#edge has the biggest changes mostly in just being Wider. i want to make him Look stronger yknow

[bonestrouslingbones]

btw one of the things i want to do when i really rap up atbb for real is spontaneously get the energy at will to do actual updated fullbodies of the main 4 since now i actually have the ability to draw them the way they look in my head & have the skills to put some more variety in their shapes. basically i wanna

[exquisitley-obsessed]

Fiancés, Firebirds, Foxes and Fawns: 2

Author: @exquisitley-obsessed​

Summary: A few weeks after Briallyn's attempt at uniting with Koschei, Lucien opens the door of Lockhart Manor to find Elain, cold from the rain and holding a note from the High Lady of the Night Court demanding her to assist Lucien in building alliances with the human councils. Forced to work together by their exhausted High Lord and Lady, Elain is able to convince anyone to do anything, while Lucien has the acquaintances to go anywhere he likes. Together, they attempt to unite the fae and mortal lands and unravel the deal made between Koschei and Vassa, while Lucien remains haunted by his own promise to Elain's father. ELUCIEN, POST-ACOSF

Pairings: Elain x Lucien, Elucien

Warnings: None.

A/N: This is going to be a long, slow burn fic (hopefully)

MY MASTERLIST

THIS FIC’S MASTERLIST

AO3

Chapter Two: Interrogations

Historically, it is well known for males to experience the mating bond more viscerally, though this is no strict criterion. For example, in the case of two males being bonded, the mating bond appears to be less demanding and settles with more ease. It is males mated to females who appear to struggle. There are many theories for this, such as male/female bonding resulting in strong offspring which drives the males to copulate. Some even argue that the male’s desire comes from the Mother’s lover himself, who’s believed to have taken fire into his soul in order to reach the Motherland and mate her, and it is a bead of this fire which awakens in males when they feel the mating bond catalysed. As such, we find there being many social customs regarding mated males, such as being wary of their ease to anger and protectiveness and their overtly increased sex drive which-

“Good book?” Feyre flopped down next to Elain, Nyx having just been placed in his cradle which appeared more like a cage given the mesh wiring over the top, ‘just so he doesn’t get any ideas about flying away’, Feyre had grinned.

“It’s okay,” Elain smiled at her sister as she marked her place and set it down.

“Oh,” Feyre grinned as she eyed the title, “Interested in the bond are we?” She was just teasing, but Elain couldn’t stop the flush in her cheeks, particularly given her recent discovery on just how, physical, the bond was.

“Well considering I do have mate, I thought it was about time I looked into it.”

“You can ask me anything,” Feyre smiled kindly. “I mean, technically you could ask Nesta too but, she still isn’t the biggest fan of Lucien.” Even hearing his name on someone else’s tongue sent a bolt of energy through Elain.

“Well, I was wondering…”

“Yeah?”

“Are they really supposed to be your soulmate?”

“Well, yes and no. That’s the problem with mating bonds, they sort of mould themselves around the two people it’s attached to. It’s different with everyone. Like me and Rhys, we have a really clear mental communication, I can talk to him even if I was on the other side of Prythian, but that’s because we’re both dementias and the bond’s playing to that strength.

“Nesta and Cassian, well, I can’t speak for them, but it seems they connect on world view. Their lives are inherently interlinked with death and that’s what connects them…amongst, other, things,” Feyre giggled, “It really is different for everyone. And sometimes, yes, the bond connects two people who don’t seem to fit with one another, like Rhys’ parents for example. I don’t know if you’ve got to this section yet,” Feyre nodded to the book, “But some see the bond as not restrained to time. That’s why you and Lucien felt the bond snap into place even before you knew each other. Some people think that when you have ‘poor’ pairings, they not really bad matches but rather, the bond saw the two for their potential rather than what they were at the time.”

Elain’s brow furrowed. She’d wanted to read the book to make herself feel better, she’d never admit it to herself, but she was somewhat looking for a big flashing sign that pointed to Lucien and said ‘He’s your soulmate! You’re a perfect match! You’ll never have to worry about be alone again!’. But reading the book had only made it more complicated. The reality was, Lucien was to have a significant role in her life, whether she wanted him to or not.

“But…I don’t know…” Elain rolled her neck, “Is it worth it?”

“Is what worth it? The bond?”

“No…well, yes. I mean,” Elain thought for a moment, “I just don’t understand how the universe could expect me to fight for someone who I don’t know.”

“Yeah, I do see how that’s a bit unfair but, do you not think the bond’s doing that on purpose?”

“What do you mean?

“Well, it looks like the bond is demanding you take a leap of faith. Giving you Lucien the minute you set eyes on him is, well, it changed your whole world, right?”

“I know,” Elain huffed.

“No, what I mean is…maybe that’s the point?” Feyre was now more talking to herself. “Maybe…” Feyre trailed off before turning and eyeing her sister up and down.

“What?” Elain implored, and Feyre just shook her head, deep in thought.

“It’s just, I’ve been trying to figure it out y’know, you and Lucien, I think we all have.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, it’s just, he’s…well he’s loud and flirty and he can’t shut up for the life of him, it’s why he’s missing that damn eye. And you’re quiet and shy, and you just, you care about everything but…” Feyre was grinning now.

“What?”

“No, no, never mind. I just…” Feyre only smiled wider.

“No, I’m not going to say!” And then Feyre was up, collecting empty mugs from the coffee table.

“Feyre, you can’t leave, you haven’t helped me!”

