#at least a chunk of the shift is without customers and I just have to open boxes but like hello

[defututus]

Even When I'm Not With You

Through Snow & Sleet

masterlist

modern!Eddie Munson x AFAB!reader, college AU, strangers to friends to lovers

Summary: You meet someone in one of your college classes and it's love at first sight.

content warnings: swearing, it's a very modern AU

word count: 5.6k

author's note: this is technically my first fanfic. I began writing it in April of 2024 and only got around to posting it now. This is the backbone of the AU I've maintained in my head since I fell in love with Eddie. It takes place at the university I went to, involves all my friends, and some personal experiences. Once again, thank you to my two best friends @corroded-hellfire and @munson-blurbs for encouraging me to write and helping me out when I got stuck. Hopefully you guys like it because I have more to share in the future! ❤️

The cold February air was biting at your face as you hurried across campus, slow enough to avoid the ice that no doubt sat in the dark waiting for one careless student to step on it and fall flat on their ass. The walkways were lit just enough to allow you to see where you were going but not enough to help you spot any icy spots so this was as fast as you were willing to move. What should have been a relatively easy day turned into a nightmare the moment you woke up. It had snowed overnight and the university grounds crew had neglected to salt the sidewalks once again so you nearly fell twice just trying to get from your dorm building to the dining hall next door. Once you had a decent breakfast you made your way to work and learned that there was a bad cold spreading among the employees and had claimed three of your coworkers that you expected to work with today, thus leaving you with only your team lead to help you in your department. A good chunk of your morning was spent unloading consoles set to be released soon and left you exhausted. There were a fair share of unhappy customers that you had to deal with, and it only got worse when you finally got to go on your lunch and realized you left your wallet in your room so you had to eat the day-old bagels left in the break room. Five o’clock couldn’t come soon enough.

Your university was located in the middle of a metropolitan area so you were fully aware that the rush hour traffic was bad. To avoid the inevitable panic of wondering if you could be held up in traffic and be late to class, you built your class schedule around your shifts to leave an hour and a half for you to get home when the longest it could possibly take is twenty minutes with heavy traffic. Tonight’s class, Physical Anthropology, was on the other side of campus so you also had to factor in the time it would take to walk there. Still, you would be left ample time to get home, change out of your work clothes, and even have dinner without the need to rush. You were thankful that this was the last week before spring break so at least you could relax when you weren’t working.

Your careful planning had worked perfectly up until today because you couldn’t possibly account for the accident on the highway. Everyone was trying to get home before the storm came back to make the streets undriveable, but one driver was in such a rush that they lost control and caused a small pile-up. The drivers were all alright, thankfully, but this left you sitting in traffic for over an hour and your anxiety slowly creeping up. You were close to emailing your professor to tell them you weren’t going to make it even though the university was right in front of you. By 6:15pm, you were finally moving and rushed across campus. You weren’t even going to change out of your uniform and decided to just keep on the sweater you wore under your coat. All you had to do was grab your bag right by your door and make the trek across campus. Unfortunately once you grabbed everything you needed, you were now left with 15 minutes to make the 11-minute uphill trek to your classroom, assuming there were no obstacles in your way.��

You made it inside the building and into your classroom with two minutes to spare, but in your mind you were basically late to class. You preferred to get there ten minutes early so you could choose a decent seat and get yourself situated, but by the time you were inside all the good spots were taken and the professor was already setting up for her lesson. The only seats left were in the back so you made your way over and put your stuff down at the first open spot you see. As you begin unpacking your things, the professor turns some of the lights off and puts on a video on osteology that you had been focusing on for the last two weeks. 

You were never a very social person in school, always preferring to keep to yourself and only talk when other people initiate a conversation. This class was only on your schedule because it fulfilled a requirement, nothing else. Your only friends here were within your small program and none of them were in this class with you. You didn’t know anyone's names or faces, especially not the person you just sat next to. His only acknowledgement of you was in the form of scooting a little bit so he wasn’t taking up all the space at the table you were now sharing. He was focused on whatever he was frantically writing down in his notebook, a curtain of curly brown hair concealing his face from you. However, you were able to see what he was writing in. It was a beaten up spiral notebook full of carefully organized notes with color coded tabs. There were flowcharts, sketches of what looked like maps, and character information. He also had some pages printed out that were tucked between the pages. None of those things really stuck out to you, instead your eyes were drawn to a hastily drawn creature in the corner of the left page. It was a scaled, humanoid figure with wings and horns. You could almost mistake it for a gargoyle if it weren’t for its stature and flames surrounding it. It’s something you’d recognize almost anywhere.

You whisper to the person next to you, “That pit fiend looks really good.” His pen stops mid-sentence and his head shoots up to look at you. A woodsy smell mixed with a hint of tobacco and mint wafted towards you with his movements. It was almost intoxicating.The first thing you looked at were his eyes. They were wide open with shock and they were the richest, most beautiful shade of brown you had seen in your entire life. His lips were full, a little chapped either from biting and wetting them or the cold weather sucking all the moisture out of everything. He had light freckled across his nose and a small, faded scar on his forehead. The rest of his hair that wasn’t previously obscuring his face was tied back into a bun. You both sat there in silence for a moment as he struggled to put words together. He’s wearing chunky silver rings and a worn Slipknot hoodie. You could even see the edges of a tattoo peeking out from under the collar and another of a goat skull on his left hand. 

“Oh, thanks. Um…” He looked down at the page for a second, ringed hands fidgeting with the pen he was holding before pointing towards the large flow chart, “It’s for this week’s campaign. I didn’t have a lot of time this week to plan so I’m trying to get it all done right before we meet up tonight. My friend, Jeff, his character looted these cultists…” He glances up to check and see if you’re listening and smiles when he realizes you’re actively paying attention, leaning in to get a better look at the pages. He continues with a little more confidence in his voice.

“So his character, this Triton named Kaglas, found a really old book on one of the cultists. Turns out this book was a cursed tome belonging to a demon prince and well, he cut his finger trying to pry the book open because it was being held shut with these really sharp teeth. The blood from his finger dripped onto the book and opened a portal so a prince of hell kidnapped him and now they’ll have to get past this guy to gain access to the prison… I’m just trying to finish up the encounter tables for the rest of the prison because I always leave those until the last minute.” Before he can delve further into the story, the lights come back on and papers are being handed out to each row of tables by the professor. “The goal of this lab is to identify the species of hominid based on everything you’ve learned so far. I’m not going to pull anything funny by giving you two of the same species so don’t worry about that. Each skull is numbered. Work with the other person at your table to identify the species, write the number down, and explain your reasoning. Please be careful with these.”

The papers make their way back to your way and you hand one to your new lab partner. He accepts it, mouthing ‘thank you’  and quickly scrawls Eddie on the top of the page. Good, you tell yourself. You know his name now, progress. There’s some shuffling in the back of the room as the professor goes off on some tangent. Both yours and Eddie’s attention is drawn back to the topic of his campaign. 

You began speaking to him in hushed tones, “Your friend doesn’t seem very bright. Who in their right mind would try opening a book bound shut with fucking teeth? And they got it from cultists? Are they trying to get their characters killed or are they just dumb?” Eddie stifles his laughter and shakes his head. You’re sure the professor is saying something as she moves to the back of the room but your focus is only on the man next to you. His laugh is more beautiful than any song you’ve heard before. He begins to rock his stool back and forth as he continues to speak.

“Honestly? I’m not sure. We’ve been playing together for years and I think they’re getting more and more reckless as time goes on. At this point they can recognize when I’ve set up a trap and they take it every time just for the hell of it…”  so, do you play?” 

There’s some shuffling going on in the cabinets in the back of the room as the professor begins pulling out skulls and placing one on each table. Eddie takes the skull and begins looking it over. You hear a quiet, “These are really cool.” You glance over at it and note the size of the skull overall and the lack of a brow ridge, quickly jotting those down before moving your paper closer to Eddie so he can write them down as well.

“I just started recently, it’s me and a few friends. We just saved this sweet little dwarf bookseller named Barnes when these half-elves stole his book cart with him inside it.” You watch Eddie examine the skull, running his fingers along the area where the sagittal crest should be. His rings catch the warm light of the old overhanging lights of the classroom. There was black ink on his hands, or was that oil? You couldn’t tell. His fingers were calloused and you could only guess he was also a musician. 

“Barnes, the bookseller, huh? What’s his last name, Noble?” The only response he gets is an eye roll before putting the skull down. “By the way, I think it’s a homo erectus. There’s no crest and its teeth are smaller.” You nod and Eddie hands the skull over for you to examine. You open its mouth to get a better look at the teeth and nod to him, writing ‘homo erectus’ on the paper. The skull remained in your hands and you began inspecting it out of curiosity. 

You bring the skull up to eye level and respond to Eddie with a small smirk on your face, “As a matter of fact, it is. Y’know, it’s actually a family business. His father started it and he has a bunch of brothers with the same name. They all have their own book carts in different cities. Honestly, I think they’re gonna be real successful in the future.” The story makes you laugh. The book cart wasn’t meant to be anything more than a place for your crew to gain information on the area but your insistence on “getting to know the locals” to annoy your DM, Emma, led to them creating a character that you felt attached to right away.

He rests his head in his hand and gives you a look that you can’t quite read. He has this smile on his face and this soft look in his eyes that you’ve only ever seen in romance movies when the main characters are starting to fall for each other. It wasn’t something you had the chance to experience yourself, always too nervous to ask people out yourself. Dating apps were totally out of the question because you had only heard horror stories from your friends who had tried it. You open your mouth to continue telling the story and maybe ask Eddie about his own campaigns when your professor pipes up from the front of the classroom.

“Guys, just as a reminder. These skulls are REAL and are ON LOAN TO THE UNIVERSITY and they are VERY EXPENSIVE. Please be careful with them.”

If you were being honest, you should have realized this sooner. It didn’t feel like plastic at all and had small indentations and ridges on it. This was a person. The realization nearly has you dropping the skull that once held someone's brain but thankfully, you were holding it right above the table so there was no chance of it being damaged. A laugh rang out from the seat next to you which took your attention away from what you held in your hands. He’s smiling at you. A big, toothy, beautiful smile and you wish you could look at that smile all day long. He hasn’t been in your life very long, maybe 5 minutes in total, but you were infatuated with him. Once he manages to calm himself down, Eddie slowly reaches out and takes the skull out of your hands.

“Let me take that from you. We can’t have you hurting this guy, can we?” Once the skull was out of your hands, you hang your head low in embarrassment. You feel your face growing warm and pull at the loose strings of your sweater sleeve. You bought it when you first started attending the university and it had been through the wash more times than you could and somehow created a hole in one of the sleeves. The hole was just low enough so you would stick your thumb in it and pick at it, like you were doing right now. Eddie lowers his head a bit to get a better look at you and asks, “So I guess you never realized these were real.”

You reply, face still feeling slightly flushed, “I never really thought about it, but it feels weird… I mean, that was a person,” you reply, pointing to it with your pen as you begin noting the state of its teeth and the sutures on the top of the head, “this guy had hobbies, he had a family, he lived a full life!”

Eddie interjects, turning the skull around to the back to reveal a massive crack in the middle of it. You cringe at the sight of it with Eddie bluntly replying, “I don’t think this guy had a full life. Looks to be cut pretty short to me. This is probably from an axe or some other tool.”

The rest of the class period was spent finishing the lab and learning more about each other. The two of you  talked about majoring in history and your love for classical antiquity while he told you about his band and working as a mechanic with his uncle. You also learned that your music tastes were pretty similar, you had a love for rock and metal and even complimented his hoodie (“I’m gonna be completely honest, you do not look like a Slipknot fan.” “Wow, rude.”). It felt as if you had known Eddie your entire life by the time class was drawing to a close. You two were so immersed in your conversation that you didn’t even realize you were one of the last people in the classroom. Eddie unlocked his phone to check the time,  allowing you a quick glance at his lock screen with a red guitar on it. Your musician hunch was right. He shoots up from his stool, hissing “Shit shit shit” and begins shoving his stuff into his backpack. You look at him bewildered and he says, “I’m sorry, I need to go. Our session is supposed to start in five minutes and I need to be on the other side of campus right now!” Once his bag was hastily packed and he was pulling his jacket on, Eddie looks at you one last time and gives you a sheepish smile. “I’ll see you next week, right? No, two weeks. I’ll see you in two weeks. It was great to meet you!” You don’t even get the chance to properly say goodbye before he leaves the classroom in a blur of black leather and denim. All you hear is the sounds of heavy boots running through the hallway and out the nearest side door.

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The walk from Eddie’s class to the student center Tuesday night was usually a leisurely one. He always made sure he got out the moment class ended so he would be able to fetch the keys for the multi-purpose room down in the basement and unlock it before everyone else arrived. Eddie always preferred to have everything set up so it was less likely someone could sneak a peek at his notes. He learned his lesson after he arrived a few minutes late and Grant got a peek at his screen and saw their Arakocra guide that was helping them navigate enemy territory was actually a spy for the local warlord. Eddie was a stickler for punctuality (ironic considering how he was always absent in high school) and would rag on anyone that was even five minutes late. Hellfire was meant to start at 8pm sharp and Eddie was rounding the corner in the basement, keys in hand, by 8:07.

By the time he has the key and rounds the corner to their room, he sees everyone standing outside and their heads all turn at once. He honestly found it kind of disturbing. 

“Well, well, well. Look who finally arrived,” Gareth said with his arms crossed, “we’re glad to see you could make it.” Eddie doesn’t bother trying to justify his tardiness to him and pushes through to unlock the door and set his stuff down at the end of the table. 

Everyone agreed that the drama room back in Hawkins High was definitely more comfortable than their current room and was more aesthetically pleasing. Eddie thrived when he was sitting on that throne. He would have taken it home with him if he could. However, there were some cons to that location that were rarely brought up. They had to lug extra chairs into that room every week and always had to keep their voices down. Sometimes they’d arrive and find out the space was being used for something else that week and they had to cancel the meeting. It was also located in the one part of the school that lacked air conditioning so it became unbearable once the weather started to warm up. Also, the wifi was horrible.

Eddie considered this room to be an upgrade. It wasn’t as nice as the drama room with its white painted brick walls with absolutely nothing on them and the uncomfortable chairs, but he always knew this space would be open since he reserved it for them every Tuesday night. He also appreciated the monitor hanging in front of the tables so he could display the maps and character art he did himself. Yes, they did trade in a very hot room in Hawkins for a very cold one in a basement, but everyone thought it was worth it. 

Everyone began to filter into the room and take their respective seats at the long table. There was only one seat open since one of their former players, Ronnie, had transferred to another school at the end of the fall semester so her seat was being used by Jeff. Eddie is working quickly to pull up the necessary resources and load up the map they were using last week with twisting pathways and lakes of lava. He’s filtering out all the chatter around him in order to get everything set up as quickly as possible. Jeff sits down next to him with a box of pastries from the local Dunkin Donuts. They could usually get them for free in the evening since they were about to be thrown out and Jeff was friends with one of the cashiers. 

“So… what happened to you?” 

Jeff’s question is only heard by Eddie and Doug, Hellfire’s newest member. The rest of the club were busy getting their own materials out and digging dice out of their bags. Eddie could vaguely hear Gareth complaining about losing his own set and having to use one of the sets Eddie brought because ‘Munson always has the weirdest dice, I don’t want to spend tonight staring at dice with a bunch of tiny baby heads in them’. Without looking up from his laptop, Eddie simply replies, “I had a lab and lost track of time, that’s all.”

Jeff doesn’t believe any of this. He and Eddie had been friends since they were both gangly teenagers who got detention for trying to skip gym class. Jeff knew when Eddie was lying - Eddie would always bite at his lip when he wasn’t telling the truth. It wasn’t just a lab. Something must have happened.

Jeff begins to probe Eddie with questions. He knew the only way he’d get Eddie to confess to whatever was going on was by guessing until he got a reaction out of him.

 “A lab, interesting… So you weren’t able to finish it in time and that made you late?” Eddie says nothing. 

“Did you drop something and get in trouble?” Someone else almost did, but not him. No reaction. 

“Did you eat something and get in trouble?” Eddie reaches over to the box of pastries and grabs a boston creme donut.

“Did you meet someone? You found your soulmate?” Eddie pauses as he’s sitting back down in his chair. Bingo. Jeff is shocked. Throughout all the years he had known Eddie, the man was never known to believe in love. There was a girl he met when he was 18 but that never worked out so Eddie assumed he’d live the life of a bachelor. He grew up with parents who hated each other and always seemed to be fighting so he never knew what a healthy relationship looked like. Whenever someone asked about his love life he would brush them off and say it just wasn’t for him. He said it so much that everyone couldn’t help but believe him. 

“Oh my god, Eddie Munson is in love.” Jeff says this slowly with a shit-eating grin on his face. He also said this loud enough that everyone else in the room could hear him so all the conversations being held ended at once in favor of learning about this mystery person in Eddie’s life.

“You’re WHAT?” 

“I didn’t know you were capable of that.”

“What are they like? What’s their name?”

The group questioning turned into an interrogation that yielded no results. Everyone only stopped once Eddie had finally located the music he needed and drowned their questions out with the sounds of a haunting violin, creaking, and muffled screams.

“Ok, so where were we? Uh, Tayr,” Eddie looks up at Jeff and points his pen at him, “you’re still imprisoned deep underground. You had 7 hit points when we last left off and you said you were planning to break both your ankles to get out of your shackles so I’m holding you to that.” Eddie then turns to Grant and Gareth who are looking annoyed that their friend is ignoring them, but he persists. He has a campaign to run. “Hylbaez, I believe you and Ariver were going to attempt horse stacking to get up to that open window. I don’t know how the two of you plan on doing that without your horses and how you’re gonna reach the 7th floor even if you had your horses with you. You’ve had a week to figure that out.” He looks over his notes one last time before looking up at the group. Nobody appears to be ready to play. No pencils in hand, only a few papers out. Hellfire won’t start until they get what they want. Eddie was really hoping they’d all drop the group questioning but that doesn’t seem like it’s happening anytime soon. With a huff, Eddie rubs his face and gives them all a look of resignation. “Okay, fine. You want to know? There was a girl that sat next to me. She complimented some character art that I’ve been working on and we talked about D&D for a while. I’m gonna try to get her number after spring break. THAT’S IT.”

It’s almost like everyone’s ears perked up when they heard him mention Dungeons & Dragons. Doug puts a hand up as if he’s in class and asks the question that everyone is thinking. “Are you going to invite her to join Hellfire?” It’s a question that Eddie had been asking himself on the hurried walk from class to the student center. Sure, the campaign they were playing had already begun but he could find a way to write you in. He knew he was a good storyteller so it would be a great way to impress you. Sure, he’s no Matthew Mercer or Brennan Lee Mulligan, but he never struggled to keep everyone’s attention and he’s proud of the stories he created. 

“I’ll think about it.”

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It had begun raining by the time their session was concluded (the student center was closing) and the shuttles weren’t running tonight so Eddie had to make the mile trek on foot. He didn’t even care that the elevator was broken again. He’ll, he wouldn’t care if it was broken for the rest of the year because he’s pretty sure he found the love of his life today and nothing could dampen his mood. He rushed up the four flights of stairs and fumbled with his keys before coming inside and slamming the front door shut behind him. His backpack was thrown onto the floor with a wet fwump and his bomber jacket followed close behind as he hastily shucked it off him.

Eddie had a routine he usually followed after each Hellfire Club meeting. He would always change into his pajamas, heat up the food he had brought back from the dining halls and make that his dinner, and retreat into his room where he’d go over what happened during their session and tweak his plans for their next meeting if necessary. He did this every week for the past three years he’s been DMing at this school and the only time he ever broke this routine was during finals his freshman year where he was convinced he’d fail if he didn’t dedicate all his time to actually studying. This was the second time he would ever break that routine. Instead of making himself comfortable, he stormed down through their small living space and walked past his own room to barge into the other bedroom.

This was the second year that Steve roomed with Eddie and the first year that they got their own rooms. Since they were so used to sharing a room together, it was second nature for Eddie to rush straight to Steve when he had to tell him something. Thankfully for him, Steve never locked his door so Eddie was able to rush in unannounced and blurted out, “You will NOT believe what happened today!”

Steve was sitting at his desk, still dressed in his red school scrubs from his clinicals earlier in the day with his nose buried in his textbooks. His hair was tied back in a small ponytail, wearing his glasses, and headphones over his ears. When Eddie forced his way into the room, Steve nearly jumped out of his seat and ripped his headphones off his head and was glaring daggers at the other man.

“Do you ever learn to knock?” Eddie ignores the comment from Steve and goes to the other side of the small bedroom to sit down on Steve’s bed, still wearing his damp clothes and definitely tracking mud across the apartment. Steve is only angry for a moment until he sees the giant smile on his friends face. Eddie wasn’t exactly a grumpy person, but Steve hadn’t seen him smiling like that in a long time, probably not since Eddie got Metallica tickets from his Uncle Wayne as a graduation present. He was smiling so much that Steve was sure his face actually hurt. Eddie was beaming just like he was all those years ago.

Eddie’s leg began shaking from excitement as he began speaking, “I think I met my soulmate today. I was in my anthropology class and she sat down next to me and she’s perfect. I mean, first of all, she’s beautiful. She plays Dungeons and Dragons and we like the same music and she’s so fucking funny.” The metalhead then gets up from Steve’s bed and takes the few steps it takes to stand right in front of him. He’s wildly waving his hands around as he recalls everything that you two talked about during that lab. Steve swore Eddie didn’t stop to breathe even once during this entire recollection. As the story starts to wind down, Eddie removed his hair tie from his hair and ran his fingers through his dark locks. He sighs and says, “Honestly man, I didn’t think after Paige that I’d find anyone who I really connected with but she’s different. I don’t feel like I need to hold back when I’m talking to her.” Eddie finally stops talking and takes a breath before moving back to Steve’s bed and flopping down to lay on his sheets, wet hair and all. 

Steve fully turns around to face Eddie with an impressed look on his face as he closes his books, asking the other, “I’m happy for you, man. So what’s her name? Did you get her number?” Eddie hears this and his eyes widen, opting to look up at the ceiling rather than Steve. He realizes his horrible, horrible mistake and is kicking himself for hurrying off rather than taking an extra minute to get your name and contact information. His silence prompts Steve to scoot closer in his chair as his tone turns more serious. “Eddie, did you get her number?” Silence. “Her instagram?” Silence. “Snapchat??” Eddie purses his lips, too ashamed to say anything. “Munson, did you get ANYTHING from her??”

Eddie groans and sits up now, rubbing his face and tries to defend himself. “Listen. I was going to be late to Hellfire and I didn’t want to listen to anyone complaining about being late so I just told her I’d see her after spring break. I wasn’t thinking straight! I swear I’ll get her number the moment I see her in two weeks.”

It’s now Steve’s turn to groan and he shakes his head, getting up from his chair and moving to sit next to Eddie and begins to try to reassure his friend, telling him, “Ok, here’s what we’re gonna do. There’s like a missing connections instagram page for the school. You just need to message them and tell them you want to find her and get her contact information. Maybe she’ll see it.”

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You spent the rest of the week hopelessly searching for Eddie in the massive crowds of students. There were a couple instances of spotting a head of curly brown hair only to be disappointed when you realize it’s not him. There’s about 40,000 students in this school so you wonder why you figured you could just find him casually walking around campus. Your roommate, Elena, suggested looking at your school portal page to see if you can find him on your class page but your professor didn’t enable the ‘Students’ section, only opting for pages that were vital in completing coursework. One of your friends spent two hours scouring Instagram and Facebook convinced that they could find Eddie but came up empty handed. You told everyone you knew what he looked like and what his name was, but he wasn’t in anyone’s classes or in anyone’s dorms. It was like he just vanished into thin air. Elena reassured you that you’d see him in two weeks so all you had to do was wait.

