has to do and ignore the way his back feels like it’s on fire whenever he devotes any attention to it. 

He finally checks his emails on Sunday evening. He’s got twenty minutes before he needs to be at Calum’s, so he figures it’s a good time to see whether the researchers have got back to him since he can’t sit and freak out about it, and he’s got Clifford curled up on his lap serenely, so he feels grounded enough to look.

There’s a bunch of shit, as he’d expected, and he sits with his finger on the backspace key for about five minutes, deleting all the Nike subscription list emails (why the fuck do they send out so many?), until one catches his eye. 

RE: Soulmate Tattoo Growth  

Luke’s palms are immediately slick with sweat, heart pounding in every inch of his body as he clicks the email open. Clifford rolls over in his lap with a small whine, resting his head on Luke’s thigh, like he can sense Luke’s anxiety. 

From: <c.r.johnson@ucl.ac.uk> To: <themightyhemmo1996@gmail.com> Cc: <j.m.newbury@ucl.ac.uk>  RE: Soulmate Tattoo Growth

Dear Mr Hemmings, 

Thank you very much for your email. Apologies for the length of time it took to send a response, but as you can imagine we are currently inundated with queries. 

Your case is of particular interest to us. Though we cannot currently provide you with any concrete answers, there are many elements to your particular situation which we would like to explore and perhaps discover answers to, if you would be willing to be a part of our study. I will attach both mine and my colleague’s contact details should you decide to take us up on our offer. 

We believe your soulmate contacted us too, and we have made the same offer to him. 

Kind regards, 

Colin Johnson  

Beneath the email are two sets of phone numbers, emails and addresses to a university in London. 

Luke swallows, hard. It’s far from the answer he had wanted, although he’d known deep down that expecting a don’t worry, everything will be fine response had been wishful thinking on a new level. He’d never expected them to want to study him, though, to be reduced to some kind of scientific experiment. Something about that doesn’t sit quite right with him. 

He closes his laptop, not wanting to think about it anymore, and tips Clifford off his lap. 

“C’mon, Cliff,” he says. “Let’s go to Calum’s.” 

 -------

 “You’re a fucking cheat,” Michael yells, when Calum scores again, and Luke can’t help laughing at the look of pure outrage on his face as he rounds on Calum. “How the fuck did you do that? How the fuck did you do that?” He’s shaking his controller in Calum’s face, but Calum just laughs, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

“Pure talent,” he says, grinning at Michael. Michael scoffs, somehow managing to sound furious while doing it. 

“You’re cheating,” he insists, and Calum laughs harder, curling in on himself on the sofa. “Luke, help me out.” Luke holds his hands up, laughing as he shakes his head. “You fucking bastard. What do I keep you around for if not to gang up on Calum with me?” 

“To stare at my arse,” Luke says, because Michael stares at his arse a lot. 

“You do stare at his arse a lot,” Calum tells Michael. Michael squawks, incensed. 

“You’re not allowed to gang up on me!” he says indignantly. “Cliff, you’re on my side, right? You think Cal’s a dirty cheat, don’t you?” Clifford just stares up at Michael, wagging his tail happily. “He thinks you’re a dirty cheat, Cal.” 

“That’s funny,” Calum says conversationally, “because I think he was actually saying Mike, you’re a sore loser?” 

“I heard something that sounded like Michael’s just not very good at Fifa?” Luke adds innocently. Calum nods, mock-thoughtful. 

“I’m pretty sure that was in there somewhere,” he agrees. 

“Fuck you both,” Michael says, glaring at each of them in turn. “I’m good at Fifa. I’ve been playing it since Fifa 06.” 

“On the fucking Wii, Mike, that doesn’t count,” Luke says. 

“Maybe Fifa 22 just isn’t for you,” Calum says with a shrug, eyes gleaming. 

“They’re all the fucking same, Calu-” Michael starts, before he seems to realise what Calum’s suggesting. “Fuck you, fucking-” He doesn’t finish his sentence, choosing instead to launch himself at Calum, who squeals, laughter turning to gasps for air and frantic pleas of stop, please, Mikey, please, stop, Luke, help me. Luke takes a wary step back - there’s no telling who Michael’s going to attack when he feels slighted by both of them, and Luke’s even more ticklish than Calum, so he’s not taking any chances, thank you very much. 

Eventually, Michael relents, and Calum wheezes, red-faced and panting, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. Michael sits back, pushing his fringe out of his face with a satisfied look on his face. 

“Fuck you,” Calum manages, gazing at the ceiling. Michael grins. 

“If you ask nicely,” he says. Luke pulls a face.

“See if I ever suck your dick again,” Calum says, still speaking to the ceiling, and Luke can’t help the choked noise that escapes his throat. Calum pulls his head up, like he’s just remembered Luke’s there, and Michael’s grin widens at the horrified look on Luke’s face. 

“Okay,” Luke says, as Calum struggles to push himself back into a seated position on the sofa. “Ground rules. I don’t want to hear about your sex life.” Michael rolls his eyes, still grinning. 

“Prude,” he says, but he doesn’t mean it. Luke just flips him off. 

“Can I lay a ground rule?” Calum says. “Michael has to admit he’s bad at Fifa before I consider making you all dinner.” Michael crosses his arms. 

“Firstly, that’s not a ground rule,” he says. 

“I’m not taking criticism,” Calum says. 

“Secondly,” Michael continues breezily, like Calum had never spoken, “I respect you too much to lie to you.” 

“Good, because I’m starving,” Luke says, looking at Michael expectantly. Michael scowls. 

“Let’s settle this in a real football match,” Calum says. “Five a side next Saturday.” Michael doesn’t look too keen on the idea, and even Luke hesitates. 

“It’s fucking December, Cal,” he says. “I’m going to keel over from heatstroke after twenty minutes.” 

“You’re going to keel over from heatstroke?” Michael says. “I’m probably not going to even make it onto the pitch.” 

“Hey,” Calum says. “You both owe me favours. I’m calling them in.”

“What fucking favour do I owe you?” Michael says indignantly. 

“You know,” Calum says pointedly. 

“I don’t,” Michael says. Calum’s making a face at him, one that Luke doesn’t have to be his soulmate to read, a you know what I’m talking about, get the hint, I can’t say it in front of Luke. 

“Yes, you do,” Calum says, eyes flicking to Luke. Michael follows his gaze, and then realisation dawns on his face. 

“Oh,” he says, sounding distinctly annoyed about it. “Fine. But I’m only playing one half.” 

“I don’t owe you any favours,” Luke says confidently, when Calum’s gaze slides over to him. 

“Think again,” Calum says, grinning. “I told you I don’t help with emails for free.” Luke groans. 

“That was a joke,” he says. 

“Nope,” Calum says cheerfully. “Five a side. Saturday. Ten o’clock.” 

“Ten?” Luke’s not sure who sounds more scandalised, him or Michael. 

“Ten,” Calum confirms, and Luke’s own groan is drowned out by Michael’s. 

 -------

 On Tuesday, Luke finally snaps. 

He’s somehow managed to pull his pyjama top off in his sleep, finding it discarded and drenched in sweat on the floor when he wakes up. There’s no point putting it back on, because it’s fucking boiling, so he just pads into the bathroom shirtless, yawning and scratching his arm. 

He brushes his teeth, washes his face, puts on his moisturiser, and then turns to wipe his hands clean - and catches a flash of black ink as he does so. 

Wet hands forgotten, he turns back to the mirror, staring at himself. He watches his own blue eyes blink back at him as he weighs up his options. He could keep ignoring it, pretending it’s not there, and he’d probably be okay at it, for a while. He could probably go another few weeks pretending nothing’s happened, distracting himself like he has been for the past five days - especially with Christmas just around the corner - but, when he’s honest with himself, he knows it’d always be there, at the back of his mind. 

It can’t hurt to look, he tells his reflection. Mirror Luke just blinks at him, looking lost and confused, frown lines that weren’t there eight months ago etched into his forehead. It can’t hurt to look, because it won’t change anything. Whatever is there is there, whether or not Luke’s aware of it. His ignorance won’t make it go away, or stop it changing. 

Taking a deep breath, he steels himself, keeping his eyes locked on his reflection, and turns around.