Your search was paused during spring break and put on an indefinite hold when things went downhill. People all over the world were getting sick and you watched in horror as the virus slowly creeped closer to your home state. Then into your county. Spring break was extended for an extra week as the school administration worked to find a solution to keep the staff and student body safe. Schools around the country were shuttering their campuses while yours promised in-person classes would resume shortly but they soon changed their mind. You received an email by week three stating the remainder of the semester would be spent online and you needed to pack up your dorm room. The administration was unable to confirm if you’d be returning to campus in the fall. At this point, both you and Eddie came to the conclusion that you’d never see the other person again and it would take a miracle for you two to reunite.

————————————————————————

I’m not sorry

[mushroomowlchemist]

Salt and Pepper

"Name?"

"Vivian Ika Volta."

"Shift?"

"Heavy 4"

"Alright, your cart's over there, make sure you strap in." The foreman gestured to a busted up cart in the corner of the room.

Vivi walked over to it and strapped on her gas mask. She tightened the band around her face until it stung, then released just a tad. Shaking the salt dust from her heavy canvas jacket, she broke the cart free from its idle and heaved it onto the track.

"Damn thing!" Vivi thought, "I get put on Heavy 4 and I get the shittiest cart in the entire mine!" She pushed the cart and continued to grouse behind her mask as she descended into the mine. 

During the descent Vivi would see another heavy shift bringing large chunks of salt up from the bottom. Some of them looked almost done with their shift, they had what other miners called "Hour 17 Face." On the other side away from the car tracks there were miners going to and from their shifts. Vivi preferred when there was no-one around. Her imagination made the mine shaft yawn open like the gate to hell, an apt description of a full shift so far underground.

As she was nearing the bottom Vivi spotted a man collapsed on the other side of the mine shaft. "Mid 30s? Shit, he's probably dead. I'll tell 'em at the bottom. We're all gonna be doing fucking double time." Vivi clicked a button on her headlamp. The pale orange flicked into a brighter white before she clicked it again. "At least my double time light works."

When Vivi got to the bottom she reported the fallen worker. To her chagrin she learned he was dead. Not only that, she was right that the foreman decided to push everyone for two hours of double time effort. A tactic to remind everyone not to let it happen again. By the end of the double time she was exhausted.

"Fuckin'...16 more hours. Focus on the next step. Focus on getting this next load back to the top." She thought as she clicked off the bright white light, warming the cave with the orange of the less powerful standard one. As she clicked it off one of the cart's wheels jammed. Vivi hit the brakes and stopped to fiddle with it. Sitting there without the buzzing of the light she could hear something ahead. "Huh? Voices? Better not be another dead guy." 

Instead of anything morbid, Vivi heard the voices grow more melodic as her ears filtered out echo, which lessened as they drew closer. A group of miners on their way down were singing.

'Tis the song, the sigh of the weary,

Hard Times, hard times, come again no more.

Many days you have lingered around my cabin door;

Oh! Hard times come again no more.

Just as the singing miners passed Vivi she pulled her mask down and screamed "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" then strapped it back on tight. The miners looked at each other in disturbed silence while Vivi finished fixing the cart and got moving again.

"I'm doing them a favor. Keep singing like that and you'll get 36'd." Vivi chuckled to herself. "36 straight hours of mining. That'd show 'em."

16 hours of hauling salt up out of the mine later, Vivi finished her shift and parked her cart back in the stall. As she did she laid into it with a kick. "Fuck you, I hope you break." She thought as it clicked back into place.

"Name?" The foreman asked.

"Vivian Ika Volta."

"Shift?"

"Heavy 4, and fuck you." Vivi replied as she dumped her gas mask on the counter the foreman was standing by. Before a word could be said Vivi scuttled out of the mine and hurried to her beach side hideout. It was just a small wooden shack made of driftwood, but it was good enough. 

Today was a special day and she had prepped something equally special, one whole lemon and a cheese stuffed fish. As soon as she got to the shack she shuffled off her work jacket and gathered some driftwood and trash for a fire. Her custom built lighter lit the materials quick and she put the fish over to cook, then ran to the water to clean off. 

Vivi lay in the water, staring up at dark sky until she felt clean enough to climb back out and dry herself by the fire. She ate the fish in three bites and didn't peel the lemon before stuffing it in her mouth. Both were rare enough she wasn't going to hold back. The acid and rich flavor combined in her mouth to make for a top tier dish, for someone that lived in the Brack Conglomerate. The air had enough salt to season it too, about like everywhere else in Brack. Once she was done chewing she kicked sand over the fire and climbed to the top of the nearby cliff.

"Well Viv-ster." She said aloud once she reached to top. "The big 1-8. After 7 years you're one step away." She reached into her pockets and pulled a waterlogged paper from it. One side had scribbled blueprints from months ago, the other side had something she'd imagined she would say when she made up her mind to leave the mines.

Vivi read that side aloud. "Only those who wish for limits will find them. I have no limits, they vanish behind the horizon with each step I take. The only thing that holds me back is my ability to take that next step. And I never stop walking."

"Is that too melodramatic?" She pondered. "Whatever."

Resolving to just enjoy the few hours of freedom before the next shift Vivi let her hair down and enjoyed the wind of the bluff blowing through it. "I wonder what's out there for me." She thought. "I'll go see soon. Maybe there's a fancy dress or two in it? A brave knight? Ooo, maybe I can get her to wear the dress. It's gotta be red or pink though. Gods...that'd be hot."

[microsuedemouse]

I'm just!! so goddamn fucking sad and lonely and frustrated

I miss my Nana so much. I've never lost someone so important to me and it's just this big gaping wound I don't know how to close. it scabs over but man it's just a SCAB where I'm missing a CHUNK. I don't even have to pick at it; it gets caught on just anything and tears open and bleeds and hurts and everyone says all you can do is wait for it to heal on its own but how am I supposed to do that

I put in a request for the day off on the 17th when we're burying her, but my manager apparently hasn't noticed and she scheduled me that day. and like. I know our bereavement policy entitles me to a day off for funeral/burial services. but I just don't want to have to go talk to my manager about it. it feels like such a personal thing to have to bring up to someone directly. and I don't know how to mention it without crying anyway, and my current manager is like... the last person at work I want to cry in front of

I had my first shift back at work today after three fucking weeks out sick. I'm still noticeably coughing/sniffling but it was time to get back to it. a couple supervisors said something like 'oh glad you're feeling better' and the customer service desk colleague who took a lot of my sick calls said she was glad to see me. besides that I had One Person ask where I'd been. others seemed surprised, when I had cause to mention how long I'd been off. and like... I know they're just my coworkers, and there are lots of reasons that people might have noticed my absence and still not said anything, but I feel. so uncared about. I saw people today that I at least THOUGHT I was on pretty friendly terms with who didn't say a word. and it's just. I know my coworkers aren't my friends, I know they have their own lives, I know it's possible to go a while without overlapping shifts and not really notice, but... it stings. I've been trying so hard for an entire goddamn year to connect with these people at all and it feels like no one really cared that I was sick for three weeks, except in that they had to figure out who was covering my shifts.

I've had jobs with people I cared about. I've worked places that people were happy to have me back after I had strep for a week. I'm not saying everyone at work Should be friends, but it would be nice not to feel so alienated from everyone.

and like, it sucks that I rely on work for all my social contact. I wish I could see my friends more easily. if I hadn't been sick I could've seen some people around Halloween, but that didn't work out. I can count On One Hand the outside-of-work in-person social interactions I've had with friends this calendar year. and I've been TRYING to connect with people closer to where I am but it's just so fucking hard to make anything happen.

my best friend loves me but is fairly inconsistent at responding to texts. I adore my friends' big discord but I feel lost and distant when I try to participate. no one else really thinks to message me directly almost ever. I don't blame anyone for any of this, because I'm not doing much better, but it ends with me being so disconnected from everything and everyone.

I hate the 'if they cared, they'd reach out' attitude. it's not fair and I don't believe in it. I know my friends care, and I know I'm not making myself super easy to reach out to a lot of the time. but I also hate that I just missed three weeks of work and apparently a bunch of my coworkers didn't even notice. like... do I exist? am I still here at all?

I keep thinking of things I admired in my Nana, and how much I wish I could be more like her. Not just so I could feel more like she's with me, but because I think a lot of the things she was good at are things I could really use right now. she knew how to talk to anyone. she knew how to work hard. she knew how to live life fully and enjoy things and take opportunities.

I hate daylight savings and dark falling at 5pm. I hate that all my friends are so far away. I hate that connecting with new people is so fucking hard. I hate that my birthday is less than a week away and I feel nothing about it except sad that my Nana won't be there. I hate that I don't know how to have a proper conversation with almost anyone anymore, even people I love immensely. I hate having to remind myself that the baseline good things I still have are Something To Be Grateful For instead of just like, the basis of any kind of life. (of course I'm thankful to live with the family I adore, to have a safe home, to be employed at all... but it sucks that I'm stuck at like, the bottom of maslow's pyramid. I want more than this and I'm tired of feeling guilty for wanting more than this.) I hate knowing that we're headed into winter, which is always a hard time of year, and it's only going to be harder this time if something doesn't get better really soon. I don't want to be sad or lonely anymore!! I want something good to happen!! I want to matter!! I want to feel joy that lasts longer than a giggle at a youtube video!! I want to be a person again!!

[skaruresonic]

It helps me to break up the work into chunks, where certain days are set aside for specific kinds of work. Audio - Finding sfx, voice clips, music, working with Audacity. I like these days best because it gives me an excuse to listen to music. Coding - Implementing screens and features; writing code and transforms (animations). Writing code isn't particularly hard once you get the hang of the syntax; it's the debugging that will eat up most of your time. It's easy to implement a new feature, but difficult to make sure that feature doesn't result in unintended bugs.

Debugging - Testing. This is where most games will fall into development hell. In order to make a solid game, you have to assume your player is the least charitable player in the world. They will impatiently skip cutscenes, click every button in the "wrong" order, break sequence, fail the QTE, and spam rollback, to name a few possibilities.

You must counter the worst-faith measures you can conceive of; and even then, there's a possibility someone will still find a way to break your game in ways you didn't think were possible. To this day, I have no idea how Random managed to return to OaS's good route after getting stuck on the bad route because the variable that determines which route you're on is a persistent variable; he shouldn't have been able to get back to the normal route without triggering the flag, but somehow he did it by deleting a ton of data (which... might have included the persistent variable, since it seemed to have disabled or rolled back his ability to skip as well). I'm amazed the game still ran after that, tbh. Didn't think "nuke the entire thing" was a solution a player could use to break free of the bad choice route lol.

You have to make sure the code won't buckle in such cases. (weeps in "maximum excursion depth exceeded" error)

Art - Making sprites, CGs, UI elements. Includes resizing things to fit the screen. I like making clickable buttons :P

Writing - Writing routes, choices, and dialogue. This is actually pretty difficult if you're shooting for a non-linear experience, because you have to bear previous developments in mind while offering viable alternative routes.

So I wouldn't necessarily call it "just" writing. Writing is still hard, too, just in a different way. But like, as a non-programmer, something about coding specifically makes me want to bang my head against a wall. I love it when something works, obviously - the simple joy of "yay, the button does something when I click it!" - but there's also so much bullshit to wade through, you kind of have to make your peace with the fact that you likely won't see as much return on investment as you imagine in your head. VNs look easy, but then you go take a look at the coding and you see a novel's worth for a simple animation lol.

If you code your game right, it will be unobtrusive. Nobody will be thinking "Wow, those menu buttons sure do have smooth animations when you hover your cursor over them, wonder how long that took to debug" because smooth UI is simply an expectation.

Perhaps this is the universe's way of scolding me for not toughing out Computer Programming in university, but this is one medium where being messy will fuck you up fast.

I've also gained a newfound appreciation for graphic designers and the work they do. It's difficult to form a game's coherent identity in terms of overall aesthetics... the presentation, let alone the "meat" of the content.

RenPy is good because it comes with in-built graphical user interfaces, but if you want to customize those elements, you have to get creative with them. And not everything will "gel" together. I keep having to cut certain animations because they're too cartoonish for what I'm aiming for.

Overall, developing VNs has shifted my perspective on writing. I used to suffer the same problems most fic writers do in that I would get bound up in making things just right. Although making VNs hasn't completely banished my perfectionism, it's definitely loosened its hold. Sometimes you have to say "good enough for now, let's stick a pin in it" and move on.

You realize that writing is also a raw material, not nearly as set in stone as your perfectionism would have you think. It's as malleable and tweakable as the values for your animation. You can refine that stuff as you go. Nothing has to be perfect right out of the gate. Quality is layered in through revision. So on and so forth.

If I wrote VNs as though every word were inalienable, it would become a boring, staid process. And that's because the development process forces me to edit. I cannot be so married to the words that they compromise the game's aesthetic. It's "easier," relatively speaking, to cut a paragraph than to code a new viewport window to accommodate all of that text.

I will agree with writers on one thing: at least with art, I can show off my progress.

With coding, it's just, "I made a thing. Fucked up the thing. Spent hours reading documentation trying to fix the thing. Didn't fix the thing. Wound up ripping its guts out as a solution instead, so now it only spuriously works. But on the flip side, it does a neat little trick! (minor aesthetic flourish) (crashes the game)"

Visual novels look easy to make, but that's the devil talking. God damn does coding have hands

[githvyrik]

this job is srsly making me wake up at 7 am for the next 4 straight days I HATE it here

[ivy-goldrush]

Wednesdays Are The Worst

Expresso. Make Friends with It

Series Warnings: Grumpy!Bucky, Bucky being a dick, Angst, Eventual Smut? Slow Burn fic, Maybe a touch of Jealous!Bucky, 18+ cause ✨swearing✨

Word Count: 1047

~

The morning air was crisp as it whipped its way around you, almost imitating a hug. It was only a short walk from your apartment to the small independent coffee shop you worked at. ‘Café Juniper’ was a very small but bustling coffee shop that had only recently opened and was quickly gaining a reputation for itself ‘From 6 am when we open, to 6 pm when we close, we are here to provide coffee and a smile’ was what Mary, the owner, had said when you first got the barista job there. This job was almost perfect, the staff were amazing along with the customers, and the atmosphere that the shop had was one where you couldn’t help but feel relaxed in. The only problem was that you found yourself getting up at 5:15 am when you were to open the shop and it’s safe to say you are not much of a morning person what-so-ever. 

Unlocking the front door, you were instantly hit with the smell of coffee and sweet treats. Mary stood behind the counter organizing the cakes and a cup of coffee sat on top of the workstation.

“Just in time.” The lovely older lady chuckled, smiling at you with creases at her eyes. “At least I’m here Mary, I could have not shown up at all!” Your comment was made with light-heartedness as you clocked in at 5:50 am. You were running only a couple of minutes late, nothing too drastic and it wasn’t as if you had done this regularly. With Mary being the type of woman she was, a few minutes late wasn’t bad at all. The ten minutes till opening time still allowed for you to make a coffee for yourself and make yourself look presentable, tying your pastel flowered Pinney around your waist.

Your hair was neatly tucked into a bun that rested at the nape of your neck however, you knew that it would not look the way it was supposed to by the end of your shift. You could already picture it, baby hairs frizzed up into a small mane and chunks of hair falling out of the bun looking very disregarded. The first half an hour of your shift wasn’t too bad, there weren’t many customers at 6 in the morning. But as soon as the clock struck 6:30 am there was already a small line out the door as the early morning office workers fled to get their coffee fix. During this time the only drinks that seemed to be ordered were Americano’s, Cappuccino’s, and Lattes. With the occasional iced coffee thrown into the mix. This thread of orders lasted until about 8 am, the morning flow of people were now well and truly seated behind their desks and chatting away with co-workers.

You enjoyed the slow pace that this time of day brought around. It allowed for you and Mary to tidy the mess that had been made, wipe down the surfaces of spilled coffee, and sweep out the leaves that snuck in from the streets. The empty shop made it safe for Mary to slip into the back room to sort out stock and the following day’s deliveries. 

It was about 15 minutes when the next customer entered the café. The small jingle of the bell above the door alerted you that you were no longer alone. You made sure your voice was loud and clear enough for your boss to hear without it sounding like you were shouting, as you quickly finished the task at hand. 

“Good morning! Welcome to Café Juniper, what can I get for you today?” Your voice was clear and sweet as you turned your body to face the customer. You didn’t allow for your smile to falter as you were met with a very tall, very attractive, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, well-built male. He hadn’t noticed your prolonged staring as he was too focused on the menu board. You took the opportunity to scan your gaze over the dark navy suit that clung to his body that you thought would burst at the seams if he tensed even the smallest of muscles. He brought his hand up to his face, rubbing at the well-kempt facial hair. He hummed and nodded, solidifying his thought on what to have before adjusting his eyes to you and speaking. 

“Could I get a caramel macchiato to take away please?” His voice was equal parts deep and soft with being bubbly as well. He smiled sweetly and widely at you, and you couldn’t help but smile back with warmth. “Of course. Is that all for you today?” Your silvery voice danced to his ears. He was about to answer with a no when his gaze met the cake counter. His eyes lit up his face, like a kid in a candy shop, and you could tell he was eyeing one cake more than the others. He licked his lips before turning back to you and asking sheepishly “Could I also get a blueberry muffin as well?”. You knew there was no way you could deny his ask, so you reassured him that of course he could, before finishing up his drink and using the tongs to pick the muffin and place it carefully in a brown paper bag. The items were traded with a total of cash. The both of you offering sweet smiles as you went on with your days.

Soon the stranger became a regular at Café Juniper and you soon found out that his name was Steve. Over the course of several months, the two of you had developed a budding friendship and even though you admit he was attractive it never blossomed into anything more as you both knew that you were better off being friends. Morning coffee pick-ups soon turned into him coming in on his off days with a book, reading and then keeping you company on your break or when the café was empty; the two of you even hung out a few times outside of the café and work routines. And you then found yourself being invited by him to meet up with his friend group. You said yes knowing that you could not deny this man of happiness, even in the smallest of forms. 

~

Taglist (Message to be added)

@tonystankschild​ @angstysebfan​ @tanyaherondale​ @justab-eautifulmess​​ @sunflowerbunny2​ @yesfanficsaremylife @agos-505

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

In pais

This is dark!prince!Loki x reader and explicit. 18+ only. It include noncon and other dark elements. Curate your consumption accordingly.

Summary: A prince visits your father’s inn.

Note: first of all, let’s make it clear that @lokislastlove​ is always responsible for Loki drivel. Secondly, I am here and there with writing, I’ve pretty much decided to write when I want to and what I want to. I’m going to stop holding myself to ridiculous schedules and deadlines that aren’t real. My anxiety is wild y’all.

Also, unofficially in my head and heart, considering this like a sister fic to  Droit du seigneur.

I hope y’all enjoy!

Let me know what you think! (Like, reblog, reply, leave some words, a gif, nonsensical emojis)

You shouldered your way out of the small barn. You were careful not to slosh the milk over the side of the bucket as you rounded the inn. The top would be skimmed and cream could be served for dessert, although your father’s tavern was not very busy that day. It was never bustling, merely a stop for most on a much longer road. Few stayed the night, usually opting for an ale and a meal before leaving.

Hooves pounded the dust and you stopped to watch the party of men on their galloping horses. You feared they would trample the fence as they neared and you backed up against the front of the inn, just feet away from the front door. Dirt powdered the air and the horse slowed before the fence that closed in the livestock.

A lithe man swung off a dark stallion, his own hair a similar shade of black that hung down his shoulders. His green cape swished around him and the other men dismounted with less grace. One of them approached; noblemen by the velvet of their capes and the silver on their belts.

“Rooms for the night,” He jangled a purse as his wavy orange hair fell forward over his brow. “And as much wine as you have.”

“We’ve more ale than wine,” You returned as you shifted the weight of the pail.

“Either will do,” The taller man with the black hair strode forward and slapped his gloves against his palm. His lip curled as he peered up at the inn. “I suppose we’ll have to take what we can get here.”

You looked between them and the other men traipsed behind as they chattered noisily. The black-haired noble looked down at you sharply.

“Well, little mouse, take your milk and prepare our quarters,” He nodded to the other man who waved the purse in your direction. “Or do you only tend to the animals?”

“My lord,” You cradled the bucket with one arm and snatched the purse. “All will be arranged. I will inform the inkeep of your arrival.”

“I suppose venison would be out of the question,” He ventured.

“Rabbit or hen.” You countered. “My lord.”

“Your highness, actually,” He corrected. “Prince, if you must.”

You squeezed the purse and nodded as your brows twitched. “Your highness.” You repeated and bowed as well as you could with your armful. “If you follow me, might take a left after we enter and seat yourself in the common room.”

You spun on your heel and continued your path to the front door. You pushed through with your hip and called to Celeste. “Party of five. Is there any wine left?”

“We’ve a cask from Mirraine,” She said. “Bitter red.”

“Fetch that and a barrel of ale,” You passed the front counter where she sat and wove thread around a frame. “And show these lords to the tables. I’ll tell Giles to hurry.”

“And your father?” She asked.

“He’s your husband.” You shrugged. “I thought he was still abed.”

“I wouldn’t blame him for hiding there for your nagging,” She stood. “He is in the kitchen.”

You stopped as she neared the end of the counter and lowered your voice. “Save that sharp tongue for me, stepmother. A prince will not be so tolerant.”

“Prince?” Her lashes fluttered and she smoothed her apron. “Perhaps you should bide your own warning.”

She brushed past you and you continued down the hallway between the counter and the stairs that led to the mostly vacant rooms. You swung the door open with your foot and passed through to plop the pail on the table within. Giles yawned as he sat on a stool and stared at the fire stove. Your father swirled a stein and watched the foam thin.

“We’ve customers. Rooms and dinner, expected.” You announced. “Noblemen… and a prince.”

Your father’s stein slammed on the table. He blanched and Giles gave another disinterested yawn.

“What’s on the spit today?” Your father hissed at the cook.

“Rabbit?” Giles frowned. “I think.”

“Aye, you fool,” Your father smacked the back of his head. “A prince you said?”

“Yes. Black hair. I suppose it is the younger.” You answered.

“Loki,” Your father coughed. “Shit.”

“You know a prince, father?” You challenged.

“Know of him,” Your father said. “Don’t be a mare, daughter.”

“There should be enough cream for a dessert.” You offered. “We’ve flour. A pastry could be devised.”

“Where is your mother?”

“Your wife? Why she’s entertaining the prince and his men.” You scoffed. “Think I saw her pinch her cheeks to try to get some colour back in her jowls.”

“Don’t be so crass. Go, send her to bake the dessert then and take some cups for our guests.” Your father spat. “And smile. You look at the prince like that and he might march us all to the scaffold.”

“Don’t be so ridiculous,” You grabbed a tray and loaded it with empty steins and a few goblets. “If anything, it will be Celeste who has us whipped.”

Your father snorted darkly and you turned with your fare. You pushed through the door once more and made your way to the front room where the men sat around one of the round tables. You neared as your stepmother giggled, a piglike noise, and you stopped beside her.

“Father would have you prepare dessert,” You said to Celeste as you neared. “Did you send for the kegs?”

“The stable boy had run to fetch them,” She sneered. “You might have rolled the dough yourself.”

“I might have,” You tilted your head. “But I do as my father bids me. As you vowed to do, did you not?”

She huffed and left you. Godwin appeared with a dark cask in hand and lugged it to a table. He wiped his forehead, his lanky arms trembling. “I’ll have the ale shortly, miss,” He panted. “And a tap.”

“Thank you, Godwin,” You said and you didn’t miss his lingering gaze. 

He’d been sweet on you for years, even after you’d rebuffed him at the harvest feast last season. You placed your tray behind the cask and waited. Godwin returned, breathless and beet red as he dragged the barrel. You helped him lift it beside the cask and took the tap from him.