He immediately sees four numbers in an arc above the moon, and his heart sinks. 09:47. 

He’s not entirely sure what the numbers mean, but he can hazard a guess. With one final glance at the tattoo, now taking up a large portion of his shoulderblade, he turns back and grabs his phone off the sink, scrolling back through his conversation with Calum to Friday morning. 

Me I’m on the train. 

He remembers sending that text. He’d sent it just as the train had started pulling out of the station, just before Ashton had appeared. With trembling fingers - which, okay, he thinks is fair given the situation he’s in - he swipes to the left on the message to see the timestamp. 

09:47am. 

The numbers blink back at him, grey on white, like they don’t know they’ve just confirmed something that cannot, cannot be true. 

Luke cannot have his two options be work something out with Ashton or become a canvas for Ashton. There’s got to be a third option, a get-out-of-jail-free clause, something that isn’t telling him he’s either doomed to spend eternity with the last person he ever wants to see again, or become a mess of black ink and have his body display Ashton rather than being his own. 

He barely even knows what he’s doing until the phone is at his ear. 

“You finally looked?” Ashton says, and Luke hates it, hates that Ashton knows he’s tried to pretend it wasn’t happening. 

“It can’t be right,” Luke says, voice too loud in the small bathroom, bouncing off all the tiles and feeding back into his own ears. 

“What’s yours?” 

“The time the train left,” Luke says, and his voice sounds a little shaky. He hopes Ashton can’t hear the tremors. 

“Mine’s the time it arrived,” Ashton says, even though Luke hadn’t asked, he never fucking asks, because he doesn’t want to know. 

“Shit,” Luke says, and he hears a quiet whine and some scratching at the bathroom door. He doesn’t have the energy to let Clifford in though, can barely even keep himself upright, steadying himself on the sink with the hand that isn’t clutching his phone.

“I know,” Ashton says. “Did they email you back?” Luke doesn’t have to ask who they are, just nods, numbly. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Do you want to do it?” 

Luke hesitates. He hadn’t thought about Ashton even giving him a chance - he’d assumed Ashton would say whatever Ashton said, and Luke would say whatever Luke said. He hadn’t considered their answers not being separate. 

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully. 

“Okay,” Ashton says. “I mean. It’s a big decision.” 

“I know, Ashton,” Luke says, frustrated that this is what Ashton wants to focus on, like they don’t have bigger things to worry about, like Luke’s skin becoming a museum to Ashton Fletcher Irwin. “I just- I don’t have time to think about it right now, okay?” 

“Hey,” Ashton says, voice kind, gentle, soothing. “It’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll get through this.” 

A sudden wave of calmness surges through Luke’s veins, loosening his lungs, his heart, his mind. It’s like nothing Luke’s ever felt before, like falling asleep when he’s comfortably tired and waking up slowly and the sensation of the sun on his skin all at the same time. 

It’s the scariest fucking thing Luke’s ever experienced in his life. 

“Jesus Christ,” he gasps out, heart constricting, lungs tightening, mind narrowing, and he stabs the ‘end call’ button as he sinks to the floor. His phone clatters onto the tiles, and Luke vaguely registers that it’s probably cracked, and the whining and scratching outside the door is getting louder and louder and Luke can’t fucking think, can’t fucking breathe because everything is Ashton, and nothing is Luke. Everything is Ashton, like he’s twenty-four all over again, sobbing on this bathroom floor after throwing up God knows how much alcohol. 

It’s that thought that focuses him, sobers him, pulls him back to reality and away from his racing mind, because he’s not going to do that this time. Ashton’s taken enough from him, taken love and happiness and tears and almost his fucking life, and Luke’s not going to do that this time. 

His vision swims back into relative clarity as he focuses on his breathing like his therapist always said - in, hold, out; in, hold, out - and he wrestles himself to his knees to pull down the door handle. As soon as there’s a crack in the door, Clifford’s racing through, and Luke releases the door handle with a bang and falls back against the bathtub as Clifford climbs all over him, still whining, licking every inch of Luke’s skin. Luke wraps his arms around him, and Clifford carries on licking, warm and rough against Luke’s skin. It grounds him, reminding him that he’s here, he’s alive, he’s got Clifford to look after, he’s got the cool bathtub pressed uncomfortably against his spine. His shaky breathing evens out, and he feels colour returning to his face. Clifford begins to settle a little, only licking at Luke’s chin, and when Luke thinks about the fact that he’s now going to have to shower and be late for work the tightness in his chest loosens a little. 

Work. That’s a safe thought. That’s somewhere Ashton can never touch him. That’s all Luke. 

Luke sets Clifford down, much to Clifford’s discontent, and gets to his feet, a little unsteady. He pulls his phone off the floor with him - great, there’s a new crack running smoothly from the top left corner to the middle of the right hand side of the screen - and unlocks it, typing out a message to Michael and Calum with only slightly trembling fingers. 

Me I think I just had my first soulmate experience.

taglist: @glitterlukey @hey-its-grey 

chapter five

[minecraftoworymode]

picked a whole bouquet of whoopsie-daisies the other day reading some Very badfeel content so to cheer myself up here’s some super self-indulgent ramblings about romeo recovery post-s2

“YOU CAN DANCE IF YOU WANT TO YOU CAN LEAVE YOUR INTERNALIZED MISOGYNY BEHIND” or how romeo learned to stop worrying and indulge in the ““feminine”“ shit in life

when romeo transitioned he scrubbed everything that could be potentially viewed as feminine from his appearance and behaviour. while he did everything he could about the former (hairstyle, clothing, body language, voice), it didn’t feel like enough bc he couldn’t change some things that ppl used to be jerks- his frame (short and lithe), his family, his being trans- so he made up for it by trying to “act” like a “real man”. this unfortunately meant he was super vulnerable to manipulative alt-right indoctrination tactics (”we will validate you as a man as long as you endorse our assholery and share our shitty beliefs about what it means to be a man”) and he was on the verge of getting sucked into gamergate ideology when [THIS LORE IS ANOTHER POST] and hey, now the world is minecraft. u dont gotta perform gender roles for villagers they dont care. xara will not only actually eat ur liver for pulling The Bullshit but when you are kind she smiles, so bright and warm, and it is very very nice so maybe you should keep on doing that. n fred? fred is chill with their Everything in a way uve only ever Dreamed of. romeo marinates in this sauce for a couple centuries and comes the closest to being comfortable in his own skin he’s ever been.

however,

after the Incident he slam-dunked himself back into the hypermasculinity juice bc it was a mindset “safe” from feeling pain, whether his or others’. n since the worlds the admins created dont have the same ideas of gender as the world they came from, once he’s been dethroned romeo has a particularly hard time adjusting wrt That on top of all the other 2750347502730 issues he has to face

anyway flash forward a couple months of being incredibly volatile bc he now has to confront all the terrible things he did and how Dare u make him do that and maybe if hes nasty enough he can provoke someone into killing him and saving him from having to unpack All Of That- (note from @simple-mooshroom-herder​: Xara and Jesse at least grasp that Romeo will probably burn himself out on this bullshit eventually and the best thing to do is interact with him with a certain level of healthy detachment. Eventually he'll see that theres no "getting out of this" and he'll start to do the Work but until then its very frustrating to see that tactic take him nowhere.)

- one day petra notices how he’s constantly staring at all the ppl wearing cute dresses in beacontown and at first she thinks he's being creepy but then realizes that he's not being creepy and actually she knows exactly how he feels bc she also used to look at ppl wearing clothes super not suited for combat like that, like she wished she could wear them too, like if she just didnt have to keep up this image of the Warrior who is Not Soft Ever-

n ok. listen. these worlds have been specifically engineered to be better and kinder than the one the admins came from, and when people mess up- even REALLY mess up- people are generally not only willing to forgive you but support you as you try and get better. it’s instinctual for communities to respond to misdeeds with rehabilitation and reconciliation, rather than retaliation and renunciation (tho its not an overnight thing and it generally takes 1-3 people to spearhead the process, esp if the actions have affected a large group of people). like. ivor created something that almost destroyed the entire world, not just beacontown, yet by the end of season one he’s grown to be a part of the team- n its not just jesse & co being forgiving here, bc when ivor made his s1 build with 3 lava source blocks people objected to it, but by s2 he not only has lava in his build but a giant lake of it. (im assuming the fences around said lake are coming eventually, bc safety is still important, but the implications im choosing to take from this are a) despite almost ending the world people let him into their lives anyway and b) the community not only grew to accept but encourage his self-expression.)

BUT ANYWAY before i go off on that even more one day petra and romeo basically put on an impromptu fashion show in jesse’s house (bc their house is huge and, kind of perfect for a fashion show, and also right next to the order hall’s armory whence they stole a bunch of fancy swords to match the outfits) n theyre having a blast until the hero in residence , returns to their residence (and with COMPANY) n romeo is absolutely Mortified- caught red-handed showing feelings of an almost human nature, oh my god, this will NOT do- n this whole grand soliluquy of shame and excuses and apologies grabs the steering wheel of his tongue but he cant even spit a single syllable out bc jesse and lukas almost immediately dip leaving romeo panicking for a second before they come back with their inventories FULL of cute outfits, including a billion skirts and dresses, some of them are even enchanted so theyre like. super shiny or constantly flowing or things like that.

this actually ends up spiralling into a town-wide... not quite fashion show bc there's no runway or anything, everyone just shows up in their cutest/coolest outfits .. fashion convention?? Anyway several people come up to him and compliment him on his outfit casually before continuing along, not recognizing him not only bc of how hes done his hair and makeup n what hes wearing but he just seems... so happy (he might be wearing something on his head? like a headpiece or hat or something? but also maybe not hmm)- whoever this is, he's not hunched over like he's got several centuries' worth of sins crawling on his back he’s not trying to shrink and make small a human-shaped apology for the simple fact of his existence not dragging his feet like hes ready for, dreading, a hundred mile trek through the desert repenting hes just. hes literally just Vibing

anyway he's mostly been silent or just providing very quiet "thank you"s but when it turns out that some people showed up ready to play music and there's a song that he knows he literally cant help but start jamming out its the GOod Stim everyones a-dancing and a-jiving and some people start to sing and so of course he does too (the healing power of dancing and singing in cute outfits.... unfathomable) but. ppl recognize his voice

and after a few seconds he notices how quiet it's gotten all of a sudden n everyones looking at him like "oh shit thats the admin" and honestly his heart breaks. visibly

but

then someone starts singing, so quiet it takes a moment for him to hear over the sound of an encroaching panic attack (oh god he has airpods in), but when he looks over theyre smiling - theyre smiling at hiM???? AND IT DOESNT EVEN LOOK MEAN??- and doing this very simple step, that he catches onto just as easily as he matches their singing (its a fairly common little tune n dance)

theyre like standing like a good few meters away but as they take turns with lines in the song they slowly inch closer

and he thinks hes starting to recognize the dance that the steps theyre doing is from but at the part in the song thats coming up ur supposed to allemande left and even tho theyre like, less than a meter away now literally no one has really wanted to get close to him, let alone actually touch him, so hes totally expecting them to be like 'psych' and humiliate him in front of the entire crowd-

BUT THEN THEY ACTUALLY GO FOR IT???

he completes the step without even thinking about it n continues onto the next in this state of dull bewilderment where there is but one braincell active in his head and it is just going, in a very tiny voice, "danser?"

- when they linked arms the person briefly seemed surprised that he didn't like, chew their arm off or anything (he had. kind of snapped at people a few times during the past few weeks), but then their shock turned into a wide smile and they sort of- nodded? at someone over his shoulder like 'come and join us, it doesn't look like he's going to kill me after all you guys can put the eulogy writing on hold'

what rly makes his heart do the confused and hopeful conga is that this isnt even anyone romeo knows, its a total stranger. or- like- he saw them while he was pretending to be jesse he just didnt care to get to know them beyond ‘name and gimmick’- its not even someone who has any reason to think he'd be cool to befriend its literally jsut someone taking a chance on him (tkae a chance take a chance take a chance take a cha)

afterwards hes like "i should thank jesse for putting you up to that, it was fun" and theyre like "what? jesse didn't "put me up to" anything, dude, you just looked super choked. * something something surfer lingo who would i be if i just left someone to feel bad when they could be having fun dancing you know?*"

he H

[battlekidx2]

Voltron Season 8

There are spoilers for season 8 so proceed with caution.

I want to start off by saying I love Voltron and there is something I love about each season of Voltron. I have been seeing quite a bit of negativity towards this season, so I want to start off talking about what I liked about this season before getting into what I didn’t. I will recommend Voltron to other people because I believe over all there were a lot of good things that it did with its characters and stories.

I liked Allura’s arc throughout this season. We got to see her struggling with the lengths she would go to to end the war and come out better because of it. She also comes to understand that not every choice in war can be without sacrifice which is something the paladins seem to struggle to understand up until this point. Allura has been consistently developed throughout the seasons and has grown into her own in this season. She has had to overcome so much and is a character I felt was developed well and will be a character I look back on fondly.

I also liked that they clarified Lotor’s character within the show. Before this season there were multiple ways that lotor’s character could be interpreted and now they have a definitive version of him. The clarification also accentuated the tragedy of the character. His eventual downfall is tragic because he did deserve better. He fell victim to his upbringing after trying to be better and being punished severely for his efforts. This is a character that while I may not be the biggest fan of the execution of Lotor’s story I liked the idea behind it. I liked how they did redeem Lotor in the eyes of Allura and it was acknowledged how his childhood and upbringing affected him, his choices, and his downfall all without erasing the mistakes he made. It also acknowledges that he wasn’t given a fair shot by anybody and despite his attempts to be better he was always thwarted or shunned at every turn. There is only so much someone can take before they break.

Haggar was a great villain and her arc was somewhat of a Greek tragic hero and was almost Shakespearean. Her unquenchable thirst for knowledge led to the destruction of both her old and new homes, the creation of the galaxy’s most infamous tyrant, and her son living through a neglected and abusive life that meets a terrible end. She realizes too late what she missed out on and works to undo her mistakes without care for the destruction she causes because she believes that with the end of her quest everything will be perfect. It’s only once she gets to her desired outcome and her son and husband recognize the monster that she has become that she reaches her lowest point and is able to be convinced by Allura of the error of her ways. That Haggar herself is to blame for how her life turned out not the universe or anyone else. That this outcome isn’t what Lotor would have wanted despite what Haggar kept telling herself and that while she can’t get back what she lost, but she can give back what she took from the universe in her desperate bid. This season wrote its villains really well with Lotor, Haggar, and Zarkon and while I didn’t agree with all the choices made with the characters I do believe the writing was well done and Haggar is the pinnacle of this statement.

I appreciated that all the character’s that lived got their happy endings. Keith has found his purpose and continues to help people. Shiro finally leaves the battle after years of nonstop fighting and suffering and gets to settle down with his husband. Pidge and Hunk both get to follow their dreams and Lance surrounds himself with what he loves and lives a quiet peaceful life. I honestly just wanted to see these characters be happy. They have all been through so much so seeing them get to be happy in the future made me happy.

I was sad that my two favorite Voltron characters, Lotor and Allura, ended up dying. Allura had been through so much loss, suffering, and pain on her quest to bring about peace and grown so much only to finally be able to bring about the peace she strove for and not even be able to see the it. Allura had lost so much and when she finally has a means to restore peace the only way to bring about peace is through sacrificing herself. I know I was upset with the season in the past for the lack of true sacrifice or lasting death, but I’m sad that this was the sacrifice that ended up happening because Allura deserved to see the peace she helped create. We finally got to see Lotor’s past and have his character in hindsight be redeemed, in showing he did truly care about others and Allura but was misguided in his methods, and bring him back from the rift only to have him be dead the entire time. This means he ended up having arguably the worst and most painful ends of anyone on the show. He died after the only real trusting relationship he had was destroyed and believing that no one cared for him while his mental stability eroded and his body was overloaded with quintessence. I would have liked to see him be alive and have him carry on doing the best he could instead of everyone admitting that he wasn’t given a fair shot, that he deserved better, and really did care and wasn’t a monster. The second colony is completely forgotten and is never explained. The second colony honestly just feels like a plot device to trigger the paladins turning on Lotor and Lotor’s subsequent descent into quintessence poisoning instead of an actual thing that happened because the reasoning behind it was never explained so it feels as though it was unnecessary.