“Go see to the horses.” You said. “Find a brush if you can.”

You watched him go and crossed back to the table of nobles. “I’ve enough wine for you each to have at least a cup and more than enough ale to go around. So what shall I fetch you, my lords? And your highness?” You bowed your head at Prince Loki.

“Wine,” The prince spoke first.

Only one other requested wine and you went about your duty. You served Loki first and then his men. They grew louder as you left them to their drinking and you went through to the kitchen to check in on your measly staff.

“Don’t serve them the heels, you dolt,” Your father snarled at Giles. “And trim the mold off the cheese.”

“Ah, I see, only the finest for the royal prince.” You mused.

“Don’t,” Your father rounded the table. “Help your mother.”

“Your wife,” You insisted once more as you watched Celeste beat the dough.

The door swung behind you as your father left and you neared your stepmother. She seemed as angry at the dough as she usually was at you.

“Don’t you dare touch it,” She warned. “You’ll ruin it.”

“I’ll ruin it,” You rolled your eyes. “Sure.”

“A prince. Imagine it.” She went on as she folded the dough. “Here, of all places. Just hope your father doesn’t join them for a pint.”

“Ha, as if they’d have him.” You shook your head.

“You’re one to talk about being had,” Celeste hissed. “If we don’t find you a husband soon, I don’t even think the convent will take you.”

“You think my father is a prize, do you?”

The door swung and you turned as you father stomped through. “Aye, what they say has to be true. Sly little bugger. Tongue on him.” He adjusted his belt below his stomach. “Daughter.” He waved to the door. “Go keep the drink flowing. That prince did not think the wine so sweet from my hand.”

“The dessert--”

“Don’t be wise with me,” He warned. “The prince wants you serving his meal this evening. He paid me good coin for it, so go out and see if you can’t get more.”

You hid a scowl and sidled past your father. You wiped the irritation from your brow and returned to the common room. You neared the table and folded your hands over your apron.

“Your highness, my lords? Do you require another round?”

“Do you have water without scum?” The prince asked. “If not, I’ll take some of that milk you dragged in.”

“I’ll fetch you some milk, your highness,” You returned. “And you, sirs?”

“We can work a tap,” The one with orange hair said. “Or figure it out. Thank you, lady.”

“She sweeps the hay, Hugh, she’s not a lady.” The prince snickered. “Milkmaid, I await my second round.”

You did your best to smile, not your best skill, but you tried for fear you might growl. You returned to the kitchen and filled a cup with milk. You skimmed the top and swept back out before your stepmother could notice you. You went back to the prince’s table and set down the cup lightly.

“Your highness.” Another man had risen and bent at the barrel to fill his stein. “Your dinner will be out, shortly.”

“Mmm, I’ve not tasted rabbit since before Easter.” He said. “Always rather unappetizing but you peasants are resourceful.”

“Your highness.” 

You dipped your head and backed away. You stood by the wall and stared at the one opposite as the men’s voices garbled in your ears. You waited until you smelled the roasting meat and you marched to the kitchen. Giles divided the meat onto plates with sliced bread, chunks of cheese and slightly singed potatoes.

You took two and went to the front room to serve. You placed one before the prince first, he watched you with a smirk as he leaned back in his chair and you set the other down carefully. You made another two trips until the table was full and the men were chewing between their bawdy words.

Your father appeared shortly after and asked how the men liked the food. All but the prince kept chewing and grunted in delight. Loki however made a comment about the chewiness of the meat. He was likely right but this wasn’t exactly a royal castle. It was a roadside inn where most of the patrons patched their clothing and would settle for a stick of salted meat and moldy bread.

When their plates were empty, you cleared them and dumped them in the basin in the kitchen. Celeste fretted over whipping the cream as her pastries cooled. She dolloped the cream onto them and acknowledged you with a snort.

“That prince is handsome but a right arse.” She muttered. “Your father said he didn’t like the rabbit. I mixed the seasoning myself.”

“Mm,” You took two plates and turned away. “Well you don’t have to tend to him.”

“If I was your age, he might just like that,” She snipped. “If you didn’t look like you were chewing on salt, he might give you a second glance.”

You didn’t respond and carried on. You delivered the six dishes in several trips and refilled a few steins as the men dug in. The barrel was close to empty, the cask too. They’d made quick work of your father’s meagre fare.

The prince beckoned you over, as he had many times, two fingers flicking you over as your father hovered in the next room by the counter. You went to him and lowered your chin as you recited a “your highness.”

“I would hope to retire soon. A bath should be drawn as well.” He bid.

“Certainly, I’ll have Godwin--”

“You,” He pointed at you with a long finger. “You’re a strong girl, you can handle it yourself.”

“With all due respect, your highness, I think it more appropriate--”

“I think I gave you an order,” He stood and reached to his belt and dug around in his purse. “And it would not go unrewarded. Good service never does.” He flipped the coin then held it out to you. You glared at it.

“Your highness,” Your father approached. “Is there an issue?”

“Not at all, I was only requesting that your daughter draw my bath for the evening.” He smirked. “I did offer her compensation for the task.”

“And she will tend to that immediately,” You father took the coin and your hand and pressed them together. “Right, daughter? You might get the water boiling.”

“Yes, father.” You bit down. “Your highness.”

You drew your hand away and bowed your head. You backed away and quickly skirted off to the kitchen. You snapped at Giles to grab the big pot and send Godwin for water. Celeste grinned up at you as she bit into one of the pastries.

“He is demanding, isn’t he? I’m almost ready to see my own bed for the night since my duties are all done.” She taunted.

“You might do better there. Out of the way of those who actually work.” You jibed.

She flinched and blew cream at you angrily. You kept clear of the mess and Godwin returned with the big pot of water. It was hung in the large fireplace and you waited listlessly for it to boil.

You lugged the first pot up and dumped it into the long tub in the chambers set out for the prince. You descended and repeated the process; another pot up the stairs, steaming up your arms. 

The door was closed that time and you knocked with your toe. The prince opened it, his leather vest half unbuttoned.

“Ah, I did think there would be more to it,” He sneered.

“Your highness.” You said.

He backed up to let you through and you poured the pot into the tub, careful not to splash yourself with the water. He let you back out and your third pot was soon shaking over the flames. When you returned to him again, his vest was gone and his tunic hung low on his chest.

The fourth, and his belt was gone, his tunic too, and his undershirt was all that covered his torso. The fifth, his boots gone, socks too. The sixth, leggings slung over the single chair and he stood in only his undershirt. It hung to his thigh and you feared it might shift a little too much.

“Would you like some cold water to ease the heat, your highness?” You asked as you turned back to the door. 

He was quick, his long legs carried him to the door before you could reach it. He caught the wood and blocked you from the hall.

“I like it hot.” He said. “You can set the pot down and tend to my bath.”

“I have, your highness.” You insisted.

“You’ve filled it, yes,” His brow slanted. “But since I’ve traveled without my attendant, I haven’t anyone to scrub me clean and your inn has done little to cleanse me of the filth of the road.”

“You paid me to bring you water--”

“I paid you a pretty coin for that then,” He interjected, “And I paid your father enough that he told me you are free of your other tasks for the night. You will see to me.” He pushed the door closed. “I know you’ve likely never met a prince before, most certainly haven’t. There’s only two of us.” He loomed over you. “But I trust you know a prince’s word is as good as law.”

He pushed himself away and spun away from you. Your eyes flew up as he grabbed his undershirt and ripped it up over his head. The fabric fluttered to the floor and you clutched the handle of the pot. Your father would sell you like some cattle; you were only surprised he’d waited for a prince to do so.

“Well, put that pot down and grab a sponge. I will soak a while first but I expect you to be prepared. Diligent.” He hummed as he leaned back in the hot water. “I know you are only used to common merchants.”

You were silent. You placed the pot on the floor but stayed by the door. You slowly moved along the wall and went to the pail in the corner of the room next to the low table. You bent and took the sponge from within and the spouted wooden cup. You lingered in the corner and dreaded the moment he would call to you.

“I must admit, I know little of your...bearing. I do tend to avoid the unwashed masses.” The water moved as he spoke. “I mean, your ilk don’t bathe very much, do they?”

“Every Sunday after chapel.” You said evenly. “We gather at the river.”

“We? All of you? Like beasts.” He laughed.

“The women. Children, too. The men bathe during the week.” You explained. “But I suppose a prince might wash more often.”

“I do find the hot water as calming as it is cleansing,” He replied. “Why, it is Thursday. You worked hard today. Another few days is long to wait.”

You squeezed the sponge and pressed it to the cup.

“A prince must be generous,” He began slyly. “So for this day my act of royal charity is to share with you, a common girl, my bath.”

“Your highness, I don’t think--”

“I did not ask and it is unseemly to deny a prince his favour.” He rebuked. “So you get over here and you wash yourself.” He looked over his shoulder dangerously. “I would rather you clean.”

You crossed the room and kept your back to the prince as you passed and stood at the other end of the tub. You placed the cup by the tub and tucked the sponge inside. You straightened and untied your apron. You moved to put it on the seat of the chair. Then you unlaced the collar of your dress and paused. You took a breath before you pulled it over your head.

You bent to loosen your boots. Your stockings were as reluctantly shed. You rose, left with only your shift. The water swirled noisily. Your father had never been much of one. He worked you morning to night, he never thanked you for a deed you did, and he barely noticed your presence unless it served his needs. You weren’t surprised, nor disappointed, you were only annoyed at the circumstance.

You drew your shift up your legs and bunched it in your hands. You tore it off in a final swoop of resignation. You stood, your chest rising and falling, as you stared at the far wall. You gritted your teeth and forced down the nerves.

“Well, that was… dramatic,” He remarked. “But really, the water is bound to cool before you touch it.”

You spun around and marched to the tub. You reached to the brim but refused to look at the water or him. You lifted a leg over the edge and he let out a hum. You lowered your other leg into the steaming water as he sat up.

“Go on,” He said. “Clean yourself. I can smell the sty on you.”

You bent over the side and grabbed the sponge from cup. You focused on wetting it and scrubbing at your skin. You stretched out your arms, lifted one leg then the other, and rubbed your chest raw. Your eyes clung to the ceiling. The water shifted and the shadows around you did too.

He stood and grabbed your hand. He guided it to his chest and kept the sponge moving in circles. You looked at his face as he smirked at you. His other hand tickled your side. He let go of you and you kept going; across his shoulders, his neck, his arms, his chest, his stomach. 

He caught your wrist and squeezed until you dropped the sponge. He pushed your palm to his member; it was hard as he slid his hand around yours and bent your fingers. His touch danced up your back and settled behind your neck as he pulled you close.

“I know you’ve never touched a prince like this before,” He said. “But what about another man? Hmm?”

You gulped as you looked him in the eyes. You shook your head defiantly. He moved your hand up then back down. His cheek twitched and he let out a thick breath. He kept your hand moving along his member as his grip tightened on your neck. He leaned in until his lips almost met yours.

“I’ve never had a woman, princesses, duchesses, ladies, queens, even, look at my the way you do,” He snarled. “And it has me mad.”

“I don’t know what you mean--”

“You despise me. You don’t even know me,” His lips brushed yours. “But you know I am a prince, I am your superior, and you curl your lip at me.”

“I don’t--”

He pressed his lips to yours and kissed you hungrily as the steam floated around your bodies. He kept your grasp firm on him as he carried the motion steadily. He groaned into your mouth and suddenly let go. He held your head with both hands as if to devour you. You stumbled in the tub, held up only by his unbreakable grip.

He parted as his long fingers framed your jaw. His green eyes burned into yours as you gaped at him. He kissed you again, this time nibbling your lip as he drew away. He snarled as he did and his hand slipped down your shoulders and lingered on your chest. He pinched one nipple then the other and his fingers crawled lower.

His other hand settled on your throat as his finger poked between your legs. You squeezed your thighs together and he gave a growl. It was a warning. He slid along your folds and teased your sensitive bud. You gasped as he was close to choking you entirely.

He prodded along your entrance and delved inside. You nearly bit your tongue as you closed your mouth and grabbed his arm to keep from slipping. Your eyes rounded as he grinned. He moved his hand slowly as you felt a ripple along your thighs.

“Inexperienced but not innocent,” He purred. “Darling, you feel wonderful.”

You clawed at his bicep as he rocked his hand against you, your body shaking in tandem. You wanted to hate it. You had to hate it and yet it felt so good.

“Turn around,” He commanded as he ripped his hand from between your legs. “Now.”

He released you entirely and you stumbled back and caught yourself on the side of the sub. He stroked himself as he watched you and spun his finger in the air. You turned, slowly. You leaned heavily on the side of the tub as your legs felt likely jelly and your core pulsed hungrily. You wanted more and yet you wanted to run away.

He slapped your ass. Hard. Your knees buckled. He gripped your hips and steadied you. He stepped closer and rubbed his member against your ass. His hand ran along your flesh and he guided his tip down. He reached your entrance and inhaled suddenly. He held himself there, barely touching you as his fingers curled into your hip.

“It’ll hurt. At first.” He rasped. “But that only makes the pleasure…” He slid past your entrance slowly and you stretched around him. You squeaked in shock. “...greater.”

The deeper he got, the harder it was to measure your voice. He was right about the pain. More, more, more; you feared it wouldn’t stop. When he did, when he reached his limit, you were bent over, hands on the side of the tub, bracing yourself as you were afraid your legs would collapse.

He pulled back and slammed into you again. You cried out, loudly, and clapped your hand over your mouth. He chuckled and did it again. His wet flesh reverberated against yours. He did it, again, again, again. Each time he paused and basked in the sound; basked in your murmurs as you struggled not to scream.

“You are tight, darling,” He groaned. 

You quivered and held onto the tub as your body was jolted by his. He rutted into you quicker and quicker. He was insatiable and each time he thrust, his hunger seemed to deepen. His voice turned animalistic and his fingers got firmer around your hips. The water splashed around your legs and added to the medley of lurid sounds.

You arched your back as the waves swelled within you and you felt them cresting, ready to crash. You hissed through gritted teeth and your voice cracked as you exclaimed. The feeling was overwhelming, the sensation stifling as it filled your veins. Your eyes rolled back and you hung your head as your walls pulsed around his member.

“Ah, darling, I feel you,” His hands slipped up to your waist and he pulled you back against you as he rammed into even harder. “That’s it… bend for your prince.”

He grunted as he bent over you and hooked his arm around your stomach. He stood and drew you up with him. You were on your toes as he jerked into you violently, his other hand on your chest as he pressed his cheek to yours. His voice swirled in your head and added to the heat in your core.

“That’s it, that’s it…” He chanted as his flesh slapped against yours.

You clawed at his thigh as he hammered into you and finally he slowed with a surprised cry. His hips spasmed and you felt a sudden swell of warmth inside of you. You trembled as he slowed and stilled your body. You were breathless but buoyant. You’d never felt so light yet heavy at the same time. He was the only strength left to you as he held you up.

“Well, look at you,” He tickled your stomach with his fingers. “Dirty, all over again.”

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 4

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

If you have been reading this series....things are going to start happening....

Title: Dreams, Chapter 4

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 3773

Summary: For Sam and the reader, a winter night working together leads to an uncomfortable confrontation and a confusing dream.

Warnings: angst, fluff?, alcohol, swearing, slow burn, I think that’s it!

           The tree was still up a few days later when you were throwing together sandwiches. It was a gloomy afternoon, stealing from the already meager offering of sunlight you got each day, but at least you could see the Christmas lights as you worked in the little kitchen and listened to Me Talk Pretty One Day. Brushing crumbs off your hands, you ducked your head into the bedroom to tell Sam lunch was ready.

           He was sitting on the bed with his legs crossed under him, looking surprisingly young with his long limbs folded. He glanced over at you briefly with a noncommittal nod before turning his gaze back to the wall. You walked into the room when you understood; following his eyes to the photos where you’d taped them up. Toeing off each of your boots, you climbed onto the mattress with him and gently put your arm around his broad shoulders. “He would’ve loved this,” Sam murmured, and it was almost too low for you to hear.

           “Which part?” you asked, trying to match his tone.

           “This cabin, the bar, Christmas.”

           “I think you’re right.”

           You looked over at the pictures, a tight row intentionally placed a little too low so you could see them as you fell asleep. Sam tilted his head to rest on yours.

           “We had a lot of fun though, didn’t we?”

           You considered the memories and the heat coming off of him under your cold fingers. “Yeah, we did.” After a beat you opened your mouth again. “Getting that tree was fun.”

           Sam pulled back and you looked up at him. A sad smirk was tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That was fun, wasn’t it?”

           You curved your head back into him. “Dean would’ve liked that too.” He was silent for a moment.

           “There’s no way he would’ve worked at the bar and not made every night a party.”

           He was right. Even just passing through, bars like the one you worked at were Dean’s favorite—no frills, honest people, décor not so nice it couldn’t tolerate some spills in the name of a good time. In the right mood Dean would’ve been everyone’s best friend in an hour, taking shots with the owners and playing pool with anyone who had a spare minute.

           You sat upright and tucked your hair behind your ears. “Okay, then tonight’ll be a party.”

           Sam looked at you in surprise. “Uh, what?”

           “You heard me. Tonight, we’re doing tequila shots and dancing on tables and talking to people longer than to take their orders.”

           “It’s a Monday.”

           “Wouldn’t have stopped Dean. Now come eat this sandwich I slaved over, you’re a lightweight on an empty stomach.”

           Sam’s smile was tired, but he obediently untangled his legs and got off the bed to head to the kitchen. You padded after him, letting a deep breath out through your nose. Dean would be so pissed if he saw you weren’t being strong for Sammy, just a little tougher, come on. By the time Sam sat down at the tiny breakfast bar to eat, you’d screwed your face back together.

           In some ways, it was better that you’d had this sudden change of heart on a Monday, when there weren’t so many customers to watch you crumble if it came to that. You had a propensity for being a sad drunk even in the best circumstances, and this first time truly drinking around people since losing Dean was about the worst circumstance as you could imagine.

           A few shots in Sam’s cheeks were flushed and you could feel the heat in yours as you sucked hard on a lime wedge. He was pretending to know about some football controversy with the over-shoulder towel that was ever present when he worked, his legs crossed and accentuating the long, relaxed line of his body. It was an especially cold night and condensation clouded the windows of the bar where hot air met the freezing glass. You watched as a woman about your age—you were pretty sure her name was Megan but had only served her a handful of times—traced lazy shapes in it before replacing the moisture with a hot breath and starting over. It was almost hypnotic and you didn’t know how long it was until you snapped back to reality when Sam’s warm hands wrapped over your shoulders.

           “You okay?” he asked, low and private, straight into your ear.

           “Uh, yeah, sorry. Just tired,” you lied.

           Sam gently and half-consciously kneaded the muscles in your shoulders. Before you realized what you were doing, muscle memory bobbed your head to the side, kissed his rough knuckles, and pressed your cheek to his hand. You both froze.

           “Aw, so cute,” Steve sang out from across the bar top.

           You took your chance to step forward out of Sam’s grip. “Yeah, yeah. Refill?” Steve nodded, and you snatched another Miller High Life out of a mini fridge under the bar and popped the cap with a fluid practiced motion. About a week ago you’d realized that the twist-bottle callus you had just below the first joint of your index finger had come back, a recurrent souvenir that had lasted years after you’d quit bartending last time. You were thankful for it as much as the distraction from your bizarre reflexive step over the unspoken boundary between you and Sam. It wasn’t that the contact was unprecedented, obviously, you could only catch even chunks of sleep tightly wound around Sam and kept your fingers wrapped around his forearm as he drove, but Dean was the last person whose skin your lips had touched. Until now, you corrected yourself. It was a very specific kind of closeness in a relationship already stretching the limits of what appropriate intimacy could possibly be.

           You jammed a cold metal scoop into the ice machine to break up chunks and buy some time. The same grief-hungry part of your brain that searched Sam for facial tics and habits that Dean had couldn’t stop repeating how much those hands felt the same, dry and warm and firm under your lips, under your cheek, and you wanted to clutch at them, a phantom of Dean’s that first stitched you up in Bobby’s kitchen all those years ago when life was easy and bloody, so nervous to touch you his hands shook and the scar still remained to this day. You crashed through those thoughts with a solid thump of This Is Sam Not Dean Sam Your Friend Sam The Only Thing You Have In This World, and how cruel it was to triple distill him down to only the parts that were reminiscent of someone else. Sam, who chopped wood to keep you warm, who restocked beer in the little life you’d created here. Sam, who in his own unfathomable sadness let you latch onto him as a steady point in a storm and kept you afloat just as you had him.

           “Hello?” Joe repeated, a touch of concern peeking through his annoyance.

           “Yeah, sorry! What’s up?” you asked, hearing the shrillness of your voice as you tried to overcompensate.

           “I’m trying to buy you a drink, hon. 5 shots, dealer’s choice.”

           “You, me, Jake, Steve and who?” you asked, racking up 5 sturdy shot glasses.

           “Your Paul Bunyan over there, unless you’re trying to take his too. I’ve never seen you guys really drink before, gotta jump on my chance,” he winked.

           “Oh, okay. Uh, Sam—” you called out across the bar. He was wiping up a spill you knew didn’t exist from the way he focused too hard on the bar top, trying to look busy. He looked up at his name and walked over with his hands jammed in his pockets. His unease was palpable, and your heart sank as you let go of any possibility that he wouldn’t have registered the fleeting kiss and the shift was only in your head. “—Joe’s trying to get you drunk.”

           “Careful, Joe, you think you can carry me home?” Sam joked, and you thought you would be the only one who’d be able to detect the tightness in his throat underneath it. He rubbed a lime wedge on the web of his thumb and poured salt over it before handing you the shaker. You almost dropped it when your fingertips grazed his.

           “To the only people dumb enough to move up here in the winter,” Steve proclaimed, touching his glass to the counter before shooting it. You all followed suit, politely chuckling at the teasing. When you took the lime wedge out of your mouth, Sam had his palm open in front of you. You dropped the rind in his hand and let him take the stack of glasses to the sink.

           It didn’t get as crazy as Dean likely would’ve gotten which was probably good for the bar’s bottom line and your drive back to the cabin, but Sam did end up somewhat accidentally hustling Jake for $100 over a game of pool and singing along to Shania Twain when you put it on. You were careful not to touch him or stare too long the rest of the evening, and by the time you were flipping chairs up for the night you had almost convinced yourself that nothing was different save for a little softness around the edges of the ever-present bolus of sadness in your stomach.

           Sam had two cases of Miller Lite from the basement in his grip, the veins on his forearms popping out as he set them on the ground in front of the beer cooler and crouched to replace the ones that had been drunk that night. You double checked that the cash drawer of the register was even and hopped up to sit on a spare spot of counter.

           “That’s the last one?”

           “Yeah, I already did the Coors and Bud.”

           “Are you good to drive or do you want me to?” You wiggled your toes in your shoes, feeling the ache of standing for hours in the balls of your feet.

           “No, I’m good to drive,” Sam said, shaking hair out of his face. He looked up at you, hazel eyes hard to read with fatigue or fear or pity or some murky combination thereof. You drew tight spirals over orders you’d taken that night, feeling the pen press impressions into the small notepad. The absence of words spread out to close the distance between you, feeling cloying and claustrophobic even as the Nate Bargatze standup you’d cued up piped out through the bar’s speakers.

           “Hey, I—”

           “Are you—” Sam started at the same time. You held out a palm to signal for him to continue, not truly wanting to speak yourself. “Uh, sorry. I just…I—I’m not Dean. I can’t be Dean.”

           The words and deflation in his shoulders made you wish you’d been set ablaze. Stunned, you felt your mouth open and close around words that weren’t materializing, just collecting in your throat and hardening there, the backup starting to choke you.

           “I, uh—I know,” you finally managed to squeak past the lump.

           And part of you wondered if he was right in thinking you were using him as a stand-in. As atypical as the whole situation was, you couldn’t imagine that it was normal to sleep in the same bed and spend virtually every minute together. You began to feel sick at the thought that Sam would be out living up to his potential somewhere if it weren’t for you, back to law school or righting the wrongs of the world rather than in a Northwoods dive bar restocking domestic beers at 2:30 on a Tuesday morning. The selflessness of it seemed unfathomable and yet so entirely something Sam would do. Suddenly it felt like the walls were collapsing around you.

           The moment stretched out and Sam stood up, leaning on the counter across the bar from you. His jaw was set hard and he tilted his head the way he did when he was trying to stop himself from teetering over the edge of tears. “Sam, I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

           He cleared his throat but looked down at the nonstick mats on the floor. “No, ah, you don’t need to apologize. I just need you to know I can’t be him for you.”

           You didn’t dare look up in case you met Sam’s eyes as you nodded, so eviscerated and humiliated you were having a hard time taking a deep breath. After a long minute you heard the clink of bottles as Sam finished restocking, grabbed your coat to mumble something about warming up the car, and went to the small parking lot. You managed to make it into the Impala before your vision started swimming and the potential enormity of the situation crashed against you; was this the end of your carved out hideaway, full of grief and memories and comfort and little moments of affection and joy you had just barely started to accept? All for some stupid thought that Dean would be happier if you were out getting wasted, an idea that reduced him to a drifter barfly instead of the complex man who’d been more loyal and loved more deeply than anyone you’d ever met. The tears dried up quickly as self-disgust rolled over you and started ringing in your ears. You didn’t hear Sam coming and jolted when he opened the door, recoiling against the passenger side to give him as much space as possible. He glanced over at you with eyes so pitying that you couldn’t bear to look at them, staring out the window at the abject darkness the rest of the drive home.

           Sam didn’t turn on the stereo.

           Back in the cabin, you quickly shucked off your coat and snatched what you needed out of the bedroom before barricading yourself in for a shower. You didn’t bother taking your makeup off first, allowing the sting of mascara to get washed away in the water. It was too hot and you didn’t care; you only came out when you realized you were going to leave Sam in a cold shower in the last week in December.

           You brushed your teeth in the mirror and took a few deep breaths before sliding out, heading past the open bedroom door straight to the kitchen in order to gulp down a panicked glass of water. Mercifully, you heard the bathroom door lock when Sam entered it quietly. You took the opportunity to grab your pillow out of the bedroom, tossing it on the couch and pulling the throw off the sofa’s back to cover yourself. Your eyes were closed tight and ramming up against your racing mind when Sam came out.

           “You don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he said softly from behind you.

           You opened your eyes but didn’t move your head to seek him out. “It’s okay.”

           Sam appeared in front of you, legs bending severely to perch on the short coffee table. His bare chest still glistened a little from the shower and you knew the green flannel pants he was wearing were soft and thick to the touch. Earnest hazel eyes meeting yours, Sam braced his elbows on his knees.

           “Sam, I’m really sorry. It was a weird reflex and it was unfair for me to—”

           “No, I, it—it wasn’t that. It’s just like, sometimes when you look at me, you look like you’re seeing a ghost. I’m just—I need to know you’re not staying here because I’m the closest you can get.”

           If your heart hadn’t been shattered and re-shattered over the last almost- two-years and today, the fear and resignation in his eyes would’ve sent you to pieces. You pushed up to sitting in order to give Sam the respect he deserved.

           “I can’t—I won’t lie and say you don’t remind me of him, but you’re my best friend—been my best friend since I first met you guys—and I am so, so, sorry I made you feel…I could never try to replace him, Sam.” You were barely making sense, having a hard time stringing together how you felt. “The only place I want to be is with you. You’re all I’ve got.”

           It felt desperate and needy but it was true and Sam deserved the truth. You didn’t shy away from him, stayed there holding his gaze until he seemed content having searched your eyes for anything hiding from the light. After a moment he nodded tightly against lips pressed in a firm line. “Okay.”

           Sam stood up, the broad planes of him catching the glitter of the Christmas tree lights. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and tentative. “Can you, uh, can you come back?”

           It took a moment to process before you nodded, standing up and snagging your pillow before following Sam into the bedroom. You climbed into your side of the mattress, close to the wall and your tiny precious gallery, and Sam folded around you, his warm skin seeping through your t-shirt onto your back. You felt tense and comfortable all at once, safe and uneasy. The two of you sat there for a long time, the relatively light weight of Sam’s arm over you betraying that he wasn’t asleep either. When drowsiness finally began to tug your eyelids closed, he pressed his lips to a spot on your shoulder exposed from the looseness of its sleeve. The last thing you remembered was his arm going heavy like an anchor across yours.

           The sun is hot and delicious on your cheeks, baking the cotton of your jeans and t-shirt into you and turning the roof tiles under you into a frying pan. Wispy clouds move with no urgency across the sky above you and you can’t think of anything better than this, glancing down to worn laces on Dean’s boots undone to give his feet some air as his t-shirt clings half-humid to him. You know his freckles are going to be darker by dinner and it makes you smile to think about it but you’ll never tell him—it makes him shy to be reminded of the spray of pigment that makes him feel alternatively feminine or juvenile but never stunning the way you think it should. You press up to your elbows, barely registering the sting of heat and grit of the roof underneath you and kiss the spot on Dean’s arm where his shoulder slopes into his bicep. He smiles down at you, a lazy half-open smirk perfectly framed by the blue sky behind him like a painting.

           “You’re so weird,” he chuckles. “Who kisses someone’s arm?”

           “Then come down here,” you toss back, exaggerated pout ready for him. He ducks down to you, the warmth of his lips on yours like a cookie fresh out of the oven, like sliding down the hallway on new fuzzy socks, like the summer’s first plunge into water.

           Sam’s head peeks out from under the gutter. “Bobby’s putting brats on the grill, do you want any?”

           “Hell yeah, extra onions,” Dean yells down, grinning smugly when you make a face.

           “Me too!” you call out, watching Sam squint up at the roof. 

           “No onions though, right?”

           “You’re the best, Sam.”

           Sam beams up at you, dimples almost high enough to reach the squint-crinkled skin around his eyes. He nods and ducks back out of sight.

           “Come on, I’m thirsty,” Dean says, standing up. He reaches a hand down to you and takes a half step back to brace himself, stepping on the lace of his other boot. He stumbles and it’s a quick shuffle and you realize he’s too close to the edge his next step is into thin air like Wil E. Coyote and you’re grabbing at that same thin air and you can see his face change when he realizes and some part of your subconscious that’s even deeper than this can feel it’s happening again and the sound is so final, such a wet crack but you scrabble to the edge anyway because you have to see and Dean’s lying there.

           He’s clutching his left leg bent against his chest like a stretch. “Son of a bitch, what the fuck!” he mutter-yells, and you hear the thump of Sam and Bobby running through the old house and skittering to a stop in front of him as you carefully shimmy down the porch post with your hands tearing on the gutter’s rusty edge, jumping down when you feel the railing beneath you.

           “Dean! Are you okay?” Sam yells over Bobby who’s cursing out the goddamn idjit told you not to climb up there it’s like having a bunch of teenagers in this goddamned house and Dean winces and nods angrily.

           You’re lifting up the hem of his jeans and gingerly taking off his boot and Dean hisses when you peel off his sock, but nothing is poking through the skin and that’s better than you expected. “Can you stand up?”

           He nods again and you can practically taste him biting back the string of expletives when you and Sam each take an arm and lift him to standing. You snake a hand into his pocket and grab the keys to the Impala, leaning behind Dean to say to his brother, “I’ll take him to the ER.”

           Dean doesn’t argue and it’s yet more evidence that it’s pretty bad, but you feel fine, elated almost, that he’s still warm under your palm and against your side, that he still smells like fresh laundry and domestic beer and a little bit of salt and engine grease. Sam’s long arm opens the door when you get there and slides Dean in and you promise to text when you know how bad it is as you round the car and get to the driver’s side. You turn the key in the ignition and throw your arm around Dean’s seat to reverse out of the driveway. Dean’s looking at you as you throw the car back into drive, staring almost, and his face is soft even around the broken ankle.

           “I’m always going to love you,” he says, smooth and sure of himself. You tug your eyes away from the road with half a question on your face but Dean doesn’t explain why he’s saying this now. “I’ll be okay and I’m always going to love you, no matter what.”

           It doesn’t make any sense and you open your mouth to tease this unexpected sappiness, remind him the ankle is just one more in a long string of injuries he’ll owe you for, and then Dean’s gone, the car’s gone, and the heat is coming from Sam’s chest in front of you. 

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 5

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[dangerouscommiesubversive]

someone behind me was tracing my steps / maybe you’re better off this way

Fandom: Kamen Rider Ryuki

Characters: Asakura Takeshi, Kido Shinji

Songs: "After the Fall," October Project & "Passive," A Perfect Circle (playlist here)

Takeshi’s sitting against the wall, bleeding out, and the mirror guy—Kanzaki, right—is standing over him, mouth twisted in something he vaguely recognizes as dismay. “I can’t use this, there’s barely any energy left,” he says, not to Takeshi, and there sure as hell isn’t anyone else in the room. “I’ll have to reset.”

“Hang on a second.” Takeshi coughs and feels his mouth fill up with the taste of copper, which isn’t such a bad flavor when you get down to it. “What about my wish?”

Kanzaki doesn’t even look at him, already fucking around with the mirror. “You don’t want anything, there’s no point.”

“Sure I want something.”

“…what on Earth could you want at this point? It’s all going to be reset anyway.”

Takeshi grins up at him, knowing that it’s sure to be an unnerving sight with his teeth all over blood. “Lemme remember.”

“Out of the question. Giving one participant unnecessary foreknowledge would interfere with the procedure.”

“Nah, nah, I’m not gonna interfere with shit. It was just a hell of a time.” Takeshi looks up just as Kanzaki is looking down and grins his bloody grin a little wider. “I like to remember times when I had fun. Looking forward to doing it over again. Let me remember.”

---

It’s not until he graduates university that Shinji realizes that he’s missing something.

Slightly after, really. He graduates, he works some shitty part-time gigs, he does some freelancing, and then Ookubo gets in touch and offers him a job at Ore Journal. That’s all fine, but when he steps through the door of the Ore offices he’s hit with a wave of déjà vu so powerful that he nearly trips and falls face-first into Reiko’s desk. Fortunately he catches himself before anyone notices. It had been bad enough trying to explain to his mother about the girl who lived in his mirror when he was thirteen; he can’t imagine how the people here would react to, “I remember walking into this room for the first time at least eight times over.”

He gets a grip on himself, but the feeling of loss stays. He’s missing something, and he doesn’t know what. Sometimes he’ll get a glimpse of it, he’ll pass someone on the street or overhear a snatch of conversation and a fragment of memory will overwhelm him, but he never gets everything.

From the bits that he sees, he’s not sure that he wants to get everything. It might be better to be missing something than to remember.

---

Takeshi’s known that he’s missing something for a long time now, and whatever it is, he wants it back.

He’s not exactly an educated guy, but he knows himself pretty well, and the idea that there’s a big chunk of him missing is galling. He can feel its absence. He can’t tell what it is, it hasn’t got any kind of useful shape, no edges that he can detect, but it’s his. And since he wouldn’t just go carving out part of himself, that means he’s been robbed.

He doesn’t take kindly to being robbed.

Mostly, though, he can ignore it, the way you ignore a hole in the wall that you don’t feel like repairing yet. He does what he likes, gets what he wants, eats when there’s food, and doesn’t think about it unless he reaches for something in his mind and finds that it isn’t there.

And then he sees the journalist.

Some sweet-faced kid, he is, showing up at a bar that Takeshi likes and bugging the regulars about a local ghost story that Takeshi knows for a fact is bullshit. He doesn’t try coming over to Takeshi’s corner, because the bartender visibly warns him off, but he’s talking to everyone else. That suits Takeshi fine. He can just sit with his drink and watch and remember, in shards and splinters, tantalizing and incomplete.

Kido Shinji is what’s printed on the business card he swipes from the bartender once the journalist leaves, with the address of a tea shop written on the back in pen.

Now there’s a name that rings a bell.

He stares down at the card for a moment, not sure whether he’s pleased or furious, and then heads out. Guy couldn’t have gone far.

---

Shinji gets through the door and is immediately handed an apron and a bandana for his hair. “Dishes.”

“What—Ren, I just got here.”

“Yeah, and there are dirty dishes. I don’t have time to deal with them, there are customers.” Ren squints at him for a moment, frowning. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

Shinji pauses in the middle of tying back his hair, uneasy. “I’ll tell you once there aren’t customers. Where’s Miyu—he’s still working, ok.”

Ren rolls his eyes. “Apparently that middle schooler who was here last week told all of her friends about him, he’s been busy all day.”

There are a lot of dishes piled up, and it keeps Shinji busy until Ren’s shooing out the last customers of the day. Atori’s different without the old lady, but it’s not a bad different; hopefully she’s happy in whatever warm place she moved to after she sold the shop to Ren. She’d certainly never seemed happy here.

He’s happy here. In a stable place, with a little bit of stable work apart from Ore, with people who inexplicably love him for reasons that none of them quite remember clearly.

When the last customer is out the door, Ren leans back against the counter, arms folded across his chest, and says, “So something’s bothering you, spit it out.”

Shinji frowns down into the dishwater. “I think someone was following me again today.”

“What, again? How long’s this been going on now, two weeks?”

“Three and a half. Ever since that thing I was looking into about the ghost, do you remember that one?” One saucer in the dish rack, start washing the next piece. “Maybe I pissed off the ghost.”

“You said there wasn’t a ghost.”

“Well, yeah, but what if there was and now it’s following me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re not being chased by a ghost.”

Shinji glances nervously over his shoulder, as if he’ll see his ghost reflected in the tea shop window. “How can we be sure, though?” He picks up another dirty cup and starts to wash it. “Some of the things I remember…”

Ren’s arms wrap around him from behind, chin resting on his shoulder. “They aren’t here,” more softly and gently than he usually speaks. “No ghosts. Just you, me, and Miyuki.”

“No ghosts.” Shinji takes a deep breath. “You’re right. No ghosts.”

---

The place isn’t tough to break into. Decent locks, but nothing Takeshi can’t get past with a crowbar. He lets himself in and looks around the vaguely-familiar tea shop with interest before heading past the counter and to the back. Stairs lead up to the apartment above, and sure, they creak a little, but that’s nothing to worry about. After all, he’s still got the crowbar if he really needs it.

Upstairs, the place is chaotic in sort of a cute way, decorated as it is by three people with clearly pretty different sensibilities, fragments of three very different lives on display. It smells faintly of frying oil, too. Someone made something good for dinner tonight. On a whim, he checks the fridge, finds a container of leftover gyoza, and eats them absently as he contemplates the shopping list stuck to the freezer door. Eggs, rice, sliced pork belly, in neat handwriting that definitely isn’t Kido’s.

He finishes the gyoza and the tail-end of a carton of milk, leaving the empty containers behind on the counter and picking up his crowbar again as he heads toward the back of the apartment.

There are three bedrooms, and none of them are marked, doors closed against the darkened hallway. Checking each one would be a hassle, and might lead to more trouble than Takeshi feels like getting in right now. Instead he just remembers how jumpy Kido seemed even before Takeshi started following him and lets intuition lead him to the room closest to the fire escape.

The door swings open, and the first thing he sees is a cloth square on the wall. A covered mirror.

There we go.

Kido’s asleep, sprawled across the bed with his head tossed back and his hair spread out on his pillow, throat pale and exposed. Alone, which makes things a little easier. There’s a computer desk set up in the corner of the room; Takeshi grabs the chair from it, drags it over next to the bed, and sits, resting the end of the crowbar on the floor as he’s saying, softly and cheerfully, “Hey, Kido. Wake up.”

A shift, an irritated mumble, “Not time to—” and then one eye opening halfway and the jolt, Kido scrambling upright in the bed, one hand flung out to the side reaching for something that isn’t there.

What isn’t there?

Splinters reform into another regained memory: a deck of cards in an elaborate case, gleaming purple metal smooth and cool in Takeshi’s hands. There’s a name that goes with it, or maybe more than one, faint and still lost but centimeters from the tip of his tongue.

Kido’s gone white as a pan of milk, hand still empty because they’re in a world with no decks, now, no monsters that Takeshi suddenly remembers with fondness, not nearly as much fun, and Takeshi leans forward on his crowbar and smiles, friendly, like, and says, “Come on, Kido, I remember you being more interesting.”

---

Shinji can hear his heart beating over the ringing in his ears. There’s a bit of light coming in from between the mostly-closed curtains, just enough to see by, and with his hand coming up empty and his unwelcome guest illuminated so that only golden hair and white teeth are visible, he is assailed by memory.

He knows this man.

From the corner of the bar where he’d been looking into that ghost story, sure, the one the bartender had told him not to bother, but also from before, from ten befores or more. A killer, vicious and cheerfully so, dangerous to be around, but beneath the adrenaline thrum Shinji can feel another pulse, pity, pity, pity, perhaps misplaced but still there.

He fights to get his breathing under control and says, “Asakura. What are you doing here?”

“You took something of mine.” Asakura’s head tilts slowly to the side, semi-friendly grin still visibly. “I came to get it back.”

“I don’t have anything of yours.”

“Never said you did. I said you took it. Didn’t say I thought you had it.”

“That…you know that doesn’t make sense, right?”

“None of this makes sense, Kido. We live in a world that revolves around a guy like you.” Asakura leans forward, one hand darting out to grab Shinji’s chin, ragged nails digging into his skin. In the dim light his eyes are flat and dark and predatory as their gazes lock, only taking on any gleam as he drinks in…something, whatever he’s getting from looking at Shinji like this. Shinji nearly asks, in fact, but he can’t quite speak, and anyway Asakura’s talking again, still as cheery and conversational as he has been. “Used to be, I got the deck in my hands and I’d remember all of it. That was the deal. Don’t know how the mirror guy finally bit it, but whatever happened, you’re the key to everything now.”

Shinji’s considering shouting for Ren, because even if he did have a dragon at his beck and call, the mirror is covered. Then, of course, he notices the crowbar. And Asakura continues to look at him, searching for something that Shinji is apparently giving him.

“Pathetic.” Abruptly, Asakura lets go again. “You used to be fun, Kido.” He stands, shouldering the crowbar like a baseball bat, and heads for the open bedroom door, only pausing briefly to say, “Call me if you ever decide to get the band back together, yeah?”

Shinji remains frozen for what seems like a long time after he’s gone, dizzy with memory and his heartbeat noisy in his own ears.

He doesn’t remember the end of things. None of the ends of things, actually, and he’s not sure if the others know that it happened more than once, how many times they were put through the same wringer. Whatever it was, though, whatever he or they finally did, it was permanent.

He never would have expected someone to resent him for it.

Finally he finds the focus to move, raising a hand to rub at the sore spots on his jaw before getting out of bed.

Miyuki’s bed is disturbed by unoccupied, and this fills him with a banked and indistinct dread until he comes to Ren’s room and finds them both there, Miyuki sprawled as inelegantly as always and snoring lightly at Ren’s side. Ren is awake, barely. “Bad dreams all around tonight, I guess,” he slurs as Shinji closes the door, and moves over to make space. “Wha’ was yours about?”

Shinji curls up beside him and says, softly, “Just ghosts.”

---

Takeshi strolls down the middle of the empty street, crowbar on his shoulder, in such a good mood now that he’s very nearly whistling. It’s a damp night; the streetlights make shadows in the fog that look like old friends he now remembers, any number of enormous beasts stalking him as he walks. Which makes him want to laugh, and so he laughs, and the sound bounces off the buildings and the fog in an echo that could go on forever.

“Goddamn,” he says to a fog-reflection that shifts and changes with every step he takes, now a vast snake, now a rhino, now a stingray. “That was a good time, wasn’t it.”

The fog makes no reply, but the shadow continues to follow him down the street as the echoes of his laughter die away, and after a moment, feeling almost jaunty, he starts to whistle.

[love-and-monsters]

Demon Shopkeep

You stumble into a magic shop and find the friendly shopkeeper wants to test your magical ability! What happens when you find out you’ve got quite a lot of potential?

M demon X GN human, 4,579 words

Shopping in town was something you really only did on special occasions. You’d never been super enthusiastic about crowds. They were always noisy and they made you feel like something was crawling along your skin when you tried to move through them. But your best friend’s birthday was coming up and you wanted to get her a neat gift. So, you went into the shopping district in town.

Your work schedule was flexible, so you went into town on a Monday afternoon, when the crowd would be at its thinnest. But it was a warm summer day, and you hadn’t factored in tourist season. There were plenty of people moving through the street, chattering and pointing to some of the shops. It was nearly impossible to walk down the street without bumping or brushing against someone.

You managed to walk through the street for about ten minutes before the awful feeling of pressure pushed in around you. The people around you felt like a rising tide, like they were coming in closer and tighter all around you. If you didn’t get out, they were all going to crush you.

Panic surged through you. Blindly, you scrambled to a shop door and yanked it open.

A small bell jingled as you stepped inside. The shop was dimly lit. Even the sunlight filtering in through the showy front window seemed unable to brighten anything. The walls were painted a dark blue and there were shelves of curiosities on dark mahogany shelves. Little golden lights glittered along the ceiling and clumped around a counter. Leaning over the counter, looking perfectly at home, was a dark blue demon.

You were pretty sure he was a demon, anyway. His skin and hair were the same tone of blue, but the nubby horns that sprouted from his forehead were bone-white. His tail was long and thin and tufted at the end. As he looked up, a chunk of his shaggy hair fell over one of his silver eyes.

“Hello!” he said. He smiled, showing off all his sharp teeth. “Welcome to Astral Curiosities! What can I help you with?”

You threw a glance over your shoulder. The crowd was still present and you didn’t feel ready to go back out into it. You turned back to the demon. “Sorry. I just ducked in here for a moment. I wasn’t really looking for anything.”

That didn’t seem to deter the demon whatsoever. If anything, his smile got bigger. “Really? You’re a first-time customer, then?” He clasped his hands together in excitement. “Then let me show you around and introduce you to the store!”

He stepped out from behind the counter. He was wearing a button-up white shirt with a blue star design on the pocket. “My name’s Imp. It’s nice to meet you!” He stuck out a hand and, uncertain of what else to do, you shook it. “Welcome to Astral Curiosities! Oh, I said that already, didn’t I? Ah, well! Let me explain the store to you.”

He gestured broadly with one hand to the shelves. “All of these,” he began, “are tools for witches! We’ve got books, focuses, familiar summons, spell supplies, runic tomes, magic languages, anything you could need!”

There was a soft click as he moved across the hardwood floor and you realized he wasn’t wearing any shoes. His claws tapped against the ground every time he set a foot down. “We’ve got all sorts of items for specializations! Life magic, nature magic, aether, fortune telling, spirit magic!” He pulled a few items from the shelves and looked at them fondly. “What’s your specialization?”

You mouthed wordlessly for a moment. He was so enthusiastic, you felt a little sheepish trying to say a word against him. “I didn’t come in here for anything. I don’t even have any magic. I was just trying to get out of the way of the crowd.”

Imp turned to you. His pointed ears drooped back a little and, for a moment, you thought you’d finally managed to dampen his spirits. Then his tail whipped with excitement and he grinned. “Everything happens for a reason!” he said. “If you’re here, there’s almost certainly something that drew you in.”

The crowd, you thought. The crowd had driven you inside. But Imp was already moving toward the back and you had to admit that you were curious. He darted through a set of velvet curtains and emerged with a large, pale stone surrounded with wires.

He went to the large, wooden table in the middle of the room and sat down. You glanced back at the door, but decided you’d rather see what he wanted than go back into the crowd. Imp almost wriggled in excitement as you sat down across from him.