I’m sorry to every Allurance shipper, but I didn’t like how it played out within the series. They made Allura uncomfortable with Lance until season 5, had her look upset when she found out he liked her in the same season, made her suddenly romantically interested in Lance at the very end of season 7, and then in season 8 showed hints that Allura still wasn’t completely over Lotor (the most prominent examples are when Lotor emerges from the rift and she panics saying she can’t do this and when Lotor is the vision she sees to convince her to use the rift creature). I honestly think this ship could have played out really well if they hadn’t had Lotura and had Allura a lot less visibly uncomfortable with Lance in earlier seasons. I am happy for whoever shipped Allurance and got to see their ship sail in cannon. Allurance just wasn’t my cup of tea with the way it was written. I personally would have preferred if Lance hadn’t gotten Allura and could have continued with his journey of self discovery and learned who he was without a girl because his character the last few seasons had a lot of him pining for Allura instead of focusing on his growing self-confidence and worth. With him ending up a farmer and probably sad over Allura for the rest of his life. Lance was a character I wish had gotten an arc of episodes to himself that didn’t involve a girl because he was set up as incredibly relatable with problems that everyone faces.

I may have been disappointed with this season, but I still like voltron and hope to see more of it in the future. I can understand the issues people are having with the season and can empathize with the disappointment, but I hope that people don’t attack the creators and cast. They’ve worked for years to bring us this series and they don’t deserve to be harassed. I hope that others can find the enjoyment I found out of the series and I hope there are many great fanfics to read. It was an honor to see this series to completion.

[gimmedatelephantwrites]

Coffee Shop AU Oneshot - I'm Oliver You, Tom Riddle

I'll admit, Tom is a little OOC (out of character) in this, but like, I really wanted to write him with a raging boner for Oliver :/ just suffer through it, I guess,,,

Also I'm on mobile and dont know how to make a "Read More" thing so

________________

________________

Darkly stained hardwood floors met emerald green counters, topped with clean, if slightly cluttered, darker-stained butcher block countertops; a silver register sat at one end of the counter space, an empty fish bowl filled with various pens of varying degrees of frilliness directly beside it; two-thirds of the counterspace was behind lightly frosted glass, which quite untastefully hid all of the various coffee making and blending apparatuses; round tables of a matching register-silver sat around the space, with cozy chairs of varying shades of green pushed in or hastily shoved aside were small comforts lying around the little caffe. Three of the walls of the caffe, the left, the right, and the entry wall, were the same shade of emerald green as the counters - Tom painted them all at the same time himself, while the back wall was tastefully and painstakingly painted various greys to sort of give more depth to the actual brickwork, but not leave it the natural red brick it was before. Tom still wasnt entirely happy with the paint on the brick, even today, but continually added more and more small touches here and there. A bright pink handprint smacked the top of the bricks, small spatters of pink on the stark white ceiling resulting from it, while a more carefully placed yellow print stood beside it. Anne had helped him paint and stain the caffe before she actually began working there, and had seen it fit to climb on top of the countertops, hand nearly dripping in pink paint, before she jumped - and fell off the countertop soon after as a result of her recklessness - and smacked her hand as high as she could. The yellow one came from him; he stood on the countertop, painted his hand, and pressed it firmly as high as he could.

Tom loved the sight of it. Every morning, he came in, started up a brew, had his morning cuppa - black, no sugar - and then was immediately greeted with his most hated thing: customers.

Usually, however, the early morning crowd wasnt too terribly awful, but there were exceptions to every rule. Especially when it came to, Tom shuddered, youngsters.

But he digressed.

It was drab and dreary that momentous day. Outside, it was raining fairly well, making the air outside pleasantly cool and delightfully scented. The streets had a mist, and Tom wanted nothing more than to go out and just breathe the rainy air in. Rainy weather had to be his most favourite type of weather.

But unfortunately, people enjoyed a hot, freshly made beverage on a rainy day, and that meant that his cafe would be busy. Just as it was now.

Thankfully, he wasnt dealing with the customers today, that was Anne's job on Wednesdays. All he had to do was work behind the counter, make the drinks, and call out the names or whatever the customers insisted on being called.

And, occassionally, when Anne needed a break, interact with the customers. Tom nearly shuddered at the vague thought.

"Tom!" Anne called. "I need 7 hot chocolates, two with two pumps of vanilla, whole milk, one of those with with whipped cream, cinnamon lightly dusted on top, one with 4 pumps of your Hot Unicorn Blood Elixir, coconut milk instead, three made with soy milk, and one with almond."

Anne was a very near and dear working companion of his. She was dark skinned, with very large breasts, a sweet face, and someone who enjoyed wearing clothing that was much too small for her. Even her uniform was too small, which shouldn't be as Tom had given her clothing that had to have been several sizes too large; it was all he had on hand at the moment. Anne must have known a tailor, or had done them herself.

"We should have never offered drink customization, Anne." Tom griped.

He made the hot chocolates, as asked for, and called out, "Ridiculous hot chocolate order for 7."

Six giggling girls came up and grabbed their order, one taking two cups, before returning to their table and awaiting friend.

Business slowed for a moment soon after that, but they werent ever completely devoid of customers in the queue.

And then, it was time for Anne's break.

Oh, how Tom dreaded Anne's break! Now he had to both take orders and make them.

Oh well, he supposed, time to get to work.

Taking the second customers order, the bell above the door rang as someone new entered, or as a customer was leaving. Tom glanced up, saw that it was someone coming in, and greeted him, "Good morning, welcome to the Half-Life Caffe. I'll be with you in just a moment."

And of course, the customer he was currently helping ordered a ridiculous hot beverage, but this time, it was completely asinine; a soy latte, no soy. They're "allergic to soy", as they have so far claimed, but enjoyed the way a soy-free soy latte tasted.

Tom tried his very best to not roll his eyes or groan at this persons incompetence.

It was the single most difficult thing he had ever done. He deserved a solid gold plaque for his deed. Or at the very least an official day of recognition. Perhaps a national holiday, The Day Tom Marvolo Riddle Didnt Roll His Eyes or Make Any Dissenting Noise at the Customers Stupidity.

It had a very nice ring to it, Tom thought.

And now, it was the new customer's turn to order.

"How can I help you this fine, if wet, morning?" And that's when Tom looked up, and met his gorgeous ocean blue eyes. And the rest of his beautiful face, for that matter.

Tom instantly took back what he had previously thought. Not openly gawking at this simply, perfectly stunning individual was the single most difficult thing he had ever done.

The customer was distinctly male, wild, curly blond hair falling every which way seemingly perfectly, even if it was dripping water onto his clothes, his cheeks and nose tinged a slight pink from the nippy air outside, giving him a perpetual blush. He parted his perfectly kissable lips and flashed a smile, all perfectly straight, white teeth, and oh! Then he spoke!

"Actually, I'm not quite sure what I want quite yet. I've never been here before." The stranger told him. His voice was like the sweetest music Tom had ever heard, lilted and bright and airy.

"May I recommend our unique Unicorn Blood Elixir? I invented it myself, and it's only available while I work." How Tom had managed to say that without stuttering was beyond him.

"Oh, that sounds lovely! I'll have the largest size you have, please! I'm not planning on going anywhere, if that makes a difference?" He smiled once again, and Tom very nearly dropped the tall ceramic mug he had just grabbed.

"Can I get a name for your order?" Tom cleared his throat, grabbing an Expo marker from the flowery fish bowl next to the register, and focused his entire will on writing this persons name.

"Oliver," he giggled.

Tom discreetly wiped his mistake away, and god he felt his cheeks begin to warm, how embarrassing.

"£6.50 please."

Money was exchanged, Oliver waved his farewell, and took a seat in the corner, pulling his phone out of his thigh bag and smiling down at whatever was on the screen.

Tom had a not-so-subtle hope it wasnt his boyfriend.

Or girlfriend, Tom wasnt one to judge, but he didnt look the type to have a girlfriend, if his fluffy, gaudy yellow sweater, sinfully tight black skinny jeans, shiny silver mid calf heeled boots, and dark leather thigh bag was anything to go by.

But, who knew, maybe she dressed him?

Tom returned to work, just as Anne came back in. Tom turned to glance at whoever it was, and sighed in relief when he saw it was just his coworker.

"Anne, get your arse back to work!" Tom called over the loudspeaker.

"Oh piss off!" She called back, already putting her apron back on. "What orders do we have now?"

Tom handed over the two easier orders, and worked on Oliver's Unicorn Blood Elixir.

" "soy latte, absolutely no soy"?" Anne questioned. "Couldnt they have just ordered a regular latte?"

"I tried to convince them, but they're adamant the soy-free soy lattes taste the best."

"Well. Oh well, more money in the drawer for us." She shrugged and began making the orders.

Tom braced his hands against his clean counter, staring down at the mug. He didnt ask if it were hot or cold. Why was he acting like this?

Tom! He scolded himself. Pull yourself together. This isnt you, and quite frankly, it's annoying.

He sucked in as much air as his lungs would let him, let it out slowly, and turned toward the front and called out "Oliver?"

Said boy looked up, a question clear on his face. He stood, leaving heavily charmed cell phone at the table, and approached the counter. "That was fast?" He seemed skeptical.

"Actually no. I just remembered I didnt ask you if you wanted it hot or cold."

"Oh! Yes. Of course, cold please! I just looked them up, over there, at that table, and they look so magical cold!" His eyes shone of a glowing wonder. Tom heartrate increased, and he could nearly swear he was dying because of this ethereal, tacky dressed vision in front of him.

Oliver should go to prison for attempted murder. Or maybe he just got out? Either way, he was, actively or not, trying to kill Tom.

Tom chuckled, "Yes, they're very blasé warm, I will admit. But still equally delicious, of course. You may return to your seat, I'll have your order ready momentarily." He smiled graciously, waiting until Oliver smiled back and returned to his seat.

Tom grabbed a new cup, a clear, tall glass this time, wrote Oliver's name on it with the Expo marker, and, before he thought better of it, wrote on the opposite side, this time in Sharpie, as if it were supposed to have it and wasnt just an additional, spur of the moment decision:

bewitching (verb):

Enchant or delight (someone)

Time to get to work, then.

He blended a thick pink, vanilla cupcake flavoured concoction in one blender, an equally thick pale green, Earl Grey flavored in another, and started up the lavender purple, lavender flavoured into the last of the blenders. He poured black tapioca pearls into the bottom of the glass and drizzled edible glitter laced caramel down the inside of the glass while he waited for the three blenders to finish their work, and, once they were done, carefully poured each of the blenders contents into reusable piping bags.

Normally, Tom didnt go through this step, but he wanted to make the drink absolutely perfect for the single most beautiful man in the shop. The rest of the customers who would inevitably see it, be damned; they were worth nothing in comparison to pretty Oliver and his heart stopping smile.

He piped in a thick line of pink, then green, and finally purple, filling the glass completely. He took one of the stainless steel stirrers nearby and very gently, very carefully swirled the colours just a bit, so it wasn't a stark pink, green, and purple, but a much softer, less defined array of colour.

Then, he brought out the hand-prepared pale blue whipped cream, swirled it on top, and brought out Anne's favourite decorations: the silver sugar pearls and sugar crystals. He tossed a handful of pearls on the top of the very colourful creation before doing the same with the silver sugar crystals.

Very nearly perfect. Tom grabbed two of the thick, white straws and arranged them just so, one taller than the other, and sighed.

"Anne?" He asked, cringing all the while. "Do we have any more of those pink, edible hearts?"

Anne gasped dramatically. Why does she have to do this? What does she have against him?!

Please dont draw Oliver's attention! He mentally pleaded.

"You dont put hearts on anything! Even if it's one of our Valentines Specials! What is wrong with you!" She was so loud, and Tom could cry, surely the bitch was going to get Oliver's attention, but then she reached up, into one of the cabinets in the back, and grabbed a small container filled with them. "Here you are, go nuts." And returned to her work.

Tom opened the container, grabbed one of the smaller hearts, and gently placed it in front of the straws. He smiled at his handiwork - Oliver's perfect face would light up as soon as he saw this! - and turned around, ready to call out the order, slightly startled to find Oliver already at the counter, looking flustered and a tad embarrassed.

Oh fuck, did he hear her Tom was going to murder her--

"I'm sorry," his eyes flicked down to Tom's nametag, "Tom. I know I said I wouldnt be going anywhere, but I just got a text from my friend, Gwen. I'm going to need my order to go." He looked dejected.

Tom had an instant hatred toward that look.

"That's alright, here's your order." He passed the glass over to him, a small, reassuring smile over his lips. "Dont worry about the glass, just take it." He said, before Oliver could protest on taking one of their more expensive glasses.

Oliver smiled gently, "Thank you, Tom. Though I do still feel bad at taking one of your glass cups."

"How about this;" Anne rudely shoved her way in, "give him your number, make it even."

Oliver, caught off guard, guffawed, setting his drink down on the countertop so he didnt tip it over on accident, and brought his hand up to try and quiet his harmonic laugh. "I'm sorry!" He got out through a laugh. "I'm not laughing at you, I just didnt expect that!"

Anne reached over, made the receipt machine spit out more paper, and grabbed one of her overly frilled, ostensibly girly, click pens, and passed the two of them over to Oliver.

Through his giggles, he managed to write down his phone number, his name just under it, a tiny heart dotting his "i".

"Here you are, Tom!" He slid the slip of paper over to Tom. "Call me sometime? If not, I'll just have to come back with my friends and make a huge dramatic scene. Maybe get the police involved?"

The cheeky shit! "Well, we cant have that, now can we? I'll call you when I'm off work later this evening, then. Dont make any plans to ruin my life or business just yet, darling." He winked.

. . . .1. . . .

. . . . . . . .2. . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . .3. . . . . . . . . . . .

His face burst into actual flames, "I'm so sorry, please ignore that last word." Can I die now? Please and thank you! He thought as he buried his face in his hands.

Both Anne and Oliver laughed at him, but Oliver reached his hand over the countertop and gently pulled Tom's hand away from his burning face, and looked imploringly at him. "I'll never forget it, dear." And then, when Tom looked up at him, Oliver pulled Tom's hand to his face, and, to Tom's horrified delight, pressed a kiss to his knuckles. "Anne, was it?" He turned his focus to her, "Could you make sure he calls me?"

She grinned, looking very much like a shark in that one Pixar movie. "I'll make sure he at least sends you a text. And if not him, I know I will~" she winked flirtingly at him.

Oliver giggled his perfect laugh, winked back, took his drink in hand, and left, waving goodbye just outside the window.

"Your face is still red." Anne so helpfully pointed out. "And seriously, you had better call him! He seems nice, and it would do you good to actually get in the game!"

"I will, Anne. He said he'd make a scene with his friends, maybe get the police involved, if I didn't." Tom sighed. "And hes the most wonderful person I've ever seen, can you imagine his disappointed face? Go ahead, Anne. Imagine that perfect face, disappointed. It breaks your heart!"

He paused. "Well, not mine. But I'm sure you get my point."

"I do, and I'm glad we're on the same page." She reached out and touched his shoulder gently, smiling a bit as she said it, before clapping her hands. "Time to get back to work!"

________________

________________

Tom sat there, on his couch, cell phone in one hand, and Oliver's phone number in the other, and he was nervous.

After Oliver left, they got so busy that Tom had completely forgotten about Oliver's phone number, which had previously been a burning weight in his pocket.

And now, hes on his couch at home, completely nervous.

He may have already stated that, but to his current state of mind, it didnt matter.

He needed to call Oliver. And to do that, he needed to put the numbers in his phone, and then press the green "call" button. One step at a time, Tom.

To put the numbers in.

Now.

Right now.

07

There! The first 2 digits!

00769 7659

And there are the rest! Now, to make the call.

(A/N, I dont know english phone numbers, so idk if that's even correct in the slightest. I know mobile numbers start with 07 and are 11 numbers long, but idk about the rest)

(A/N: Also, DONT CALL IT. It might actually be someones number idk but like srsly dont call it) (I mean it)

He took several deep, calming breaths, or at least he tried to. He ended up hyperventilating for a few minutes. Once he calmed down enough, he turned his phone screen back on, and unlocked it with his password, "v0ld3m0rt".