“This is a vocal stone,” he said, tapping it with a clawed finger. It was large, slightly bigger than your palm, and, though you’d thought it was white from a distance, it was actually multicolored. There were ribbons of every color of the rainbow shot through it, only appearing when it was set in the right light. “And these-” He gestured to the wires around it. “- are conductors. If you have any magic, this’ll spark it and we’ll see what kind it is.”

You looked skeptically at the stone. The whole contraption seemed pretty haphazard. Still, you were pretty sure you had no magical talent. Neither of your parents had any skill and you’d never had the typical magic hiccups that accompanied growing up as a magic kid. So you allowed Imp to take your hand and wrap the wires around it.

“Oh.” You gripped the side of the table. A rush of something moved through you, like there was something swooping under your skin. Your head spun and a wave of tingling spread over your skin. You felt something in you shift, almost like what your stomach did before throwing up. A wave of power rushed out of you, knocking Imp back out of his chair and sending the wooden shelves rattling.

You snatched your hand back. The odd sensation stopped, though your head was swimming a little. “Are you all right?” you managed, peering over the table at Imp.

He popped up so suddenly and with such force that he nearly cracked your foreheads together. “Goodness, you have one hell of a voice!” he said, apparently completely unperturbed by being bowled over.

“A voice?” you asked. He hopped back into his chair and gathered the vocal stone back toward him.

“Mm. It’s what a person’s specific magic is referred to as. Your voice. And you’re loud. One hell of a scream, really!” You blinked at him, a little confused. “Who told you you didn’t have any magic? You have a lot.”

You worked your mouth, eyes wide. “I didn’t… I don’t know. No one ever really told me. My parents didn’t have any and I never did any tricks as a kid. We just all assumed that I didn’t have any magic.”

Imp pursed his lips and looked down at the stone. “Hm. That’s unusual.” He lifted the stone and rotated it in his hands. The multicolored threads through it had changed, all becoming a uniform shade of light green. “Life magic, and very strong, too.” He looked across the table at you, expression changing from excessively enthusiastic to gently sympathetic. “You don’t like crowds, do you? Or zoos, or anything with a lot of living things? But I expect forests are nice for you.”

You blinked at him, a little startled that he managed to correctly call all that. “Well, yeah. I live in a forest, actually.”

“Plants are much less demanding with their presence than people or animals. Most life witches find themselves as loners with very impressive gardens.” His ears twitched rapidly as he looked at you. “I expect you’ve actually been choking it back for most of your life. It’s probably a good thing you came in here when you did. Can’t hold all that magic back forever and when it does come out, it can get messy.” He wrinkled his nose. “But you’ll be all right! Promise. I can be a good mentor. I mean, technically I’m into spirit magic, but they’re close! You’ll be able to get something out of it!”

He moved so quickly between thoughts that he was really starting to lose you. “What are you talking about?”

He’d sprung out of his chair, but, hearing the worry in your tone, he swung back around to look at you. “I’m going to mentor you,” he said. “In magic, obviously.”

You stood up. “I don’t need a magic mentor. I’m okay. I’ve gone this long without one. I’ll be fine to keep going.” You scrambled back out of your chair and started to back toward the door.

“Wait!” Imp sprang forward and grabbed your sleeve. “You can’t leave! I mean, I understand if you maybe don’t want me, but you’re going to have to get someone. You’re a powerful witch, even if you don’t know it, and if you’re not doing any tricks, that magic doesn’t have an outlet. It can’t go on just building up forever. You don’t need to do magic, but you at least need to find a way to let it out sometimes or everything will get worse.”

Carefully, you extracted your arm from his grip. “What do you mean?”

Imp stood still, except for his tail, which whipped wildly. “Well, you already don’t like crowds, right? People? It’s the magic, you feel it coming off all the people and pressing on you. Right now it’s just uncomfortable, but eventually it’ll get to be too much and that extra jolt of magic will just-” He made a hand gesture that seemed to indicate something exploding. “And the magic will be uncontrolled, so no one will be able to predict what will happen.” His voice started to rise again and he lowered it with obvious effort. “It’s not safe, really.”

You grimaced and lowered your head. “You’re willing to teach me?” Imp nodded rapidly. “All right.”

“Great!” He gave a tiny, enthusiastic hop. “That’s good. Um.” He glanced around the shop, pointed ears flattening back. “Do you mind if we do it at your house? It might get to be a little much and I don’t want to destroy the shop.”

“Fine,” you said. It meant you at least wouldn’t have to go back through the town. You scrawled your address on the piece of paper he offered, along with your phone number, and handed it over.

“Great! I’ll gather the supplies and be over tomorrow.” He glanced around the shop. “I’ve never mentored anyone before! I mean, I know how. I do, I swear! Anyway, I’ll see you later. Head back home and get some rest. It’ll be a lot of work.”

Not terribly reassured by that, you left the shop and returned to your home. It was secluded in the woods, with no neighbors but the trees. Technically, you still had some freelance writing to do, but you spent most of the rest of the night straightening up. You hadn’t had guests in forever and your house wasn’t exactly in a state for entertaining.

You jerked awake the next morning to the sound of very enthusiastic knocking. Bleary, you staggered out of bed and headed over to the door.

It was Imp. He was clinging to a bag that was bulging with books and strange implements. He was bounding on his toes, looking irritatingly cheerful considering that the sun had only just risen.

           “Hello! I thought we’d get started nice and early. Make the most of the day and all!” He trotted past you into the house and dumped the bag onto the table. “Okay! Ready to start?”

You looked down at the books that had fallen onto the table. Several of them were rather childish, with thick pages designed for young hands. There were also several instruments with gemstones attached. They looked a little like measuring tools, though you weren’t sure what they were intending to measure. Magic potential, maybe?

“Sorry about the books! Most people learn when they’re young, so…” He shrugged. “But I’ll teach you most of the stuff! The books are just for later reference.”

He settled into a chair, tail whipping eagerly behind him. “How are you feeling? Had breakfast?”

You fixed him with an irritated stare. “I just got up.”

He blinked at you for a moment, then seemed to realize exactly how ruffled you looked. “Oh! I’m sorry! I have to get up early to work at the shop and all that so I usually assume everyone’s an early riser too.” He shuffled in his pocket for a moment and pulled out a phone. “I’ll order us some breakfast. Anything you want? The café in town delivers! And they’re very nice!”

“They have French toast?” you asked. He nodded. “I’ll have that, then.”

Imp took a few minutes to put in your order and you excused yourself to shower and get dressed. When you returned to him, he had organized everything on the table and was peering in your cabinets.

“You don’t have a lot of food,” he said. “You should take better care of yourself! Do you just live off ramen?”

“A freelance writer doesn’t make a lot of money,” you said. “I have a garden I get vegetables from sometimes.”

“Well, that’s good,” Imp said. There was a knock at your front door and he sprang off. You followed him just in time to see him fling it open.

The delivery man was a cervitaur. He had a runner’s build and a his front hooves tapped constantly at the ground. The bag of food was slung over his back, like saddlebags. Imp greeted him like they were old friends and took the bag. “Never delivered here before,” the cervitaur said with a polite nod to you. “Had a good night, Imp?”

His meaning hit you a moment later and you felt yourself flushing. Imp just laughed. “We’re doing magic training! You might be delivering here more often if we keep the tutoring up.” The cervitaur nodded to you with a cheeky smile, then took off, vanishing within a few moments.          

“Sorry! He’s a bit nosy. Always likes to get into other people’s business. Especially romantic. Ignore him.” Imp spread the food over the table and you ate. You had to admit, the food was really good.

“Let’s get on with the magic,” he said after you cleaned up. “For our first lesson, we should probably just focus on getting you used to feeling the magic.” He extended his hands out toward you, palms up. “Hold your hands out like this.”

You mimicked his position. He picked up one of the measuring tools and tapped it against your fingers. After a moment of analysis, he lowered it. “You’ve got a lot of powerful magic. And because it’s life magic, I can be your test subject!”

You frowned. “Is that a good idea? I could have hurt you last time.”

He waved his hand dismissively. “No, no, it’ll be fine. I promise! We’ll start slow. You can read my mind or something!”

“I can do that?” you said.

“Well, you can get a sense of what people are thinking, feel their life energy and all that. That’s why you don’t like crowds! It’s all the energy pushing in on you. It’s uncomfortable, I bet. But once we start doing these exercises, you’ll feel a lot better! Promise!”

He offered you a green stone, probably jade, set in an intricate web of golden wires. “Hold onto that. It’s a focus stone, it’ll help you feel the magic.”

You took it from him tentatively. Almost immediately, you could feel something. A buzz of energy around you that you often associated with being deep in a crowd ran through you. “You feel it now, don’t you?” Imp said. “Focus on it. There should be a feeling of energy. Try to gather it around you and use it.”

It was difficult to gather something as intangible as energy, but after a few moments of focus, you could feel the energy shifting. It gathered into a sort of clump in front of you, energy you could project however you wanted.

Focusing the energy seemed to have the same effect as swiping away a thick bank of fog. Without the smothering blanket in front of you, there were points of energy prodding into your mind, each one subtly unique. You could feel each individual plant outside, and little tiny specks of energy you thought, a little uncomfortably, might be bugs.

But the biggest source of energy was right in front of you. Imp glowed like a miniature sun, which felt fitting given his personality. Surprised by the brightness and warmth, you focused in on it.

Images and sounds flowed from him, like looking into a rolling, constant river. Thoughts twisted and branched off each other in a confusing tangle. You fumbled to catch a proper train of thought, until you noticed your face.

Hurriedly, you caught onto it. Imp was thinking about your face. Not just your face. He was thinking about you. And then his thoughts wandered, transitioning from just looking at your face to thinking about you smiling at him. Emotions swelled under the thoughts, a feeling of attraction. A feeling of attraction toward you.

Startled, your focus broke and you felt the magic slip away. Almost immediately, dizziness swarmed through you and you leaned over the table. Imp patted your shoulder and you made an attempt to hide in your arms. Reading someone’s thoughts while they were thinking about you was weird, weirder than you thought it would be. How were you supposed to focus when you knew your teacher thought you were pretty?

“You did good!” Imp praised. “Really good! Not everyone can access their magic like that on the first shot. And reading minds is good for your first go!”

Your head popped up and you stared at him. “You knew I was reading your mind?”

He laughed. “You’re not very subtle! But I don’t know what you were looking at. People’s minds are very complicated, we think about a lot of things at once. And I’ve been told my mind’s got more on it than most!”

You frowned at him, trying to figure out if he was only trying to spare the embarrassment, but he looked utterly guileless. “Uh. I didn’t catch much.”

“That’s okay! It was your first time! It’s pretty impressive that you managed to catch my mind at all.” He tapped his fingers energetically on the table. “How do you feel?”

“Tired.” You leaned back in your seat. “But better?” There had been a tightness inside you that you hadn’t even realized was there until it released.

“You look better! You were all kind of drawn in before.” He hunched over, holding his hands close to his chest. “Now you look relaxed. And your spirit’s all…” He made a wavy motion with his hands.

“My… spirit?”

Imp nodded. “I’m a spirit mage. It’s actually life mage adjacent, but like… more specific? I sense auras, basically! And I can sense spirits, so I’m sort of like a medium! You’re much more in tune with life energy, the magic that comes off of living things. You can draw energy, donate energy, heal small injuries, that sort of thing. I’m better at spiritual aspects, especially healing curses! I actually freelance as a cursebreaker.”

“A cursebreaker?” you repeated. “That sounds dangerous.”

“It’s not! Well, it is a little. But spirit mages are resistant to curses. And I see auras, remember? I usually have a little heads up if someone wants to hurt me.”

“What does my aura look like?” you asked, curiosity spurring you on before you could stop yourself.

Imp leaned over the table toward you. His eyes were dark and glimmering, like polished onyx. “The whole colored aura thing is bullshit. It’s more like… A halo? Like, light or waves around you. Yours is very bright, but very constricted. The light doesn’t travel very far and… auras have this kind of wave to them, and yours was very still before. It waves a little more now, but it’s still very constrained.” He grinned. “It’s very nice to look at. Like an ocean wave under moonlight.”

It was an oddly poetic description, not one you had been expecting from him. You felt your face warm, and you were grateful that Imp no longer seemed to be paying attention. “Now that you’ve actually accessed your magic, we can do some exercises to improve your skills with it. They’re pretty simple, all just breathing and flexing your magic muscles. They’re kind of like push ups!”

“I don’t like pushups,” you muttered. Imp burst into laughter.

“This is easier. Promise! What you want to do first is take a deep breath and close your eyes…”

The exercises took only about an hour, but you felt like you’d run a marathon by the time it was over. Your muscles felt trembly and weak. “You did really well,” Imp praised. “I’ll be back tomorrow. In the meantime, rest up. And read a few of the books! They’ll help. Even if they’re for kids.”

He left and you promptly collapsed into bed. As tired as you were, there was a lightness to you that hadn’t been there before. It was like you’d just had a really good massage.

You skimmed through a couple of the books he’d brought by later. They were childish, but they taught some simple magic techniques. You sat in the garden until late at night, practicing on your flowers over and over.

Imp came back to your house the next morning, and the next after that, and the next after that. He never seemed to lose his enthusiasm, even bright and early. It was nice to have another person over. You’d avoided people for so long, you’d almost forgotten what having company felt like.

Every night, after he’d left, you went out into your garden and practiced on your flower bushes. It was a simple practice, but you were hoping it was impressive. Maybe it would be.

About a week after you’d started practicing, Imp seemed satisfied. “I’ve given you as much of a crash course as I can. All that will prevent you from getting overwhelmed with magic and you have at least a few spells you can do.”

Your stomach tightened a little with disappointment. Despite the short time you’d known each other, you had gotten sort of attached to him. He was sweet and enthusiastic and you found yourself looking forward to his arrival every morning. “Thank you for all your help. I know it was probably a lot for you to do every day,” you said.

“Don’t even mention it!” Imp waved a hand nonchalantly at you. “Magic users have a responsibility to help each other out. And you really needed help.” He clapped a hand casually over yours. There was a slight tingle of magic and you had to carefully avoid peeking into his mind. He had a tendency to project and it was a little difficult to stop from hearing him. “If you ever need anything else, you know where I am.”

He trotted off and you returned to your garden. The flowers you’d been working on for the week were nearly complete. You prodded at the petals, infusing them with a little more energy. They perked up under your touch. It was a small gift, not one you felt truly exemplified the depths of your gratitude toward him, but it was something. Satisfied with it, you went back inside.

The next morning, you gathered up the flowers into a pot. It was much easier to do it with the life magic to guide your hands. You could tell exactly where the root networks were, and how the plant was responding to the touch. Carefully, you potted it and picked it up.

Going into town would have been a nightmare a week ago. It still wasn’t fun. As the amount of people started to increase, you could feel your shoulders tensing and your breaths coming in shorter. But the feeling of pressure around you was much less. You didn’t have the automatic urge to turn and run back home.

You opened the door to the shop and stepped inside. The bell at the door rang and Imp looked up, ears twitching. His face broke into a wide smile when he saw you standing there.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon! Everything okay? Did something happen?” He trotted across the shop toward you, and you shifted the plant behind your back.

“I wanted to thank you,” you said. “For all that you did for me. You didn’t have to.”

“I couldn’t leave you hanging,” he said cheerily. “What are you hiding behind your back?”

He tried to move to peer behind you, but you carefully sidestepped out of his way and backed up to the checkout counter. “It’s something I thought you would appreciate,” you said, setting it down while still blocking it with your body. “It’s something I tried to do with my magic. It worked better than I thought it would.”

“I did say you were strong,” Imp said, trying to peer over your shoulder. “Show me!”

You stepped aside, revealing the flowers. Manipulating colors was apparently a simple form of life magic, when done on plants, at least. Keeping something small was much more difficult than creating something large, but you’ were pretty happy with what you’d managed. The plant was a perfect miniature rose bush, with tiny roses blooming in the deep blue of Imp’s skin and hair.

His mouth popped open and he gave a squeal of delight. He sprang forward, examining it with a childlike glee. You couldn’t help a small laugh. “Oh, they’re beautiful! And you made these? Well, you helped them along, anyway. I love them! They’re so wonderful! It’s very skilled for your first project! Oh, imagine if you made more of them! Mini flowers! It would be soooo cute!” His tail waved with excitement. “Thank you!”

“I’m glad you like them.”

“I love them!” Imp’s smile faded a little. “Oh, but I’m not very good at caring for flowers. I don’t know much about them.” A worried look crossed his face. “What if I kill them?”

“If you’re going to help me with magic, then maybe I can help you with flowers,” you offered. “I’ll show you how to repot it and care for it and all that.”

“You can come over to my place this time!” Imp said, cheering up immediately. He scooped the flower pot up into a hug.

“I’d like to see your place,” you said. Imp skipped in place, grinning broadly.

“It’s a date!” he said, then he hesitated. He glanced at the roses and when he looked back at you, you could see and sense the hope and fear warring in him. “Is that all right?”

You gave a small smile. “Are you asking me on a date?”

Imp lifted his brows. “Are you saying yes?”

“Yes.”

Imp’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Then yes!”

You gave him a smile back. “I’m looking forward to it.” And through your magic, you could feel that he was looking forward to it too.

[basicjetsetter]

Part IV

♡ Pairing: Peter Parker x Black!FemaleReader

▹ Warnings: Little angst, Lot of anxiety, Fluff if you squint

▹ Words: 2.8k

▹ A/N: This chapter’s a bit on the short side, but it establishes a lot. Happy reading!

You’re not exactly sure how you pull it off, but you somehow manage to elude Peter for five straight days.

Playing the impromptu game of hide-and-not-be-seen was touch and go for the first two days, mainly because you weren’t sure what time you’d see Peter in the diner’s entrance. All you knew was that he’d show up early, whatever that meant. Almost every chiming bell sent your heart into overdrive, and whenever you thought you saw him, your stomach performed painful somersaults as you mapped out all likely escape routes.

No place in the diner was safe. Hal’s has a pretty simple layout: front entrance, booths to the immediate right, and bar with barstools to the immediate left, all in a shotgun fashion. If one were to try looking for someone, especially from the front entrance, all they’d have to do is marginally widen their field of vision, which is why the first two days were tricky.

The next day after the first run-in, about three hours earlier than his initial arrival, Peter came in through the front door, buddying up with Chris and asking for you.

You were clearing off an unoccupied table, piling dirty plates, when Chris called out, “Hey! How’s it hanging, Peter?” With the stack of dishes still clenched in your hands, you dropped down and crawled under the booth, coming face to face with an unsavory assortment of chewed-up gum underneath the table, holding your breath for dear life. Peter stayed for about ten agonizingly treacherous minutes as Chris failed to locate you.

On the second day, a sluggish Tuesday morning with only four regular patrons at the bar and no one in the booths, Peter had just walked through the entrance as you were coming out of the back, hand-carrying three of Hal’s famous Thin Mint Milkshakes. Without a thought, you spun right around and dashed in the opposite direction, busting through the employee door and colliding straight into Wendy. You’d never seen someone throw such a fit, but then again, you’d be pretty pissed too if someone coated you head-to-toe in milkshake.

That day was… eventful, to say the least, but it gifted you with the best estimate for Peter’s arrivals. Early meant 11:30 a.m. on the dot. Lunch. You tested out the time the next day, waiting behind the employee door and peering out the medium-sized port window. At 11:30 a.m., right on cue, was Peter, dapping Chris and ordering a slice of Banana Cream Pie to-go while also asking for your whereabouts, staying for only half an hour.

He left you a note each time he departed.

Can’t seem to catch you. I’ll try again tomorrow :) – Peter

Is this not a good time for you? I’ll stop by later if you want – Peter

Is everything alright? Text or call anytime you need me. I’ll be there – Peter

From the second note on, you found yourself captivated by his neat little scrawl and the way he always signed his name at the end, as if you’d forget it was him. You’d read them on your way home and right before falling asleep, trying and failing not to picture him smiling at you while you absent-mindedly smiled at his words.

Your friendly boy-next-door is so easy to fall for, but you just can’t do it. You can’t allow yourself to fall. Nobody would be there to pick you back up.

Some nights, you lied awake drafting a message that would effectively convince Peter that things wouldn’t work between you, that you’re a lost cause, and he should probably find some other connection if such a thing exists. But then, unfailingly, you’d think about his concerned little notes and sadly acknowledge that he deserves more than a measly text. After showing up to Hal’s for almost a whole week just to get to know you, Peter deserves the truth.

Your heart is not ready for a Soulmate, and it might not ever be.

By the fifth day, you spend a good chunk of time pondering over the right words to say to Peter while simultaneously hiding in the kitchen, pretending to prepare more fries. You never looked forward to hiding from him, but what other option did you have? Going out there and letting your coworkers and boss know he’s your Soulmate? They wouldn’t shut up about it, especially not Chris, the open romantic.

When your shift ended that day, and you walked up to Chris so he could hand you Peter’s fifth note, he emphatically shook his head.

“On behalf of my new friend, Peter, I can’t in good faith give this to you,” he stated, tucking the folded paper into his back pocket and crossing his arms. “Not until you tell me why you’re dodging him.”

You frowned, crossing your arms too. “It’s really none of your business, Chris.”

“True, but it’s his.” The little dig got to you, making you wince. Chris continued softly, “Look, he won’t tell me what’s up with you two, either. And, trust me, I've asked. It's just... I’m kinda involved now, being the messenger and all, so shouldn’t I know some of the situation?”

“No…?” you hedged.

Chris didn’t budge.

You couldn’t think of a lie on the spot, and a half-truth would only further complicate things. Treading the fine line of what’s too much information and what’s not enough left you frustratingly tongue-tied. What’s specific enough to still be vague? Chris stared at you expectantly with a petulant little lift in his brow, ignoring a customer’s disgruntled calls for a refill in the napkin dispenser. 

In the end, you huffed out a resigned breath and hesitantly admitted, “Peter's someone I knew from high school—a really nice guy.” For Chris’s benefit, you added, “He just likes to check up on me every now and then. You know how I don’t get out that much…”

And in a heartbeat, Chris morphed from a tough enquirer to a softened pile of dough, sagely nodding his head as if he knew all too well how reserved you are and how much of a losing battle it is persuading you to venture out. Or maybe it was because he understood how difficult it is to reconnect with people you unwilfully lost touch with for five years.

How everything and everyone fell right back into step with everyday life, like five years was just five minutes, continues to boggle your mind. It’s not normal. You won’t ever pretend that it is.

The disgruntled man shouted, “Can I get any damn service around here?”

Chris immediately broke from the conversation and left you behind the bar, off to go charm the customer’s socks off and earn a nice $10 tip even though he clocked out ten minutes ago.

You went on your way home, the ever-present anxiety of confronting Peter growing by the second.

Hours later, dressed down to your pajamas and reading his words over again, you’re still thinking about it, dread now gnawing on your insides.

You couldn’t even enjoy your newfound peace of mind. Ever since the voice stopped, Peter twined into all of your thoughts: his notes, his visits, his smile, your connection to him. There had to be a reason why destiny paired you. Besides being your Soulmate, what is he to you? What are you to him?

Unrest barred you from sleep for most of the night, and when you woke up the next morning, showered and ready to tackle another day, it hit you. 

It’s Saturday—your day off this week—and you’re not scheduled to go back to work until Monday.

You could put off telling him… but what would be the point? It’d only prolong the inevitable. You needed to come clean today.

Picking up your phone, you steadily tap in his memorized cell number, then type:

-Hey Peter, it’s Y/N. Can you come by my place? We need to talk.

Three minutes later, he texts back.

-On my way.

✦ ✧✦ ✧

A nice, early summer breeze billows around you, doing its best to calm down your erratic nerves as you wait for Peter on the roof.