Before he had any second to think about his actions, once more that day, he pressed the "call" button.

Then, he panicked, nearly dropping the device.

For 3 entire rings, he was frozen in place, staring in horror at his phones screen, nearly silently hoping Oliver wouldnt pick up-

But then he did!

"Hello?" Even from this distance he sounded beautiful ♡

And like he had just woken up.

He quickly brought the phone up to his ear, "Yes, Oliver? This is Tom. From-from the Half-Life Caffe?"

"Oh! Tom! Hi, hello! It's good to finally hear from you!" Despite his obvious giddiness, his voice still sounded rough. "I was just saying to Gwen a few hours ago that we were going to have to start a riot." He laughed, but it came across as more of a few breathy chuckles than anything. "Why are you calling so late though? Its half passed midnight." There was a rustling on the other side of the phone, like maybe Oliver was shifting in his. Bed, Tom figured, or perhaps he was rubbing his eyes, to get the sleep from them.

"Is it really?" He pulled his phone from his ear and checked the time; 12:34. "Oh, I suppose it is. My apologies, it must have taken more time to build up the courage to call you than I thought."

"Wait, 'build up the courage'?" He giggled softly. "Were you afraid of calling me?" Tom could hear the smile in his voice.

"Not afraid, necessarily, just. Nervous."

"Dont be nervous, Tom. It's just me." There was more rustling, and a series of pop-ing noises, before Oliver was back on the line. "Sorry, i was stretching."

They were silent for a few moments, and just when Tom started to feel like an awkward mess, Oliver spoke quietly, "I'm glad you called me, Tom. I really was worried you'd never call."

"Of course I'd call you, Oliver." Tom spoke equally quietly. This was a space in time all their own, and he hated to break the serene moment. He leaned back on the sofa, resting his slightly aching back. "Though, if I'm quite honest, I dont know what to say."

"I think I do. I was cleaning my glass from earlier, and I must say, what an amazing drink, when I noticed a little something on the side."

"Could it have been... your name?" Tom smiled.

"No, you shit!" Oliver laughed. Tom soaked in the feeling it brought him. "The other thing. Does the word "bewitching" ring any bells?"

"Oh, yes, of course. That. A different word and definition is written on all of our glasses, you see-"

"Mmm no, I dont think so." He said in a silly, sing-song voice. "Robert, another of my friends, tried my amazing beverage and wanted one of his own. So I told him where to get it, and to take it there, and he did. But oddly enough, there was no word on it, besides his name."

Oh, well. Maybe it just rubbed off. It's just sharpie on glass, it doesnt last forever."

"Mm-hmm. I thought youd say that. My best friend Andrea was there, too, while I was there. You, however, know her as Anne."

Tom made a terrible noise in the back of his throat.

Oliver must have heard because he giggled, "And she said that you put bewitching on my glass because, and I quote her exact words, I am the "most wonderful person with the most perfect face", and then she prattled on about how red your face was, among other things, and-"

Tom made another noise, and rushed out "I'm so sorry Oliver, I know it was bold of me--"

"Oliver?" A female voice asked. She sounded far away, and quite young, at that, Tom couldnt help but wonder who she was.

A girlfriend? A female friend? His mother?

"Who are you talking to?" She sounded much nearer now. "Its 1 o'clock in the morning, my love."

Tom deduced she was either a very affectionate mother or his girlfriend. No fenale friend called their male friend "my love" for no reason.

Tom felt a cold stab of jealous shame low in his belly. Anne had gotten his hopes up, the incredible bitch. "I'm sorry, Oliver. I'll text you later, I've kept you up for long enough. You should get back to your girlfriend, and get back to sleep while you're at it." Tom couldnt believe he was rambling; Oliver brought out the worst in him, that was for sure.

"What? My what? Tom--" Oliver asked.

- Click -

Oh.

Tom hung up.

Well. There went that. Oliver had a girlfriend.

So why did Tom feel so crushed?

Oh, yes. That's right. He had a crush, so of course his little infatuation would crush him. It was in the name.

Tom's phone lit up, and the song Different as Can Be, his ringtone that Anne had set up for him, started playing. Without even glancing at the devices screen, he denied the call and shut the phone completely off. Oliver wouldnt, or rather, shouldnt, have anything more to say to him. Tom knew he didnt have anything to say to the other boy, so why should he bother answering a phone call?

Tom was exhausted. And he had to get up early the next morning to open up shop. 

__________

__________

...10am the next morning...

Holy fuck Tom was l a t e

His phone was his alarm, and like a complete fucking dumbarse, Tom had shut his phone off the night before and didnt bother to turn the fucker back on.

He could have simply blocked Oliver's phone number, and yet.

Tom could well and truly throttle himself at his absolute stupidity, and he may or may not have tied his tie a tiny but tighter this morning as a result.

But, onward and upward. He had a business to run, no use fretting over more sleep. Anne had the key to the caffe, and today was Thursday, so she was, in fact, working this morning. Time to get to work.

Tom dressed, brushed his teeth, rinsed with mouthwash, and flossed evenly for good measure, before he brushed his hair out. He didnt have time to shower that morning, so styling his hair had to be a must that morning. After it was perfectly styled, he deemed himself ready for the day. Time to grab his wallet, his car keys, and--

Mreow

Oh, right. His cat, Professor Quirrell.

"I'm sorry, sweet boy. I nearly forgot all about you, didnt I?" Tom apologized to his cat. "Its just I'm late for work."

Mrrrow

"I know, being late is no excuse to not feed you. Let's get you breakfast, shall we?" Tom made his way to the kitchen, where his dearly beloved cat was sat at his spot at the kitchenette's small  table. "It's going to have to be cheap this morning, dear, I dont have time to cook for you. Or for me, for that matter. But I can at least get something at the shop. You, my poor little man," Tom scooped his small, slightly overweight black cat up in his arms, "would starve all day. And that's just not fair, is it?"

Brrrrw, Professor Quirrell agreed. Tom nodded, gently setting Professor Quirrell back down onto the table, before reaching up into a cabinet to get one of his special breakfast plates, and grabbed a can of wet cat food on a lower shelf. He popped the can open, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and gently divvied up his sweet Professor Quirrell's breakfast.

And, of course, Professor Quirrell, being an asshole, took one smell of it, and proceeded to bury it with invisible dirt, before he moved on to the "empty" dish of kibble. You see, it wasnt really empty, but just had a small empty patch in the middle. Tom fondly shook his head at the little bastard man, grabbed a small scoop of crunchies, and filled the dish back up.

Once Professor Quirrell started eating, Tom gently stroked down his back. "There. Now you wont starve." Tom stood, "I'll see you tonight, stinky boy. Behave."

Tom grabbed his keys and wallet, conveniently left at the door, before he called out, "No wild parties, Professor. You know the rules."

He locked his apartment door behind him and strolled down the stairs, before getting to his car, a yellow, 3-door Vauxhall Astra with a silver grill, parked conveniently at the kerb. Dont worry, there werent any double yellows anywhere in the vicinity, so it's not like he would get a parking ticket from the traffic warden. Tom was an exceptionally safe car owner. :)

(A/N: my british bestie helped me with all of that. Everything you just read in that last paragraph is factually correct and 100% certified true by him, an actual british person. The rest cannot be accounted for)

Arriving to work, however, was a completely different story. Several police cars sat out front, two with lights flashing.

Oh. Shit.

Tom parked hastily just down the block a bit, desperate to see what had happened to his caffe. He stepped inside, expecting a murder spree, blood on everything, only to find seven or so officers of the law sitting at the tables, nursing mugs of drinks, and at least four more queued up to order more beverages, and Anne, grinning evilly behind the register, who all turned toward him as he entered, with nothing else amiss in the shop.

"Er... Hello, officers. Working hard. Or hardly working?"

Oliver suddenly turned a corner from the back of the caffe, assumedly returning from the restrooms, when a tall brunet officer from the front of the caffe turned to him. "This the one, Oliver?"