Are you doing the right thing?

Will Peter be okay with this?

What if he isn’t?

You jump out of your skin at the muffled Thwip and sudden appearance of Peter standing a few feet away.

His chestnut hair is windswept, and he’s wearing regular clothes, a faded blue Midtown High hoodie and denim jeans. You weren’t sure why you expected him to come dressed in his suit. It could be because you heard the sound of his web-slinger first and immediately thought of Spider-Man, but it’s more likely that your brain hasn’t connected that they are one and the same. You don’t see Spider-Man when you see him. All you see is Peter.

He’s tense, not moving an inch closer and keeping his shoulders pinched up like he’s on the defense. You can’t guess why he would be.

Gulping down a hard lump lodged in your throat, you stutter, “H-hi.”

He gives you a polite smile that doesn’t reach his sullen eyes. “Hey”

You both begin at the same time.

“Peter, I—”

“Look, Y/N—”

Ice floods your stomach, freezing your veins and squeezing your pounding heart. He has something to say to you? About what? You subtly jerk your head up, signaling for him to speak first.

Peter clears his throat, looks down at his shoes, then back up at you. “I know you’ve been hiding from me.”

“You do?” you squeak, eyes wide.

“Yeah, and it’s okay.”

Your voice hikes an octave. “It is?”

He nods. “Yeah. It’s fine. I get it.” He stops to scratch the back of his neck and dejectedly rambles on, “I’m not the safest person to be around, and it’s all super weird and a lot to take in. Like, a lot. My Aunt May freaked out too when she found out. Anyway, I… I get it if you don’t, y’know, don’t want me.”

“Wait, hold on,” you interrupt, trying to wrap your head around what he said. “You think… you think I don’t want you because you’re Spider-Man?”

“Well, yeah.” He says it like there couldn’t be any other possible reason.

You lower your gaze to the ground, unable to meet his curious gaze. “No, Peter, that’s not it.” Tears prick your eyes, but you fight like hell to keep them from falling. Steeling yourself, you quietly confess, “It’s me. I can’t be your Soulmate because…” A rebellious tear rolls down your cheek. “Because I’m not ready.”

As soon as you spoke the truth out loud, laying yourself and your broken soul bare, you dimly sense the previously severed string quiver deep down inside your chest. It’s the first time you felt it in five years, and it’s not how you remember it. It’s not severed, but it’s not whole either. Its presence only reminds you of what you can’t have, what you aren’t ready for.

In the ensuing quiet, you swipe the tear off your cheek and look at everything except Peter. Yellow tulips are blooming on someone’s balcony in the neighboring apartment building. A handful of fluffy clouds float in the piercing blue sky. An orange tabby cat is sun-bathing in a window.

It’s such a beautiful day. Yet, here you are, struggling not to cry on a roof.

Peter breaks through the silence, murmuring, “To be honest, I’m not ready either.”

“Really?” You ask, a little too hopeful, bringing your eyes back to his. They look so weary yet resolute.

“Yeah. I was actually freaking out that night we met.” He timidly grins, and your heart flips. “I didn’t know what to say, then I screwed up and forgot to ask if you were okay after I had literally just saved you from falling. Not really a glowing first impression.”

Astonishing yourself, you laugh. You couldn’t help it. There was absolutely nothing remotely hilarious about that night, but the way Peter described it, as if it were a blunder solely on his part, was so ridiculous that it was funny. Peter joins in, too, his laugh coming out airy and wondrously addictive. That smile you couldn’t stop thinking about for a whole week brightens his face.

When the laughs fade, Peter soberly says, “Even if we aren’t ready, maybe we can try being friends, just to see where things go? I mean, we were meant to be together for a reason, right? This could be it.”

You unconsciously nibble on your lower lip, considering his proposal. It hadn’t occurred to you that he might want to be friends. Would you want to do that? These days, you aren’t really open to platonic relationships, and Soulmate or not, being in a friendship would require some sort of connection. You don’t like those much.

Be that as it may, Peter seems like the type to respect your many boundaries, and that’s exactly what you would prefer in a friend at the moment. Someone who doesn’t pry. Someone who doesn’t uphold generic expectations. You could go for a diner talk every once in a while.

Besides, it’s just a little friendship. Most are surface level, and some don’t even last a year. What’s the worst that could happen?

You sincerely smile at Peter, wondering about the last time your smiles were sincere, and say, “Okay. Let’s be friends.”

His face radiates joy. “Seriously?”

“Yeah, I think we can do that. But I have a few terms.”

Peter eagerly nods, waiting.

You try not to focus on how his happiness thrills you. “One, don’t tell anyone we’re Soulmates. I don’t really want any of my coworkers to know.”

His smile drops into a sheepish wince. “I kinda already told Ned. But he won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

“That’s okay. It’s mostly my coworkers I’m worried about,” you reassure. You weren’t going to berate him for telling his best friend. If things were different, you’d have done the same. “Two, don’t ask me to hang out with your other friends. I don’t do big friend circles.”

“Got it,” he militantly nods again. “It’s mostly just Ned and me anyway.”

“And three,” your grin broadens. “If Chris asks you what’s going on between us, be super vague.”

“Done.” He smirks back at you, then extends his hand. “Friends?”

When your hand touches his, and you shake on it, the warmth of his palm thaws out all your remaining anxiety. “Friends.”

✦ ✧✦ ✧

When Monday rolls around, a tiny ball of doubt weighs you down.

It’s not that you were afraid of talking to Peter. You were actually looking forward to getting to know him now that you officially became friends. It’s the future you’re stuck on. What happens if you get too attached to this friendship and want more? What if friendship is all he wants? What if it’s the other way around?

If you were honest with yourself, you’d know which way the gage is leaning, and it’s not in your favor.

You’re cleaning off the bar top when Peter comes in, doing his usual greeting with Chris before settling down on a barstool in front of you. He’s a little high strung, leaning his chin on his hand, then thinking against it, only to do it again. It was oddly comforting to know that he was overthinking too.

The corners of your lips tug up in a soft smile. “Hi, Peter.”

Your face warms as he smiles back. “Hey, Y/N.”

Chris barges in, leaning his elbows on the bar top and gaping incredulously at you and Peter. “Woah, woah, woah! Did I miss something? Since when are you two speaking in public?”

Peter checks his watch. “About thirty-seven seconds ago.”

“Oh, come on, dude. At least tell me what happened.”

You and Peter share a knowing look like two conniving co-conspirators sharing an inside joke, and you giggle as Chris huffs in annoyance. He glumly storms off when you two stay hushed, muttering, “Fine, next time you need a middle-man, count me out.”

“Does he hold grudges?” Peter asks after Chris walks out of earshot.

You’re still shaking with giggles. “Not at all. He’ll be back to his happy self in less than an hour.”

Peter only stays at Hal’s for twenty-five minutes, but they were the funniest and most intriguing twenty-five minutes you ever worked.

The conversation began slowly at first, but each question loosened the formalities. Peter asked about easy things: when did you get into art, when did you start working at Hal’s, and when was your birthday, all while digging into his slice of pie. He caught on fast enough to know the topic of parents was off-limits, and he thankfully chose to stay away from any talk of the blip.

When you asked him questions, he was open and responsive, jumping at the chance to talk about his passion for bio-sciences and Star Wars, sometimes covertly mentioning some of the duties he has a Spider-Man. Not a minute was wasted. You talked while serving customers and cleaning tables, keeping up the joke of staying quiet when Chris tried to meddle.

It all turned out smoother than you expected. Almost too smooth, and you’re not sure if that’s good or bad.

You are sure about one thing, though. You like having Peter as a friend.

...

Part V

[coldshrugs]

More Vampire IF thoughts!

So I was pretty critical about this yesterday and those criticisms haven’t changed. But it’s not all bad so I wanted to compile my thoughts (erratic as they are) after playing through all of Book 1 and a chunk of Book 2 even though I said I wouldn’t but we’ll get to that!

The Bad

I think the writing is lacking; syntax is often confusing and sometimes words and phrases recur so often as to be distracting.

The series could benefit from sensitivity readers, or a more varied group of them if they exist - I get that they’re vampires but describing people of color as animalistic like multiple times is sort of yikes, imo. There’s at least a way to phrase it that isn’t so immediately jarring??

I also don’t like the MC being in law enforcement. There are a couple of choices that let you blow off how you got there but eh, it just doesn’t sit well with me For Reasons.

It took... a long time to care about the plot, but that could very well be a Me Thing. (spoilers) Until we moved the plot to the underground facility and started learning about The Agency, I was just spite reading because I’d already paid for the content.

Oh and I am still incredibly salty about the way the LI genders are handled. 

The Good

I’m sure everyone is playing this for the romance and I’m so far enjoying most of that content and how it’s handled. I’ve only been playing through the one route, but it seems like the major story beats won’t shift too much just because you romance different folks. The Mason romance so far is very satisfying in its portrayal of reluctant coworkers with physical chemistry to begrudging friends with benefits to “if I pretend I don’t care about this person, I won’t have to care about this person.” And an emotional slowburn is one of my fave tropes.

The NSFW scenes have an option for explicit or fade-to-black, which is nice. It’s not always comfy to read that sort of thing in first- or second-person.

I like the one on one time with the other core cast members as well! It’s fun and you get a sense for their personalities. It doesn’t feel forced.

How relationship choices (romantic, platonic, and familial) set in Book 1 carry over into Book 2. I wish there was more opportunity to shift them within Book 2 though.

Once you GET to some decent plot, the premise is alright?? It’s just really slow getting there. I love the “shadowy government agency in charge of the supernatural” thing, i.e. Men In Black or Hellboy. This WHOLE THING could’ve been that without the cop angle. Once I learned more about this, I wanted to keep reading in the hopes this would become a bigger focus and it has, so I’m in. If this wasn’t a focus of the plot, I probably would not be sustained on the romance aspect alone??

There’s a good deal of character customization. Appearance, preferences, apartment style, skills.

All in all, I’m new to IF and this seems to be THE ONE everyone is reading. I’m not immune to FOMO so here I am. TWC is fun fluff. I will probably keep reading as the new books come out since there are nuggets of enjoyment to be found here. But the series is, so far, not without its missteps (I have no idea if these are things the fandom is talking about but I don’t really have interest in discourse - I’m just sharing my impressions). There’s a small improvement from Book 1 to Book 2, and hey, maybe the third one will follow that pattern!

[grizzlee30]

Hey y’all. The following is from a writing prompt I did a little while ago. Posting it here for posterity. If you’d like, let me know what you think!

TRANSMISSION: OPERATION ALEXANDIRA IS UNDERWAY.

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

Being a Cataloger is no easy task, though it is an honor. Many beings from across the galaxy wish they could have the honor of knowing everything there is to know about their homeworld. Being a Cataloger means that no secret is too great, no business that isn’t theirs. They have absolute freedom and authority to investigate and record all that happens on their planet, and no government or organization is allowed to keep anything from them. Their motto was: “Posterity is the most important tool of hindsight.”

Antherumberbane, a Froxin of a more variant lineage, found the task to be perpetually exciting. The Froxins had forgone government and borders some millennia ago. The fallout of a war that nearly glassed their planet brought about the kind of perspective about self-control that one might get when you feel your balance tip just a little too far off a steep cliff. The consequential guilt that had formed in their collective consciousness brought them to a silent and official result: Anything they did, they would do for the greater good of the planet and their species. The discovery of their planet by the Collective Alliance of Planetwide Sentiance (Or CAPS for those who needed to save a minute) also helped to shift that global perspective, as that day, the world grew to an unimaginable size. Keeping home tidy seemed like a logical priority. This led to a renaissance of sorts, as every Froxin dedicated their life to the pursuit of science and the arts. Weapons and the arms race became a fleeting memory and the planet of Flotilla became a beautiful eutopia.

Antherumberbane was no different from the other Froxins. They too believed in the pursuit of a better world, which is why he agreed to the lonely job of Cataloger for CAPS. Antherumberbane did not take the decision lightly, as being a Cataloger was a lifelong commitment, not one easily broken. They had a nice life on Flotilla, for a while. They had a lovely partner that they love more than anything. But even in a world as advanced and as generous as Flotilla, sickness still existed, and tragedy was not unheard of. After their death, Antherumberbane decided to leave his post as a scribe for the scientific community and took the offer to become isolated, for that‘s what Catalogers were.

The purpose of Catalogers was not to gain intelligence to spread to other worlds. In fact, Catalogers were to take a vow of silence with anyone except other Catalogers. This was to prevent any secrets from other planets from being divulged to their home planets. Instead, Catalogers were tasked with creating a sort of galactical time capsule. Should CAPS ever fall or its members go to war, an indestructible data hold on a remote comet flying unpredictably through the stars, known to the Catalogers as “The Remnant” would be the only remains of the alliance. The records inside of it would be sealed whilst the citadel of CAPS remained to function, unsealing only in the event that the alliance had truly fallen.

Antherumberbane had questioned the method of storage privately many times in-between their duties. They understood the sentiment behind it: Create a record of every success and failure of the most advanced systems in our time so future alliances could learn from them. They were comfortable enough with the functioning of the citadel being the key to the files being sealed. It was the most defended structure in the galaxy, and no one planet could take it without serious consequences. It was even unlikely that a group of planets would have the resources to take the vessel, as it acted as its own sovereign territory governed by multiple representatives of each planet. It had its own artillery, military, software, and hardware defenses. It even had its own armada, made up of 20% of each of its member’s fighting force. It was certainly possible for the citadel to fall, Antherumberbane did not kid themselves, but it was a slim chance that anyone would ever want to. Even the warrior race of the Chibathons, who valued strength above all else to rule, saw the importance of a strong alliance within the galaxy and were able to rationalize that true strength came from such agreements.

No, what Antherumberbane took most unnerving was the location of the data. A comet kept the vault moving, surely. But it was unpredictable in its movements. There was no way to be certain it would not crash into some random asteroid and break apart, or for it come into contact with other debris or even another comet! And the Remnant itself was supposedly indestructible, sure, but Antherumberbane was pretty certain no one ever tried throwing it into a sun. Tens of Thousands of years of data could be lost in an instant, all because someone trusted the path of a frozen chunk of rock hurtling through space. The idea made Antherumberbane feel queasy like he stood up too fast from meditation. Still, he had been assured by the powers that be that, while the schematics for the vessel were vague to prevent tampering, it was unlikely that anything short of complete atomization could all out destroy the Remnant.

An alarm beeped on a device strapped around their third appendage, and Antherumberbane gave it a tap with his fourth to answer it. A message played, at first quietly in a language they could not possibly understand, followed by an automated translation in the same tired inflection and tone as the one speaking it. The recorded message played directly into their auditory bone.

“This is Stephanie Martins of Earth. I am calling an emergency assembly of the Catalogers. Please be in attendance at Primary stardate 17-85-1800.”

Hi Reddit! Rest is here:

Antherumberbane listened to the message again. Human emotion had always eluded them. Humans had the benefit of experiencing emotion brought about by chemicals in the brain, thus allowing for the evolutionary advantage of their emotions affecting the state of their body, turning anger and desperation into uncharacteristically amazing feats of strength, speed, and creativity. Many theorized this was how they became the apex predator of their planet without showing any outward traits of a common one. They had not so much fought their way to the top, but survived and out-maneuvered it. Still, there was what Froxins would describe as… sadness? No, more like exhaustion. Stephaniemartins- No, Stephanie Martins, humans had separate names instead of combing them. They could never remember naming customs of all the different planets, a weakness on their part. They had always instead defaulted to stating each members’ full name and title to be safe. Stephanie Martins had always had an air of defeat each time she discussed her home planet. Antherumberbane could understand why. They were still a primitive species when CAPS found them. They reminded them of the Froxins before the Atom Wars, petty and prideful, yet capable of change and great things. There was much to be desired of Earth, though he doubted Stephanie Martins would see it in her time. Give it a century or two, Antherumberbane thought, surely they will come around once they are comfortable with their new galactic neighbors.

Antherumberbane boarded Their private starship and activated the slip drive. They set their destination for the citadel and watched as the stars and planets warped into unfamiliar shapes and sizes. As the slip drive bend the space around it to appear next to the citadel, Anterumberbane gave pause to the message they had received. An emergency assembly was not uncommon, at least they had experienced a few. While it is true that Catalogers mainly work for posterity and they were not allowed to share information with their home plants, it did not mean that the information collected was never used. Catalogers were sometimes tasked with solving galactic issues that no combination of planets could solve. By pooling knowledge, classified and not from each planet, they could privately come up with a solution without involving politics or risking cross-contamination of government secrets. They would present the solution but not how they got there, and it was a very efficient system. Plagues were stamped out in a matter of months, treaties were drafted, and even advances in technology were spawned from these meetings. What trouble Antherumberbane is what problem Earth could have that would warrant an emergency meeting. Earth was a part of CAPS, but they still very much kept to themselves, determined to solve their own problems with no outside help, much like the impulsive adolescents they had on Flotilla. Yes, young and unabashed pride seemed to be a universal trait in sentient beings.

On the other hand, the fact that Earth’s Cataloger had called for an emergency meeting could show a sign of good faith. The humans were finally making use of the shared resources that CAPS had to offer, the first step into trusting the other planets of the alliance. This excited Antherumberbane and they became suddenly determined to put forth their best efforts to prove to Earth that they were there to help.

Slipping out of the Stream, Antherumberbane docked at their private port for Catalogers. They gathered their materials from their office on the ship and made their way to the meeting area. Along the way he met with another Cataloger, Grzx, and they walked in tandem to the meeting room. More accurately, Anterhumberbane strode on his tentacles whilst Grzx propelled himself forward with his fins using a backpack-like device that his people created to simulate swimming on air. The Yoliths were strictly an aquatic species, sporting no legs and many fins on their torso area. Though they had developed a pair of small limbs for manipulation, Antehrumber could not help but think that Yoliths had done the most effort in acclimating to an alliance filled with mostly land-based beings. Though he did appreciate their naming customs. One name, pure and simple.

“Morning keep you,” Grzx said, a traditional Froxin greeting. Antherumberbane always appreciated the small efforts Grzx would make to appeal to other species. They returned the favor.

“Good currents to you as well my friend.” Antherumberbane tilted their long neck down in appreciation and respect. “Do you have any inkling as to what Earth may be calling on us for?”

“Only that it is about time that they ask for it.” Grzx’s translator made his speech sound garbled as if he was actually speaking from underwater. “My home planet was becoming anxious in the face of Earth’s reluctance for collaboration”

“Many Froxins agree with that sentiment, though personally, I feel their reluctance is not unwarranted. Not two human lifetimes has passed since they made first contact. They are allowed some caution.”

“Regardless, their isolation bodes dark tidings. I understand their reluctance to put forward their own cooperation, but refusing it from the rest of the galaxy? That doesn’t seem natural.”

Anterhumberbane gave a slight pause before saying, “Collaboration is not something that can be easily undone. Once you invite another’s culture into yours, it is very hard to separate the two.”

“They have already chosen to enter the alliance. We did not force their hand in this matter.”

“Perhaps not, but we forget what it was like being the only sentient beings known to our homes. The prospect of such a discovery could shake the foundation of any culture.”

“True, it still perplexes me though.”

“It has also been a long time since CAPS has discovered a new sentient species. Many thought we had dried out our galaxy of such phenomena. The remote Sol System had been out of the way for many travelers, and it was a miracle they were discovered before they made it out of their own solar system. But these things take time, my friend. How long till the Yoliths came out from their watery abode.”

Grzx gave thought to that, then added pensively, “We had three generations of rulers before we officially gave our efforts to the cause. It took two more to agree to one of our own being a Cataloger.”

Antherumberbane gave a please expression. “And the humans have offered their own Cataloger in just one generation. Give them time, Grzx.”

Grzx gave a small grunt, conceding the argument. “ I supposed it does not matter now. Earth has asked for our help. Perhaps the solution we can provide today will finally allow them to come out of hiding.”

Antherumberbane gave a small girdle of approval. They headed to a large room with a large black reflective floor. In the center was a gold round table, hollow in the center making it look like a large crescent moon. In the center of the table was a small circular podium, where holograms could be displayed showing diagrams, maps, and other visual aids to assist during such meetings. It also acted as a place for Catologars to make speeches or present arguments, allowing them to turn 360 degrees to address all of those present equally. A large dome topped the room fitted with one-way glass that allowed them to see the stars dotting the expansive space that lay beyond. Many were told this room was designed so that Catalogers could always look out and remind themselves why they do this. Antherumberbane loved that idea the most out of his fellow Catalogers. It made them feel a mixture of inspired and nostalgic.

The other members had already arrived, making a total of 28 representatives of different species, humans making the 29th. Stephanie Martins had not arrived yet, her chair noticeably empty. Not surprising, however, as humans still preferred to travel at light speeds rather than using the more expedient slip drives. After giving proper greetings and asking around, it was speculated that the human should arrive any minute, as light speed was still an impressive speed and would not cause much of a delay from Earth.

Antherumberbane was speaking with Asarith, part of the small psionic Britewave species, when the doors slid open and Asarith gestured with one of its many waving policies, saying, “She is here.”

Humans were not an unusual species if unusual still existed amongst the diverse species of CAPS. While their skins could be many different tones, Stephanie Myer’s was pale, dotted with some specks of darker tones known as “freckles.” Her hair was a bright red, and her optical nerves gave a soft hue of… what was that color again?.... Ah, “hazel.” Antehrumberbane wondered why humans had a color that was only used in reference to their optical nerves, but every culture has its quirks. Everyone politely sat down, unsure as to whether to give a cheerful greeting or a more concerned one, given their unfamiliarity with human culture and the reason for this meeting. Stephanie Martins gave restrained nods of greeting as she took her place at the podium.

Antehrumberbane took his seat next to the reptilian Hamargin name KethelIkori. Harargins and Froxins shared the similar feature of having their names combined instead of separate ones or titles. He leaned over to Antherumberbane and whispered “The human seems to be in unusually low spirits.”

Antehrumberbane worried about Kethelkori’s use of the term “human” instead of her given name. That attitude did not bode well for the positive and helpful attitude that both they and Grzx had discussed earlier, but he did not take offense to his analysis of Stephanie Martins. She looked drained of all emotion. She had a great deal of moisture on her brow and was seemingly shaking. Atherumberbane tried to remember what shaking meant in human body language. They knew that could easily mean she was cold, though the EVO suit that the human was wearing should provide their preferred environmental temperature. It also could mean anger, as they remembered some of the human literature they had tried to consume in order to understand them better. The phrase “shaking with anger” had been a common one throughout. Perhaps the emergency was cause for such outrage? Though her brow was not pointing down, as is a common trait of angry humans. No, this wasn’t anger. Perhaps…

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice. I have a message from my homeworld that I have been instructed to read to you now.” Stephanie Martins said.

The translator mimicked her tone and emotion. Antehrumberbane put it together now. It was not sadness they had heard on the recorded message and it was not anger or cold that caused Stephanie Martins to shake so. Her voice quavered in a way that was not unfamiliar to them. It was the same inflection they had when their partner was diagnosed and the severity of the disease was revealed to them.

It was fear. Fear that was about to give way to despair.

Patreons above, this must be worse than they thought. Antherumberbane showed their full attention, as did many other who came to the same conclusion. Each was prepared to listen intently, offering any information they could provide.

Stephanie Martins took a long pause, acknowledging the shift in the room. She breathed deeply before saying, “First I want to thank you all for your help and companionship. You have become some of my closest friends and I just wanted to say that-” she trailed off, and Antherumberbane heard something unusual. For a split second, he thought he heard a high pitch tone that faded just as Stephanie Martins finished talking. He looked around. Others who had similar auditory processing showed their concerns. Antherumberbane was about to speak, but Stephanie Martins began talking again, this time with more determination to prop up the fear.

“This meeting has been called for those present to witness this declaration. For too long, Earth has felt the cold oppressive heal of CAPS and the pressure to become one with its members. For too long, Earth has been expected to give up its valuable resources to an organization whose values are heavily skewed. You talk of peace and posterity, yet you neglect the now. You talk of those who come after us and pay no mind to those who are here now. Your alliance is built on the flimsy foundation that all species should agree with you and do whatever you say. No more.”

The room was stunned silent. Many species showed anger and confusion on their faces and scoffs. Others showed concern. Antherumberbane did not know what to think. What could be gained by such insults? The CAPS has not asked for nearly as much as this speech would suggest. And oppressive? This does not make.

“As for the Catalogers, you find yourselves in a position above us. You observe all the galaxy’s secrets yet do not share them. You only use that knowledge when one of your own deems it necessary. You stay in your Ivory towers, deeming where and when you can use this power. No more.”

This broke most of the Cataloger’s calm and composed demeanor. There was a terrible uproar from those who firmly believed in the Cataloger’s purpose. Grzx was one of the most vocal, stating his discontent loudly. Antherumberbane still didn’t understand. Was this some ill attempt at humor by the humans. Stephanie Martins had moisture in her eyes now, a biological response to stress known as “crying,” Antherumberbane recognized.

Stephanie Martins continued, trembling even more. “But now we know your secrets.”

The room fell silent.

“We now know where you hide that knowledge. We will find it and we will spread it. All will be revealed for the galaxy to see. No more secrets. No more false promises. No more.”

Before anyone had a chance to react. Stephanie Martins looked up and yelled as loud and as fast as she could “THEY ARE ATTACKING THE CITADEL THEY ARE TRYING TO FIND THE RE-”

Just as soon as she had yelled, Antherumberbane heard the high pitch tone again. And as it grew to its highest note, Stephanie Myer’s head exploded, showering the gallery in viscera and broken glass from her EVO suit. Many cried out in shock. Antherumberbane shot upwards, now full-on all of his tentacles. What could this mean? Did the humans really mean to…

There was a loud scream as one of the Catalogers, a Canine-like Urgunnian, yelled and pointed at the dome. Antherumberbane looked only for a moment and realizing what he had seen, he turned on his communicator, broadcasting to all channels. Before the dome was breached by incoming fire from the unmistakable human armada, and before everyone in the meeting room was sucked out into the terrible vacuum of space, Antherumberbane broke his vow of silence and spoke a final message.

“Earth has declared war. The Remnant is not safe.”

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

TRANSMISSION: OPERATION ALEXANDRIA. PHASE 1 IS A SUCCESS. PHASE 2 IS UNDERWAY.

[quickspinner]

Sneak Peek - The Magic of You

This is pretty rough because I’m still in the middle of writing it and I’m only posting it so I can say @bloody-no-kissu​ here’s a preview of your Secret Santa fic! Sorry it’s taking so long but the story got away from me, so this is really only a snippet. 

Bloody asked for fantasy AUs but we all know how much she likes Nagas so I decided to go that route, just...a little differently. Love to @verfound and @motherofwoofers; there’s echoes of Winters and Heart Scales here but it was less that I was inspired by you guys (though you are always inspiring) and more that I had this idea and then was like ‘how do I do this without completely ripping off Ver and MW’) 😆 So there’s probably some similarities but hopefully I’m not stepping on your toes too much. 💜

Anyway, I present this chunk from the middle of the beginning without context, and  you’ll have to wait to see the rest. MWAHAHAHAHA.

He seemed restless today. He didn’t sit on her rock and play. He picked up the little cake she had left for him, but merely set it down again, dropped his pack and his instrument in a pile next to the rock, and walked restlessly around the meadow.

Marinette drew back in alarm when he passed close to the trees concealing her, but he passed her without even looking in her direction, clearly agitated. Frowning, Marinette followed him at a safe distance, keeping hidden in the trees. The minstrel-mage passed the ring of trees that marked the edge of her meadow and over to the cliff beyond, where he stood, looking pensively out over the forest below. 

He shouldn’t walk so close to the cliff, Marinette fretted as she watched from the edge of the trees. It was hard to tell from this side but that overhang wasn’t as sturdy as it looked, and it had rained only a few days ago— 

Even as she thought it, she felt the vibration in the earth, and heard the grinding of earth and loose rocks.

She didn’t even think. She just moved.

***

It all happened so fast that it was over before Luka understood what was happening. There was a rumble and a rush and he was falling, and then excruciating pain in his arm that tore a scream of agony from his throat. 

There was a rush of earth past him, below him, and his legs were dangling in midair; he was dangling, hanging only by the arm that hurt so very, very much. Luka looked up—and for a moment he forgot everything else in his shock. Everything else that happened was a blur, but he would remember the face above him for the rest of his life, he was sure. A woman’s face, pale with fear, fangs peeking from parted lips and blue, slit-pupiled eyes wide with fright. Midnight blue hair tumbled forward over strong shoulders, and one clawed hand gripped the edge of the cliff. 

The other, he realized, was the source of the pain in his arm. Understanding came to him; the cliff had given way beneath him and this woman—creature—being had stopped him from falling, but her long claws had plunged into his wrist. Blood streamed down his arm and dripped on the rocks below. Luka gasped as he looked down. His good hand scrabbled at the cliffside, but he had no claws to grip with, and his fingers crumbled the earth and slid off the rock where he grabbed at it. He kicked his feet, but that made his savior yelp, increased the pain in his arm, and he didn’t find any purchase, so he stilled, gasping and dizzy from the pain.  

Luka cried out in pain and surprise when the grip on his wrist tightened, but he bit down on it as he looked back up. The woman—creature—being above him shifted her body a little more, bracing her free arm on an intact part of the cliff, and then heaved, pulling back from the cliff edge and dragging Luka along with her.

It hurt—oh, it hurt, so much that his vision went black for a moment—but Luka was enough in possession of his senses now to realize that he was dangling over a drop that would surely kill him, so he muffled his cries as best he could, and tried not to thrash too much. 

It felt like an eternity before she pulled him up high enough that he could see over the cliff and grab (uselessly) at the grassy top. He almost slipped off again in surprise when he got a full look at his savior. It had been obvious even in his confused state that she was not human, but he was unprepared to find that somewhere around her waist, her human torso tapered into the body of a gigantic serpent. Naga, some part of his brain supplied. No, female, so...nagi. 

She pulled him up a little farther, and when his shoulders had cleared the top of the cliff, she curled a loop of her tail—body? Around in front of him. “Hold on to me,” she told him, indicating that he should wrap his arms around her serpent body. He did so, clumsily and not very effectively with his wounded arm, but it was enough to keep him secure while she leaned down over the cliff edge again and grabbed his belt on either side of his waist with both hands, using it to haul him the rest of the way over the cliff.

That was not particularly comfortable either, but preferable to more claws in his flesh, and regardless, he was back on solid ground. He crawled on his elbows a little father from the cliff edge and collapsed, panting. After a moment he rolled on his side to look at the nagi. 

She was panting too, and her slit pupils had blown wide in her frightened face. Her expression was stricken as she stared at his blood on her hand, painting the long claws that had pierced his flesh. 

Luka rolled over and got to his knees. It made him dizzy—he’d probably lost a lot of blood. He put his undamaged hand quickly over the wound and began to sing, his voice quick and tight with pain but true. The undamaged hand glowed, and so did the wound. His savior shifted beside him, but Luka had no attention to spare for anything but the healing; it was not a magic that came easily to him, and it was difficult enough to concentrate past the pain and the fear of losing the use of his hand. 

It took longer than it would have taken his sister, but he was able to complete the healing, and when he flexed his hand he found that he had full motion and sensation. He still felt weak and shaky with blood loss and reaction, but all of that would pass. Luka breathed a sigh of relief and turned a smile up at the being who had saved his life. 

“Thank you,” he said warmly. 

She made a distressed sound, still holding her bloodstained hand out as if it didn’t belong to her.  

Luka wrapped his now-healed but still bloody fingers gently around hers. “A broken neck would have been much harder to fix,” he told her gently. “And so I thank you. I had rather lose the use of my hand than my life.” He smiled, tilting his head a little to look up into her face. “And as I have lost neither, there is no need for guilt or grief.” He unhooked his waterskin from his belt, and pulled out the stopper with his teeth. He took her hand again and poured the water over it, rinsing away his blood from both their hands. He would have rinsed her scales too where he had clung to her, but he feared that might be offensive, so he offered her the skin and let her do it herself. 

Some of the tension left her, and she sat back a little, sinking slightly onto her...tail-body. Luka tried not to let his glance become a stare. “Forgive me,” he said, tearing his eyes away and forcing them back up to hers, snake-slitted but so very, very blue. “I’ve never met a nagi before, and I don’t know your customs, so I hope it isn’t very rude to ask your name?” 

She smiled a little, the hint of fangs peeping from between her lips before she caught herself  and tightened the smile to hide them. “It is customary to give yours first, since this is my home,” she said, and Luka was vaguely surprised to hear only a hint of hissing on the sibilants. Prejudice, he scolded himself. 

“I do it gladly. My name is Luka.” He put a hand over his heart and bowed slightly. 

Her hand fluttered uncertainly to her chest, and she did the same, dipping slightly awkwardly as she swayed forward on her serpent half rather than bending at the waist as he had. “I am Marinette,” she told him, and then she blushed—a very human reaction that gave Luka an odd little thrill. “I have been listening to your music.” 

“Ah,” Luka nodded in understanding. “It is your song I have been hearing, coming to visit me,” he grinned, and Marinette’s blush deepened. Her tail shifted to coil beneath her, and he glanced down without meaning to, but caught himself quickly. Even so, something about motion spoke of discomfort, and he thought back to the fluctuations in her song when he’d spoken to her in the past. Without the trance he heard only faint echoes of her melody, but he thought he was embarrassing her. “I’m very happy to finally meet you. Thank you for the gifts.” 

Marinette looked away, the fingers of her clawed hands playing nervously across the scales of her tail like a maiden might twist her hands in her lap. “I only wanted to thank you, for your music. It’s...beautiful. I’ve loved hearing you play.”

“I’ve enjoyed having the company,” he told her honestly, and smiled at her look of surprise. “I always play better with an audience, even a shy one.” 

Marinette blushed and covered her face with her hands. Luka found himself reaching to touch her before he thought the better of it. Her arm felt very solid under his hand, but also very human. “Don’t be embarrassed. I truly did enjoy your presence, and I’m not offended that you chose to stay secret. The world is not a safe place, and you didn’t know me.”

“I did know you,” she said quickly, peeking out from her fingers—a sweet, childlike gesture, he would have thought it, though those deadly sharp claws were at odds with the image. “At least, I felt like I did, eventually. I haven’t been afraid of you for a long time.” 

“I shouldn’t think you’d be frightened of much,” Luka teased, tugging a hand away from her face and turning it so her claws shone in the light. “You’re very strong, for which I’m extremely grateful.” He winked at her, and she giggled. 

“You shouldn’t have gone so close to the cliff, especially if it’s rained recently,” she admonished, rising up slightly as her tail uncoiled from beneath her. Before he could blink it shot out like a whip, striking the edge of the cliff. A chunk of earth crumbled beneath the blow and he could hear the rocks rattle down the other side. “It’s not safe. It erodes underneath when the storms come, and then the edge is unstable.” She pointed at the pale purple flowers growing in the grass. “You shouldn’t go beyond where the asters grow.” 

Luka saw now, what he hadn’t before, that they formed a boundary that followed the curve of the cliff, but left a good size border. “I consider myself warned for the future,” Luka observed, shivering a little. Marinette moved closer to him, a hand hovering near his cheek.

“You’re so pale,” she fretted.

Luka sighed, and tried to stand. He swayed and Marinette had to catch him—gently, this time, keeping her claws from his skin. He smiled gratefully at her. “I need my gittern,” he told her, and she slipped under his arm, pressing against his side. She raised her body up to a height comfortable for him, and then helped him back towards the meadow.

They found his gittern and pack where he’d left it. Marinette helped him sit on the rock and recline against it as he usually did. She wound around the rock, and hovered over him, pressing his instrument into his hands, her expression still worried. 

“I need to deep trance,” he told her, closing his eyes as he set shaking fingers to the strings. “I can sense you in trance as I did before, but I won’t have attention to speak.” 

Marinette nodded slowly. “Do as you must,” she said, sinking back a little and folding her hands across the bend in her tail that would have been a human lap. “I want you to be well. I want to be sure I haven’t harmed you badly.” 

Luka chuckled. “Lady, you saved my life.” He opened his eyes and turned his head to look into hers. “And whatever harm I have taken from it, I consider it a price well paid to have met you at last.”

[nikki-writes-stuff]

Chaser - Part One

Pairing: Din Djarin (The Mandalorian) x Reader, Gang Leader!Din Djarin x Bartender!Reader 

Summary: No one knows his name, and no one knows his face, but the man who leads one of the most powerful gangs in New York from behind an infamous mask is still feared throughout the city. You, on the other hand, are just a waitress at the club he owns, someone who’s only just barely dipped her toe into the treacherous water of New York’s underworld. But that doesn’t stop your boss from taking a liking to you, and if you weren’t so terrified of all that his attentions could mean for you, maybe you would notice that fear isn’t the only emotion your employer stirs up within you. 

A/N: Hello, everyone! I hope y’all enjoy this - the very first part to the very first fic I’ve ever written about The Mandalorian! Any and all feedback is appreciated - this is my first time writing for Din Djarinn, and even though my love for him is as deep and powerful as the Mississippi, I had some trouble finding his vibe while I was writing this. Let me know if I’m on the right track! (Also, if your name happens to be Rachelle, I apologize in advance. Please just...skip over a certain couple of lines in this story. You’ll know what I’m talking about towards the end.)

You could feel the throbbing of a quick, staccato bassline in your chest; you always could while you were working. The Boss liked the keep the music loud, and for good reason. It was the same reason why smoking was not only permitted but actively encouraged – the thick smoke and thumping music made it all the more difficult to hear and to see what happened in the dark corners of Club Razor Crest. Here, there were only two rules – don’t start shit, and keep your mask on. As long as they followed those two basic principles, the Boss’s patrons were welcome to conduct whatever business they saw fit in the crushed velvet booths and intentionally shadowed halls of his underworld playground.

With the tips of your red, glossy fingernails, you adjusted your mask now, pulling the plastic away from your heated skin by just a centimeter or two. You could have groaned from how good it felt to have cool, fresh air rush in to caress your sweaty forehead; after a week of working at the club, you’d definitely learned why anonymity was so important in a place like this, but you still dreaded putting the blasted thing on in the evenings before your shift.

Greta, one of the other girls who worked there, strutted past you, looking light as a feather as she waltzed around in her eight-inch heels with a tray of drinks balanced above her head. You, by contrast, knew that you had to look as clumsy as a newborn deer in your own stilettos; just like the mask, they were a mandatory part of your uniform that you still hadn’t gotten used to, and though Greta and the other girls had promised you that the constant pain in your feet would soon start to fade, your soles still ached painfully with every shift of your weight.

“Mask on,” your coworker whispered to you in passing. “Boss is here.”

You’d been just about to explain that you weren’t taking it off, that you’d just needed some air, but the words died on your lips when you heard the last part of her warning. Your spine straightened of its own accord, and the hand on your mask promptly fell down to hang by your waist. Scanning the space, you tried to make out the infamous man you’d heard so much about through the dim lighting and hazy air.

“Where?” you asked, but either she ignored you or just didn’t hear, because she kept on walking to her table without sparing you so much as another glance.

You gulped before stiffly making your way to the bar, slipping past the ‘Employees Only’ gate before gathering together the four glasses you’d need for your table’s order. You let your hands and body go on autopilot as you set about assembling their drinks; typically, the waitresses would just drop off their order slips to one of the bartenders and wait for them to make it, but you’d mentioned at your job interview that you had some bartending experience and didn’t mind helping out with the cocktail mixing.

From there, the head bartender, Quill, had sat at the bar and watched you make him an old fashioned right in the middle of your interview. With trembling hands, you’d done so, feeling the older man’s eyes on you all the while as he stroked his bushy white mustache. After one sip of it, he’d nodded his head, and you’d felt relief wash through you as he threw back the rest of the drink.

“You start on Monday,” was all he’d said.

Now, as you grabbed some triple sec from the top shelf, you caught a glimpse of him watching you out of the corner of your eye, and you turned to give him a smile. Quill had been working at Club Razor Crest for as long as anyone could remember, and he was the only person inside the building who didn’t wear a mask; evidently, him and the owner went way back. He was quiet – gruff, even – but for some reason you liked the grumpy older man. And, if you were correctly reading the gleam in his eyes as he looked at you from behind his thick, bushy white eyebrows, you thought that he’d taken a liking to you, too. Or, at least, to your old-fashioneds.

“How’s it going, Quill?” you asked, focusing once again on the long island iced tea you were making. “Busy night?”

You were expecting nothing more than a grunt in response; that was all most people got from him, and ever since he’d hired you, you hadn’t heard anything else, either. But instead, he opened his mouth to speak, only talking loud enough for you to just barely be able to hear him over the music.

“After you finish those drinks, leave ‘em here,” he instructed. “Boss just arrived with some of his friends, and he requested you to serve ‘em.”

You nearly dropped the bottle of rum in your hands, one that was worth more than an entire week’s worth of pay, and your hands scrambled to get a firmer grip on it. Shakily setting it down on the counter, you turned to Quill with wide eyes, your lips parted in shock.

“The Boss requested me to serve them?” Your voice was so high-pitched that it cracked as you said ‘me’, and you cleared your throat before trying once again. “Why does he want me? I’ve never even met him before.”

At that, Quill let out a sigh and turned to you, pursing his lips together until they almost disappeared under his large, unkempt mustache.

“…He likes old-fashioneds,” he shrugged, the corner of his lips jumping up so quickly that you almost missed the half-smile he’d given you. That would have been enough to perturb you for the rest of the evening; you hadn’t seen him smile at anyone after an entire week of working there – not even customers. But, as it was, nothing could cool the anxiety welling up in you as you finished making the rest of your drinks.

“I wonder where he heard about them,” you remarked, and you thought you caught Quill glance at you sheepishly in your peripheral vision.

Your eyes flitted over the room, looking for his booth; someone had said something to you on your first day about the table he kept reserved for himself and his ‘guests’, but you’d forgotten its location completely after the whirlwind of your first day at this new, bizarre job.

After finishing the four drinks and setting them on a tray, you turned towards Quill to ask where the Boss would be sitting. But, an idea stirred in your mind, and on impulse you grabbed a small glass before scanning the selection of bourbons and whiskeys the bar had to offer. Biting your lip, you felt eyes on the back of your head as you perused the different brands, but after settling on a good blend of the two, you turned around to find no one looking at you. Quill was busy taking some drunk guy’s order, and the other patrons at the bar were too busy with their own drinks or conversations to pay you any mind.

With a sigh, you shook off the strange feeling and assembled the rest of what you’d need for an old fashioned, hands moving on autopilot as you heard your dad’s voice in your ear. Make sure you only use enough bitters to saturate the sugar, you recalled him teaching you. Between four and six dashes should do the trick unless someone requests something different. Mix it with the sugar until it forms a slurry, and always add the ice in large chunks so it doesn’t get too watered down. Never overmix it once you add the spirits, just a few stirs before putting in a strip of lemon and orange peel.

Your fingers felt sticky as you snapped the citrus peels in half, spraying just a hint of their sweet oils overtop of the cocktail before rubbing them over the glass’s rim. After dropping them into the drink and mixing it one more time, you turned to see Quill watching you with one eyebrow raised.

“What? You said he likes old-fashioneds,” you shrugged. “Um… could you point me in the direction of his booth?”

Once more, he pursed his lips before pointing towards the far right corner of the room.

“It’s the only circular booth we have,” you heard him mutter as you walked away. “Can’t miss it.”

Making sure to thank him over your shoulder, you straightened your back and made your way through the main room of the club. There wasn’t any dancefloor, nor was there a DJ, but in the center of the space, there was a large, ornate fountain. Water no longer ran through it, but fairy lights had been wrapped around its tall structure, throwing shadows and low, scattered light around the entire room. Tables were centered around it, but typically only the low-ranking or occasional civilian patrons sat at them; the booths were almost always occupied by those who had a deal to make, those who had private (which almost always meant dangerous) matters to discuss, or those who were doing something that was, nine times out of ten, incredibly illegal. You’d walked by tables covered in lines of white powder before, their occupants knowing better than to worry about someone seeing and stopping them.

So long as no fights broke out and everyone stayed anonymous, everyone kept to their own business, and the paycheck was too good for you to worry about the moral connotations of working in such a place. No one had so much as laid a finger on you, and no one would, not while you were under the employment of the infamous leader of the Mandalorians.

After rounding the other side of the fountain, you finally saw the booth Quill had been talking about. It was raised up on a small platform, just high enough to be able to see the rest of the club clearly. Its table was, indeed, in the shape of a circle, and a large booth wrapped around three quarters of its diameter. Seated at it were four men and one woman; three of the men and she were wearing masks similar to your own, but while yours only covered your forehead and the upper half of your nose, theirs descended down their cheeks to their jawline,  covering the entirety of their face except for their mouths and chins.

As it was, you would have found them extremely intimidating, but now, you didn’t even spare them a second glance. Because your eyes were fixed firmly on the Boss, and you were certain that you could feel his fixed onto you.

No one had told you that his mask covered his entire head, and as you stood there, in shock, you wondered why the fuck no one had thought to warn you about it before. It looked as if it were made out of thin but quality plastic, and various scratches and scrapes covered its grey surface. A voice in the back of your mind whispered that it looked like the goth version of Jim Carrey from The Mask, and you had to fight down a manic giggle as your eyes followed the bottom edge of it, which ran along his jawline, below his ears, and then, presumably, around the back of his head right below his hairline.

The front of the mask was what threw you off the most, though. Instead of having any features carved into it to simulate where a mouth or nose should be, there was only a T-shaped panel of what looked to be black glass. Or was it tinted clear plastic? You felt yourself lean forward, unconsciously squinting to see if you could make out any features beneath it.

You heard someone close by clear their throat, and heat flooded your cheeks as you suddenly realized that you’d been standing there for God-knows how long, just staring at one of the most powerful men in the city. No, staring at his mask.

“I-I,” you stammered, looking down at the floor in horror. It was then that you saw the glass that you were still holding, and you sucked in a breath before looking up again.

“Sorry about that, sir,” you apologized, clearing your throat. You leaned forward, setting the drink down in the center of the table. “Quill mentioned that you liked old-fashioneds, so I took the liberty of-“

You cut yourself off, eyes widening as you realized your second mistake. You looked down at the drink and then up to the Boss’s mask, right at where his mouth would be if he weren’t wearing something that covered it completely. Therefore making it impossible to drink what you’d just offered him.

The horror from just a moment ago paled in comparison to what you felt now as you watched him slowly reach forward, the leather of his black gloves squeaking as he picked up the drink you’d brought for him. His head tilted to the side as he examined it, twisting the glass around between his fingers before setting it down again.

“Lemon and orange, huh?”

You jumped when you heard the voice that came from inside the mask; it was clearer than you’d expected it to sound, but it also had a filtered edge to it. Your guess what that there was some sort of microphone-like device inside of it that projected his voice so it wouldn’t be muffled while he spoke.

“U-um, yes sir,” you nodded, lacing your fingers together and resisting the nervous urge to wring your hands. “That’s how my father taught me how to make them. It adds more of a refreshing aftertaste. Or so I’ve found.”

He let out a short hum, pushing the glass towards the woman seated beside him.

“Was her father right?”

You saw her eyebrows jump up under her mask, but without hesitation she did as instructed, taking a sip of the amber cocktail. Without realizing it, you held your breath as she swallowed, running her tongue along the front of her teeth for a moment as she studied the aftertaste.