His beautiful face and gorgeous curls, a perfect vision he was yesterday, wearing the same shiny boots and thigh bag as then, but instead of a yellow sweater and black pants, he was wearing rose print white jeans, yellow suspenders, and a form fitted white button up shirt. Such a lovely sight.

Tom! Control yourself! He has a girlfriend.

"Yes, Robert. This is Tom." Oliver puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms over his chest, and Tom just felt even deeper infatuation with him.

(It couldnt possibly be love, oh no. Tom didnt do that.)

"That's all I need to hear. You're under arrest, Tom." The officer, Robert, pulled his handcuffs from his belt. "Hands behind your back please."

"What? What for?" Tom asked for the sake of his sanity. Of course, he still turned his back against the officer, hands behind him, but that was more out of courtesy and respect for the law than anything else.

Officer Robert came closer, snapping one cuff against his wrist, and pausing before doing up the other. "Why, for hanging up on sweet Oliver, of course. And then, for not answering any of his 17 phone calls after." And then he snapped the other cuff on.

Oliver had really gotten the police involved, just as he promised. The little tart!

Wait...

"Oh, but that wasnt the agreement." Tom started.

"Oh?" Officer Robert questioned. "Then what was the agreement?" Tom thought he heard a smug grin leaking through his voice.

"The agreement was I would call him, or Oliver would get the police involved. I did call him, so there are no reasons to arrest me, officer. I held up my end of the bargain." Tom smoothly talked.

"Why would you hang up on him, though? Have you ever spoken to him? You wont ever want to hang up." Another officer, presumably from the sitting crowd, asked.

"It was nearing 1am, officer. And I had to get to work early this morning."

"But here you are, at 11am. I don't count that as early, do any of you?" A woman asked. That voice... it wasnt Anne, and it sounded familiar...

"I turned my phone off last night. My phone is my alarm, so of course I didnt wake up at the right time." Tom explained.

"You didn't have to turn your phone off." Oliver said. He sounded grouchy, and Tom desperately wanted to see his Mr. Grouchy Face.

"You're right, I could have just blocked your number."

"You didnt have to do that, either!" There was a small k'thunk, very soon after that. Did Oliver just stomp his foot? How very childish, Tom couldnt help but chuckle at the mere thought.

"Oliver, it was late. I needed to sleep. You needed to sleep, your girlfriend needed to sleep, I dont understand why you're getting so upset with me for being responsible."

"I dont have a girlfriend!" Another k'thunk. "Gwen is a lesbian!"

"Hey, whoa now." The same female voice from earlier spoke up. "Let's not put any labels on anything, shall we? I prefer women, yes, that is true, but I would totally bang him too."

"You're just saying that because hes in handcuffs, Gwen."

"Can I be released now, please?" Tom asked, quite done with the uncomfortable cuffs. "Its obvious this is just a sham arrest."

Officer Robert cleared his throat. "Well, everything seems to check out, at least from what an eyewitness testimony states." Officer Robert quickly pulled the key from its place, "Dont let it happen again, however, young man. Next time, I wont be so lenient." And he unlocked the cuffs.

An entire five minutes and 15 seconds of being handcuffed, all because Oliver was a little pissy. Tom could already see himself dating this dramatic train wreck of a human.

"Thank you."

"Are we done now? I'm sure we ruined this poor man's business forever." Another officer spoke.

"Yeah, and now he knows Oliver can and will get the police involved in the future. I'm sure hes been scared enough for today."

Officers Robert and Gwen turned toward Oliver, as if asking if they were still needed. "Yeah, fine. Go away." Oliver said, suddenly sounding very tired. "Tom and I need to talk about a few things, and I know this is already going to spread around the precinct  like fiend fire."

The officers stood, bringing their empty mugs to the counter to be cleaned, and getting to-go paper cups for the road. Anne was a saint for making more carafes.

Speaking of...

Anne, who had been suspiciously silent the entire time, was standing behind the counter, elbows resting against it, grinning madly, looking exactly like the shark from that Pixar movie. Or the Cheshire cat. Maybe a mix of the two.

"Fish are friends, Anne." Tom told her.

"I'm going to give the two of you a moment," she said, still grinning her crazed grin. "I need to say goodbye to Gwen. Oliver, we have security cameras. If you murder him, I cant help you with anything, but I am planning on making some meat pies eventually." She winked, took her apron off and hung it on the hook behind the counter, before she too left the caffe.

Once the last officer left, making the comment about how good the coffee here was, Oliver grabbed Tom's wrist to get his attention. "Tom. I dont have a girlfriend. I'm living with Gwen. The couch is uncomfortable, and we're close enough that we can share the bed without it being weird. Is that really the reason why you hung up on me-why you turned your phone off and ignored me? Or was all this just. Some little mistake?"

"I apologize for making such a bold assumption. You just seem to bring out the worst in my behaviour. I apologize for that as well. Yes, it was because I believed you had a girlfriend. I may have developed a sort of. Infatuation, if you will, with you. And while I know that's not any grounds for anything to become of us, I couldnt help but feel." Tom paused and chewed his lower lip, averting his eyes. "Jealous. I want you to be mine, and just the thought of you being hers, well. It didn't settle well with me." He finished quietly.

Oliver, the sweet boy, giggled. Tom looked up at him. "How about this? I get your work schedule, come in whenever I can, I get a drink, you get a drink, we chat for a while, and see where this gets us? Maybe, possibly, going on some real dates in between?" If Tom had known better, he would know that Oliver was blatantly flirting.

"That sounds wonderful, Oliver. Thank you." Tom truly meant it, too.

[taakofromtaz]

wrong side of reality

Summary: 

taako has an imaginary friend named lup

Notes: (transposed from AO3)

For pyrrhlc.

this is my secret santa fic for tumblr user defcnestrate! (sorry if this was a little late. i had unforseen events impede my plans to write before the deadline)

(i had to do some investigating but i think i tagged the right person. if this isnt you, let me know, pyrrhlc!!)

happy candlenights!!!!

title from "young and meanace" by fall out boy

(did a little beta work. fixed some typos, added a few words)

[character study, introspective, vignette style sorta, trans taako]

Word count: 2256

[writing tag] | [Archive of Our Own] | [fic index] | [please consider donating!]

Ever since Taako was little, he had an imaginary friend. She was an elf like him and trans like him and looked just like him with the mismatched eyes and blonde hair except it was like a mirror. She knew everything he was going through because she was going through it too.

He’s too old for that now, but sometimes, in his weakest moments, he likes to pretend she’s still with him.

Her name was Lup and he liked to pretend he was a twin.

 Something about the Umbra Staff makes him think of his childhood imaginary friend. She would use something this ridiculous, he thinks one night when trancing is impossible. He wraps his arms around the staff and closes his eyes.

This is weird, he thinks. She isn’t real. The staff is warm and he likes to think that imaginary Lup would like fire. Useful fire for those cold and sleepless nights on the road. Useful fire for keeping raiders off his back it the scariest, darkest nights. Useful fire to cook something just right even without a professional kitchen.

Lup would play with fire and Taako would change the world to match.

 Taako doesn’t remember the last time he had a room to himself. A normal kind of remembering this time, instead of the weirdly huge gaps in his mind that made him sick and sad and lonely. The first thing he does is throw himself on the bed that’s big enough for at least three of him and roll around on top of the comforter until he can get over the fact that it’s perfect.

The next thing he does is scatter his belongings all over the room, followed by an incredibly brief bout of panic wherein he picks it all back up and leaves it in a heap beside the bed instead. The bathroom is next on his inspection tour. It’s a simple affair but fairly elegant. Taako is impressed and a little awed. (He learns over the next several days that the bathroom is his and his alone and he has a hard time not rubbing it into Magnus and Merle’s faces.)

When he finally collapses on the clean bedspread, still coming down from the high of having such nice new digs, he allows himself to think about Goldcliff, about Sloane and Hurley, about the truly massive fireball he’d managed that ended that fight.

His breath hitches and he shoves his fists against his eyes.

This isn’t what he wants to think about. He doesn’t want to think about the looks Hurley and Sloane gave each other all the way to the end, he doesn’t want to think about the hug that Hurley gave him, doesn’t want to think about how he melted so completely in her hold that he didn’t even notice that she was giving him her harness, doesn’t want to think about the way the silverpoint crept through their veins and turned their blood to ash right in front of him.