“It’s good,” she decided after a moment. “Actually, hold on. That’s really good. Damn. Don’t tell Quill, but I like yours even better than his.”

Relief surged through you, and a smile came to your lips as you let the air rush out of your lungs.

“I promise not to tell him; thank you very much, ma’am,” you nodded, jolting when she let out a loud bark of laughter.

“Ma’am? Pfft.” She turned to the Boss, nudging her shoulder against his as she drained the rest of her drink in one gulp. “Hear that, Mando? She called me ma’am.”

“A decision I’m sure she won’t make again,” he remarked dryly, not even turning towards her as she placed the empty glass at the edge of the table.

“Well. Either way, if you can do that with a drink I don’t even usually like, I’d love to see what you can do with a long island,” the woman grinned. “Think you can do that for me?”

“I actually just made one a few minutes ago,” you informed her; under normal circumstances, you would have felt offended by her question, but something in her smile told you that she didn’t mean it seriously. “What can I get for the rest of you guys?”

From there, you tried your best to recover gracefully from your little bout of foot-in-mouth syndrome. Pulling your small notebook out of the hidden pocket in your dress, you wrote down the rest of their drink orders, noticing that two of the men asked for old-fashioneds. From there, the last of the Boss’s party ordered a whiskey sour, and when you’d turned to ask if he’d like anything as well, he’d simply shaken his head no.

After letting them know you’d be back in just a few minutes, you turned and all but fled to the bar, hands balled up into fists as you approached Quill from behind.

“Why would you tell me,” you demanded, “that he requested me because he wanted to try one of my old-fashioneds if he can’t even drink with that mask on?! Why did you just let me bring that drink over, like an enormous buffoon-“

The older bartender turned around to face you, and you took a step backwards when you saw the wide grin stretched across his face. His shoulders were shaking with barely-controlled laughter, and you watched, stunned, as he fought to gain control over his expression again.

“You were the one who assumed that he wanted to try your drink,” he corrected you, busying himself with salting the rim of a margherita glass. “I never said anything like that, just that he enjoyed them.”

You sputtered in disbelief, throwing your hands up in exasperation before starting on your drink orders.

“So it was just some kind of hazing thing, then, was it?” you asked, not able to deny that you felt a twinge of fondness stir in you after seeing his typical stoic demeanor slip.

Quill snorted, cutting his eyes over to you as you worked side by side with him.

“You think I’d bother with that sorta thing?” You turned to see him watching you with amusement still glittering in his eyes. “Just needed some entertainment to get through the rest of this shift.”

A smile tugged at your lips, and you shook your head with a chuckle before returning to the whiskey sour starting to take shape in front of you.

“Well, laugh it up, cuz I’ll have you know I looked like a complete idiot in front of him.”

“I promise you he’s used to that, kid. Don’t worry about it; as long as you get your work done, he won’t pay you a second glance.”

Feeling mildly comforted by his words, you started on the woman’s drink, eyes darting up towards his table. Now that you knew where it was, you could just barely make out the flash of his shiny helmet through the smoke that had settled around the room. Goosebumps ran up and down your arms as, once again, you felt as if you were being watched, and you hastily turned your attention back to drink making.

When all four of them were assembled, you placed them on a tray before stepping out onto the floor once more. You were hyper-aware of the drinks as you balanced them while you walked, and you kept your eyes fixed on only your tray and the ground in front of you. You were not going to spill any of them; you’d already made enough of a fool of yourself, and you were determined not to add a third strike to your record with the Boss.

And, so, you didn’t catch the way his mask had followed your every movement as you crossed towards his table, nor did you notice the knowing smirk the woman beside him was wearing as she glanced between the two of you. You were blissfully unaware of any undue attention to yourself as you passed out each of the drinks respectively before tucking your tray under your arm and turning to the table with a smile.

“Can I get anything else for you guys?” You kept your tone light and friendly, even though you were mentally begging them to not need anything else.

“Just send Quill over; tell him I need to speak with him,” the Boss said. “Cover the bar for him until he gets back.”

“Yes, sir,” you hurriedly assured him.

Biting your lip, you hurried back to the bar and relayed the message to Quill, who just rolled his eyes and set down the glass he’d been polishing.

“Why he can’t walk over on his own two legs is beyond me,” you heard him grumble under his breath.

From there, the rest of your shift went by pretty normally; you made drinks and polished glasses until Quill came back to the bar a few minutes later, once more only answering you with grunts and noncommittal shrugs. He’d waved you off after you’d asked what he wanted, telling you to return to your section but to keep your eyes on the Boss’s table in case they needed anything.

Which they hadn’t. After returning to take their glasses, they’d declined your offer to get them any refills, and when you went to check on them ten minutes after that, they were gone. From there, you only had an hour left until your shift ended at its usual time – 3:30 am. You could have hugged the girl from the morning shift who came to relieve you – as it was, you’d thanked her so profusely for taking over your section that she’d looked worried for you.

“Um… Have a rough night?” she’d asked, eyebrows pinching together under her mask.

“You have no idea,” you sighed, heading towards the back room. “See you around!”

But your walk to the back came to an abrupt halt when Quill called you over, having to shout your name twice before you heard him over the music. Frowning, you walked over to him, leaning against the bar.

“What’s up?”

“Boss wants you to bring an old fashioned to his office,” he grunted, wiping his hands off on a towel. “Something about not getting to try the last one you made.”

You felt the color drain from your face, and you gulped, nodding quickly before making your way around to the other side of the bar.

“Um… Well, I was just about to go home; it was the end of my shift five minutes ago. Could I ask someone else to bring it to him?”

“Boss asked for you specifically,” he shrugged. “It’s on you if you wanna go against his request.”

Well. Shit. You’d made mistakes in your time, but you couldn’t see yourself ever being dumb enough to deny the kingpin of, arguably, the most powerful gang in Brooklyn.

“I…see. Um. Where exactly is his office?”

“Smart choice.”

After making your thousandth old fashioned of the evening, Quill gave you instructions to the office, and though you were still a bit lost on what to do at the end of the third hallway he mentioned, you had a pretty good idea as to where it was located. And so you set out, holding the drink in a white-knuckled fist as you made your way through the twists and turns of the old building.

A few minutes of wandering later found you standing in front of a door made out of solid, dark wood, and a bronze plaque on its surface read Management – Please knock.

“Well,” you whispered under your breath, “here goes nothing.”

You raised your hand and rapped your knuckles against the door, trying to stamp down the butterflies in your gut as you waited for a response. Several seconds passed by, and you bit your lip as you looked around the hallway you were in; the door to the Boss’s office was the only one on this short hallway, but someone had taken the time to put a potted plant next to the door. You smiled, reaching out with one of your fingers to brush against one of its leaves, and it was in that moment that the door rushed open.

You snatched your hand back, as if the plant had burned you, and looked up to see the Boss standing on its other side. After swallowing thickly, you plastered a smile on your face and straightened your posture.

“Hello, sir,” you greeted, holding out his drink. “I brought that old fashioned for you.”

Without a word, the masked man turned on his heel and walked back into the room, gesturing for you to follow him inside.

“Close the door on the way in.”

You paused, heart pounding as you took a step into his office; the two of you were the only ones there. Glancing behind you to the door, your eyes lingered for a second on its handle, wondering what the smartest thing to do here was. If you said no, then he could do so much worse than just fire you. But if you did as he said, well… Anything could happen to you behind that closed door, and how likely was it that the loud club outside would be able to hear you scream?

“Jesus Christ, I’m not gonna shoot you.”

You jumped so hard that you almost spilled his drink, but hearing his voice spurred you to quickly grab the handle and shut the door without another moment’s thought. You turned back to face him the same moment it slammed shut with a bang, and you winced at how loud of a sound it made.

Smooth.

“S-sorry, sir,” you stuttered, hesitantly walking towards him. You held out the glass, looking up at where you hoped his eyes were beneath his helmet. “I hope it lives up to the hype. The drink, that is.”

His shoulders twitched upwards with a short huff of laughter before taking the glass from your hand, the tips of his gloved fingers brushing against yours. You felt heat rise in your cheeks as your eyes fell from his mask, taking in for the first time what he was wearing.

In the low light of the club, you’d thought his suit was black, but now you could see that it was actually a dark forest green instead. The button-down shirt beneath it was white, and the top two buttons of it were undone, showing off a patch of tan skin just below his collarbone. For some second, your eyes lingered on it, inexplicably fascinated by the only bit of skin visible on the man in front of you.

Directly behind the Boss was a large desk cluttered with notebooks, folders, and stacks of various papers and envelopes, and you watched as your employer cleared off a small space to set his glass down on. You were finally able to break out of your bizarre thoughts about his clavicle once he turned back to face you, and you silently hoped that he hadn’t caught you staring at him again.

“Turn around.”

You blinked once, and then twice, before speaking.

“I, um… I don’t understand, sir-“

“Turn around,” he repeated, twirling his finger in the air. “Face the other way.”

Not fully understanding the purpose of such an order, you bit your lip, reminding yourself that he’d told you earlier that he wasn’t going to shoot you. Slowly, you obeyed him, lacing your fingers together and squeezing them tightly. You were now looking right at the door you’d walked in from, the one you were so tempted to walk through right now.

For a moment, the room was quiet save for the sound of your breathing, and you nearly shrieked when you heard his voice from what had to be just inches behind you.

“Don’t look back,” he commanded. “If you know what’s good for you.”

Letting out a shaky breath, you nodded, noticing a trembling strand of hair out of the corner of your eyes. In fact, your entire body was trembling ever so slightly, and you took a deep breath to try and calm the frantic beating of your heart.

Needing to ground yourself, you looked around at your surroundings, focusing on them instead of what your boss could possibly have in store for you. The walls and floors were a sandy concrete, just like the rest of the club, but there were various personal touches dotted around the space that your eyes lingered on. On either side of the door, there were huge bookcases filled with, yes, books, but also binders and folders and trinkets you wouldn’t have thought a mobster would keep in his office. Things like the small, carved figurine of a horse he had resting next to a copy of Webster’s Dictionary, or the small vase of roses he had balanced on top of a pile of magazines.

After looking over the bookshelves, your eyes scanned the furniture dotted around the room. To your left, there was a black leather couch on top of what had to be a genuine Persian rug. To your right, facing the couch, a loveseat was shoved up against the wall, and hanging above it was a huge mirror in a gilded, ornate frame. As you turned to look at yourself in it, you realized that you could catch a bit of his reflection as well, and you startled when you saw that his hands were on the back of his mask, unsnapping a clasp that held it in place. With a silent gasp, you turned to face forward again, eyes wide.

You held your breath when you heard him pick the glass up again, and it suddenly made sense why he’d asked you to turn around – he just wanted to try the drink without you seeing his face. Your shoulders slumped with relief; you didn’t care if he hated how it tasted. You were just thrilled that he hadn’t brought you back to punish you for staring at him earlier.

There was a long pause as he drank it, and you had to stop yourself from shifting your weight or appearing too restless as you waited for his verdict.

“…Cara was right,” you finally heard, and you gasped at the sound of his pure, unfiltered voice. “Your old-fashioneds are better than Quill’s.”

“Thank you, sir,” you breathed, still recovering from the shock at how rich, how deep, his voice was. “I promise not to tell him.”

“Oh, he already knows,” he assured you. “He told me himself after you got hired.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and you couldn’t fight back a quiet chuckle.

“Quill’s just full of surprises tonight,” you mused.

“Hm. I saw him laughing at you earlier at the bar,” your boss went on, and you heard him pause before something shifted and clicked behind you. “You can turn around again.”

His voice was, once again, the same processed, slightly staticky one you’d heard before, and as you turned around, there was a pang of disappointment in your chest when you saw the mask staring back at you once again.

“People usually have to work here for at least a year before they see him so much as smile,” he went on, turning the glass between his hands as the ice inside clinked together. “And here you are, not even a week in.”

“Well… it’s probably just because I’ve been helping him out behind the bar,” you explained. “I don’t think any of the other girls mix their own-“

“No, it’s not that,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “He has other bartenders to help him with that, and he hates them just as much as he hates the rest of the workers here. But not you.”

You didn’t know what to say, and so you said nothing, wracking your brain for anything – a thank you, an apology, a party trick – anything that could make the air feel less awkward than it had suddenly become. But, eventually, your boss broke the silence, though you never would have guessed what he’d been about to say.

“You’re not a server anymore,” he declared. “I want you behind the bar full-time now. You can replace, uh…” He tapped his fingers against the lip of the glass, and you saw his head tilt upwards as he thought. “…Rayanne? Rachel?”

“Rachelle?” you supplied weakly.

“I was close enough. You can replace her,” he continued. “She can be demoted to a server to take your place, and you’re promoted to bartender to take hers.”

“B-but, sir, I,” you stammered, adjusting your mask as you took a step towards him, “I can’t just steal Rachelle’s job; she’s been working here for three years-“

“And Cara still hates her long islands,” he once again cut you off. “I’ll have Quill email you a new schedule.”

Your mouth was open, but no words came out as you stared at the blank slate where his face should be; this wasn’t really such a bad thing, right? You’d gotten the position honestly, and Rachelle had never been particularly nice to you, anyways.

“…Thank you, sir,” you finally said. “I… I appreciate this opportunity.”

“Mm. How much do you wanna make?”

You pressed your lips together, your nose scrunching up as you mentally did the math.

“Um… Does $13 an hour work?”

Your employer snorted, shaking his head before taking a step towards you. You froze as he reached for your wrist, being surprisingly gentle as he brought your hand up between the two of you, and as you looked up, you knew that his eyes were boring into yours, even if you couldn’t see them. You found that you couldn’t look away as he pressed his empty glass into your hands, making sure your fingers were wrapped securely around it before pushing his hands into his pockets.

“Remind me,” he exhorted, “to never let you negotiate a deal for me.”

You blinked rapidly as he backed away, brain still fizzling a bit from how close he’d just been to you. The spicy scent of his cologne still lingered in your nostrils as he turned back to his desk, and it was only when he leaned against it and inclined his head towards you that your mind caught up with what he’d just said. What had been wrong with $13 an hour? Was it too low or too high? Had you just screwed yourself?

“Um…”

You watched his chest rise and fall with a sigh, but you could have sworn you heard a smile in his voice as he spoke next.

“Report to Quill tomorrow at the beginning of your shift,” he instructed. “You’re getting $15 an hour; he can tell you more about your benefits.”

Too low, then. You paused, not knowing what to say, and, he tiled his head towards the side as he waited for your response.

“…Did you just say benefits?”

This time, it was a full-blown laugh that you managed to coax out of him, and a tentative, hopeful grin spread over your lips as you watched him nod his head.

“Yes, I did,” he confirmed. “Now go home; get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow, sir…”

With that, you turned around, opened the door, and floated down the hall to the break room. In fact, after grabbing your things and getting in your car, you floated the entire way home. It was only when you reached for your steering wheel that you realized you were still clutching his glass in your left hand, but you didn’t bother bringing it back; what was one missing glass out of the hundreds, if not thousands, the club already owned?

_____________________

Din sat at his desk for a while after that, half-heartedly doing the least glamorous part of his job – paperwork. Over the years, he’d done a number of horrible things to even worse people, but he still hadn’t hated any of it – the arson, the beatings, the murder – nearly as much as he hated paperwork. But tonight, he was grateful for the easy, mindless task; he wouldn’t be able to focus on much else, not with you on his mind.

The door to his office suddenly opened, but he didn’t bother glancing up to see who it was; Cara had already gone home with some pretty young thing she’d picked up at the bar, and there was only one other person who would dare come in without knocking.

“I gave her a promotion,” he said, not looking up from the check he was writing. “You’ve got yourself a new bartender. Thought you’d like not having to deal with Rachel showing up late anymore.”

“…I’ve been telling you to replace Rachelle for three years,” was his only answer.

Din looked up, watching as his old friend slowly lowered himself into his favorite armchair, groaning with the strain it put on his knees; he’d always had trouble with his joints.

“…Really,” he finally hummed, turning back to the check and scrawling his signature (which was just a wiggly line that resembled more of a curly fry than it did an actual name, but that only helped him in his efforts to remain nameless) across the bottom right corner of it. “Didn’t realize it’d been that long.”

“Because you blew me off and told me to quit complaining anytime I mentioned it,” he fired back. “Why now, all of a sudden? Why her?”

“Look, do you want me to keep Rachel?”

Quill opened his mouth to speak, but he cut him off before he could, already knowing what he would say.

“Rachelle – whatever her fucking name is,” he grumbled. “You get my point.”

“It still doesn’t answer my question.”

Something in the older man’s tone made Din pause, slowly setting his pen down before turning to Quill once again.

“What’s it to you?” he countered. “You got something against working with the new girl?”

“No,” the bartender sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And you know it. Just…remember what happened the last time you took a special interest-“

“Out.”

His friend sighed, standing up with a grunt and taking a step towards him.

“Now, Din, don’t get me wrong-“

“I said…”

He stood from his desk, pressing his palms flat against its surface and leaning towards the older man.

“Out.”

Quill bowed his head, the wrinkles on his face deepening as he frowned, but he didn’t feel anything but contempt as he nodded and turned towards the door. Slowly, Din lowered himself down into his chair once more, but his muscles tensed when he saw his old friend pause on the way out.

“I’m just as much worried for you as I am for her, you know,” he murmured. “It would kill me to see you go through…that again.”

The old man shook his head, looking back at him over his shoulder.

“It would kill me,” he whispered.

With that, he stepped out and shut the door behind him, leaving Din with nothing but bad memories and the taste of bourbon and lemon peel lingering on his tongue.

[shaynawrites23]

Fight

Word count: 1385

Pairing: Killian Jones x reader

You bit your lip, eyes wandering to the scenes unfolding in front of you through the window. You spotted Mary Margaret walking hand in hand with David, laughing at something Emma had said. Neal sat with Henry underneath the willow tree in the park reading his book of fairy tales. Even your father and Belle were out and about, her arm slipped through his as they ambled down the street.

A wave of jealousy flooded over you. Why couldn't you have what they had? Why did your father get such a large say in your life, even though you were an adult and capable of making your own decisions? Why?

You had been so caught up in your thoughts, you didn't realize how hard you were gripping your glass of water until you looked back down at it. You exhaled, focusing on relaxing every muscle in your body.

Glancing around the cafe, you took note of how few customers there were. You sat there alone every day, waiting for your best friend Ruby's shift to end. She knew about your secret, seeing how close you were, but you made her promise not to tell anyone.

What secret was it, what was so important to hide from everyone? Well, that would be your relationship with Killian Jones, your father's worst enemy.

You knew it was wrong, you knew you were lying to him. And your mind was constantly battling your heart when it came to your boyfriend. But you couldn't bring yourself to throw away the chance you had at love, true love perhaps, just because your father disliked him.

That night, you snuck out of the house again, for your scheduled rendezvous with Killian. You needed to take the utmost care not to be caught, and so far, it was working. You felt a twinge of guilt when you passed your father's room, but it wasn't enough to stop you.

'Hey there, love.' Killian' s smooth voice made you jump as his arms wrapped around your waist, his hot breath fanning your ear when he laughed at your surprise.

'I told you to stop doing that!' You whisper-yelled at him, turning in his arms to face him.

He simply grinned. You could never resist him, not even now as you lost the battle to stop a smile from spreading across your face.

'Hey, Captain.' You whispered, leaning up to meet his lips halfway. Your arms wrapped around his neck and-

'Hey! Pirate! Step away from her!'

The two of you jumped apart in the blink of an eye. Well, more like you jumped out of his arms. You seemed to be more afraid than he was. And rightfully so, for the day you had dreaded for so long had finally arrived.

Your father stood before you, his expression like thunder, and he looked like he might actually be considering murder.

'Dad, no, please don't hurt him.'  You pleaded. But to no avail. Before you could process it, your father had curled his hand into a fist and your boyfriend was on the ground holding his throat, gasping for air.

'No, no, no, dad, please, punish me if you need to, but please don't hurt him!' You grabbed your father's arm, dropping to your knees in front of him.

'(Y/N), this is for your own good.' He snarled, his invisible chokehold on Killian growing stronger and stronger.

You looked between the two, internally weighing your options. Should you fight your father, the former Dark One, for Killian's life, or should you plead with him, agree to do anything he wished? If you chose the latter, he would likely force you to come with him and have you forget Killian, or at the very least, he would make sure you never saw each other again.

'(Y- Y/N),' Killian choked out, reaching for you, and you made your choice.

'Dad, I love you. But I love him as well, with all my heart. And should I have to choose between you, I'd pick him. So I'm really sorry, but if you want to kill him, kill me as well.' You stood tall, preparing for whatever was to come.

But to your surprise, you heard shouting and a red blur tackled your father. His grip on Killian released, and your pirate gasped, his chest heaving as the air entered his lungs. You ran to his side, helping him up to standing position, though you still had to support him.

Looking back at your father, you saw what, or rather who, saved you. Ruby. Your father had hobbled off back home by now, and the girl in the red cloak stood before you.

'Figured you might need help someday.' She smiled.

You stayed on board the Jolly Roger with Killian for days before Belle sought you out.

'You need to talk to your father. He hasn't been the same since the fight.'

'Not the same? What do you mean by that?' You crossed your arms. You were definitely not planning to go apologize to him if that was what Belle was implying.

'He won't leave his shop, he refuses to see anyone. He's been extra cranky, and we often hear shouting or crashing when passing by. He's different, (Y/N). I spoke to him over the phone and he regrets everything he did.'

'Well then, he can stop by and apologize to Killian.'

'But-'

'I'm sorry Belle, but either he does that or we're not talking.'

She nodded and left, seeing as you weren't going to budge on the matter.

It took another week before anything happened. You just continued avoiding your father and living on Killian's ship, and your father continued avoiding you and not leaving his house.

However, one day, Smee called for you. Both of you. You ran up to the deck only to be confronted with the sight of your father standing there.

'I'm- I'm here to talk to the captain.'

You and Killian shared a look. 'Alright, crocodile.' He made a beckoning motion, leading the older man to his cabin below deck. You followed, not trusting the situation.

'Killian, what? No, I don't trust this. He could kill you without a second thought.'

'I'll be fine, love. Don't worry, if I need you I'll give you a signal.'

'I'll wait nearby. Don't try anything.' You emphasized the last three words, glaring at your father before leaving, although you decided to wait right outside the door in case anything happened.

'Look, I shouldn't have reacted the way I did.' Mr. Gold, or Rumplestiltskin, began. 'The truth is, I despise you, but I'm sure you knew that.'

'Aye, it's not hard to pick up on.' Killian grunted.

'(Y/N) is all I have left. Milah is dead and Bae left me when he discovered the dagger. But that is no excuse for me to control her life. I... have learned that by doing so, I will simply be pushing her away.'

'What's your point?'

'(Y/N) loves you. When I found out, I was enraged. It felt like Milah all over again, and I assumed the worst. That she wanted to leave. But for her sake, I will tolerate you. And I sincerely apologize for my actions.' He bowed his head humbly. He had had to swallow a huge chunk of his pride in order to apologize, but he realized it was worth it.

'(Y/N)!' Killian yelled and you, having heard most of their conversation, entered quickly and calmly.

'Yes?'

'Love, don't pretend you didn't hear us.' Your face heated up when he said that, but you shifted your attention to the other man in the room.

'So, lass, what are your thoughts on this?' Killian probed gently.

'What he did was terrible, and I will try, but I don't know if I will ever be able to forgive him for that. However, I know how hard it is to apologize, and if it were up to me, I'd accept it. It's your decision, Captain.'

'Alright. Look, crocodile, I'm willing to put that behind us for (Y/N)'s sake. So I suggest we make a deal. I won't hurt you if you do the same for me.'

Killian held out his hand, and after a tense moment, Mr. Gold shook it.

'Deal.'