The thought sends a cold jolt down his spine and the irrational thought that he needs to find the Umbra Staff now.

He finds it hooked around the footboard and he snatches it quickly, pulling it closer before scrambling his way under the covers, still fully dressed. He wraps himself around the staff and presses his forehead against it. It’s warm, almost hot, and suddenly Taako’s reminded of how filthy he is, covered in a layer of sweat and grim from the battlewagon race and the battle with Sloane afterward.

(After the three of them finished their customary post-mission trip to the Fantasy Costco, they’d been stopped by Avi and escorted down to their new rooms, a private suite with its own elevator and a common room featuring a portal to hell—aka a giant floor window—overlooking the planet below. There’s a bedroom for each of them, already assigned, and a bathroom at one end of the hallway, opposite and excluding Taako’s en-suite. There’s a fairly large kitchen attached to the common room, separated only by an island bar with three stools. All in all, it’s pretty tight, but they hadn’t had the chance to clean up before being left to their new digs.)

Taako can’t bring himself to care that he’s getting the new sheets dirty. He’s already a disaster, what’s it matter what he gets up to in the comforts of his own room (and isn’t that just wild? His own room. Wow.).

“You did good today,” he says out loud, keeping his voice down just in case there’s someone standing outside his room. “You cast some bombass spells and saved a shitton of people today.” He sighs and moves the umbrella back to smack himself in the forehead with it. “But gods, Taako, you’re still a fucking idiot.”

The Umbra Staff quivers and Taako squeezes it tighter. For a moment, he imagines it’s a neck in his hands and he stares at his white knuckled grip. He takes a shaky breath and closes his eyes.

“You’re not real, Lup. You’re just something I made up because I can’t stand to be alone.” His eyes sting behind his lids and he struggles to keep his breathing steady. “But gods I wish you were.”

Taako lays long enough to almost fall asleep. He moves to curl into a ball and his ribs ache his clothes pull weird and he sighs, reluctant to leave his warm cocoon. He forces himself to get up and peel off the dusty, sweat soaked shirt and jacket and binder and he kicks his shoes and pants to the side with a growl. Luckily, whoever it was that set their rooms up managed to stock the dresser with his clothes.

Donning an oversized sweater and a pair of shorts, Taako crawls back into bed and tries not to think about Sloane and Hurley’s dying faces.

Taako’s never loved someone that much.

 L-U-P.

Taako tries so hard to pretend the letters on the wall mean nothing to him, tries so hard to pretend that L-U-P is a string of letters he’s never seen before, never uttered like a prayer in a moment of weakness, never crossed his mind or passed his lips or stuck with him as his only companion against horror and heartbreak and crushing loneliness.

No. The word means nothing to Taako. It’s not a name. It’s just a word.

There’s no mystery here, he wants to say. He wants to shake the boy detective, wants to turn him away from the letters, from the thought, the idea of Lup as an entity. She’s mine, he wants to say. You can’t have her. The words not again linger in his mind for far longer than they should.

 Madame Director calls Taako to her office the day after L-U-P. Taako tries really hard to ignore how worried he is that something’s going to go terribly wrong and forces himself to act as casual and put-off as he possibly can. He wants to pretend that this is just an annoying formality. He can’t. He doesn’t want Madame Director, please, dear gods, anyone but Lucretia.

She has her stern “I know you did something so don’t lie to me” face on and Taako feels his skin crawl with irritation. He hates her holier-than-thou attitude sometimes. Just because she has a magic jellyfish that can unmake entire lives doesn’t make her better than the rest of them.

“Taako,” she says, and sometimes he hates the way she says his name, too. He hates the way the syllables sound familiar coming from her mouth, the gentle way her lips wrap around it, like a suffocating hug from a bear that wants to eat him.

“Director,” he says back, just to be petulant. He knows why he’s here and he refuses to break. He’s allowed his secrets, his privacy. Sure this is the best gig he’s ever had, but by the gods does he feel trapped here more than some of the time.

“Care to explain what happened yesterday?” She quirks a brow at him and he gives her a deadpan stare, unimpressed.

“Oops,” he says with a careless shrug, entirely unapologetic.

“This wasn’t on purpose, was it? It wasn’t an act of petty vandalism?” She’s the picture of calm and grace and as much as Taako wants to keep poking this lion, the longer he sits under her stare, the more anxious he gets.

“Listen, I dunno what the whole deal with this ‘luhp’ thing is, but I have other things I’d rather be doing,” he says, forcing himself to mispronounce Lup’s name. The further away from her he can paint himself, the better the situation will turn out. Experience has taught him this time and time again.

Lucretia looks exhausted and for a moment he feels concerned. Smug satisfaction quickly takes its place and he moves as if to stand when she remains silently for a solid minute.

“Look, are we done here? Can I go?” Taako gestures to the door with the Umbra Staff.

The Director’s eyes lock onto the staff and Taako can see her shoulders tense. He moves the umbrella his other hand and crosses his arms in front of it. “Just tell me why.”

Taako purses his lips and considers his answer. He turns and strides for the door, uncrossing his arms to grab the handle. “Look, Director,” he begins, fighting back the urge to call her Creesh for reasons he’s not entirely sure of. “Whatever happened yesterday? That wasn’t me.” He twists the knob, pulls the door open, takes a step out. “And Lup is just something I made up as a kid. Don’t worry about it.”

He closes the door and leaves. He doesn’t look back.

 For only a second, Taako thinks he see Lup with him, there in that white space. When he turns to look, all he can see is the red dirt of Refuge and he doesn’t think about her again until he dies. I hope she’s not dying, too, he thinks, and then, but dying’s never stopped her before.

Every subsequent death, he finds himself searching for a glimpse of her. One time it’s a flash of blonde hair. Another time it’s the tips of pointed ears. Yet another is a ghost of a smirk.

The color red follows her and when he looks, it’s dirt and he’s in Refuge again.

Lup would have liked Roswell, probably, and definitely Ren. He hopes they can meet one day. He forgets he ever had the thought.

 The Umbra Staff tries to kill Kravitz and that’s just fucking rude. Why does it have to act up like this? Why can’t it just be like any other cool staff? (Taako thinks that if he could ever make a staff it would have a blade on the end. Not because he would use it like a sword, but it would look super intimidating and maybe an enemy will think it’s a melee weapon and assume he’s weak when he’s anything but.)

The whole thing about something undead makes Taako’s skin crawl. He doesn’t like the feeling of not being able to trust the Umbra Staff. He’s come to rely on its steady presence to ground him during his lowest points and he doesn’t want anything to come between that. Fuck the rest of the base if it means sacrificing personal comfort.

Why would a dark spirit risk being discovered to save Taako’s life so many times? If there is a lich—and gods, maybe there is and he just never knew because they used to own the staff before him—then the only thing he can do is hope it won’t escape and try to murder him. But, again, why save his life and help him get stronger? Why not just kill him immediately?

Kravitz may be hot, and he may be right about an undead spirit, but he’s wrong about it being a danger to him.

(Lup would never hurt him.)

 The fireball that Angus shoots out is huge, bigger than the little boy is capable of casting or even handling. When he speaks up, babbling excuses about how he couldn’t possibly have cast that spell, something clicks in Taako.

“I know, I know,” he says, and he hopes he doesn’t sound like a weirdo because honestly? He wasn’t listening.

He’s too busy thinking about how to free Lup from the Umbra Staff.

Why didn’t he think of this before? It’s a miracle it never happened on accident even, but here, and now, Taako realizes that he has to break her prison to set her free.

From the moment he drank the baby’s ichor to the second he snaps the Umbra Staff over his knee, he had managed to convince himself that Lup was still a candy-coated dream. She seemed too good to be true, too good to be real, she had to be fake, she could only exist in the imagination of Taako’s intense, lonely need to never be alone. There was no way she was real and somehow he’d managed to convince the others that she was.

But now she is. She’s real and wonderful and phantasmal and resplendent and—

Taako feels like he can breathe for the first time in over a decade.

Thank the gods, he thinks, eyes burning and tears rolling down his face faster than he can think to stop them. She’s real. Thank the gods.

And then she puts him on blast but he’s laughing and he’s happy.

She’s real.