“Feyre, you can’t leave, you haven’t helped me!”

“I know, I know, look, truth time,” Feyre turned back around, her smile now replaced by her High Lady look, “You’re right, you don’t know if it’s worth it. You and Lucien might turn out like Rhys’ parents, or worse…but he is your mate, and he’s not going anywhere.”

“So, what, I just proposition him next time he’s here?” Elain sighed, running a hand through her hair, feeling the same kernel of disappointment in her gut whenever she thought of Lucien on the other side of the country, avoiding the mating bond, avoiding her.

“Or you could go to him?” Elain snapped her head to her sister, who was wearing an easy smile.

“What?”

“You could go to the human lands and stay with him and his, what’s it, ‘Band of Exiles’.”

“What, just show up?”

“Actually, it’s not such a terrible idea,” Again, Feyre was now talking to herself, “Lucien’s been struggling to get the humans on board and you, well you might be perfect for the job. You understand how humans work and you had to deal with paperwork from father, not to mention the fact that quite literally no one can say no to you-”

“Lucien can,” Elain grumbled without thinking and Feyre grinned at her with a stupid, all-knowing smile.

“Elain, if you wanted, I’m sure you could have Lucien crawling around on all fours.” Elain looked away from her sister, ignoring the fact that the image popped into her mind before she could stop it, and especially ignoring the way her whole body seemed to flush in response.

“The only problem might be getting Rhys on board,” Feyre’s mind appeared to be working a mile a minute. “With what happened with Briallyn he’s a bit more, well, Rhysand than usual. And you know how he sees you.” Yes, the big brotherly talks had been slightly more regular given Nyx’s arrival. Elain supposed it was Rhysand’s subconscious way of reaching out.

“I’ll be fine if Lucien is there,” Elain shrugged non-committedly, though something zipped the length of her spine as she spoke his name aloud. One thing Elain, and everyone else could be certain of, is that Lucien would keep her safe.

“Look at you trying to manipulate around your High Lord.”

“Not manipulate-”

“I know, I know,” Feyre grinned as she peered over the edge of Nyx’s crib. “Look, on a serious note, there is work that needs doing down in the human lands if you’re up for it. After Briallyn we need a stronger base to represent the fae in the mortal world. Some more eyes and ears wouldn’t hurt and, quite frankly, whilst Lucien knows exactly how to work a court of fae, I don’t know how well he’s faring with councils of humans.”

Elain thought for a moment, truly considering what it would mean if she were to take on this role. It would mean accepting responsibility, being held accountable if she made a mistake, one that couldn’t fixed with some new seeds and freshly turned soil. She’d be on the other side of the world, away from her sisters – away from Nesta – for the first time, well, ever.

“I…” Elain began softly, “I think I’d like to go.”

“Really?” Despite Feyre’s enthusiasm in discussing Elain’s potential in leaving, it was clear that she was still mostly expecting Elain to pass on the opportunity.

“I can’t tend to my little gardens forever,” Elain shrugged, “With Lucien there I should be perfectly safe and, well, it’s human territory. I know those lands, arguably better than you and Nesta.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Feyre nodded furiously, though she seemed to not really be listening to her older sister, her mind was already helping Elain pack her dresses. “I’ll speak with Rhysand and sort out the particulars.”

“Will you,” Elain blushed without meaning to, “Will you warn Lucien? That I’m coming?” Feyre shrugged, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

“I don’t have to. Technically, as his High Lady I can do whatever I want, and he just has to roll with it.”

“Okay,” Elain let loose a breath, “Don’t tell him then. I’d just…I’m not sure. I suppose I’d just rather not spook him.”

“Whatever you say sis,” Feyre grinned, and Elain allowed her own lips to mirror her sisters, the excitement and reality of the adventure she was about to undertake truly setting in. Feyre turned to leave.

“Oh Feyre…let’s not tell Nesta…at least not till I’m already gone.”

***

“Hello, earth to Lucien?”

“What? Oh...sorry, go on,” Lucien muttered, shifting is attention back to Vassa whom he was supposed to be chatting to. This was their routine, when the sun finally dipped under the horizon and Vassa returned to her mortal form, she’d waltz into the manor before disappearing upstairs to change from the cloak she left out for herself into a queen’s gown. Today she’d come down wearing a deep crimson dress made of velvet, grumbling about how the storm that was currently beating against the windows, had quite literally ruffled her feathers. The evening was then to be spent in the Manor’s sitting room, sprawled on velvet couches as Jurian informed Vassa of the recent developments regarding the human councils, and Lucien told her of the fae lands.

Normally, Lucien would last till the early hours of the morning before leaving Vassa to whatever activities she wished to complete before the sun rose and her body was changed back into that of a firebird. But these past few nights Lucien had caught himself staying awake till almost sunrise, only getting an hour or two sleep before he was up again, his body alive with energy as he strode out into the woods in the early morning light.

Everything about Lucien felt unsettled and alive, and it had been that way since the previous week when Lucien had woke to his mate’s tears running down his cheeks. What could’ve upset her so badly? Had something happened at the Night Court? He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been waiting for a note from Rhysand or Feyre informing him of a terribly tragic event that had occurred when he was on the other side of the world. Even if nothing had happened, it could of, and Elain could’ve been seriously hurt. What was he doing on this side of the world? He should be there, even if she didn’t know what she wanted, at least he could keep her safe while she thought. But with no note, he didn’t know why sweet Elain was so agonisingly sad, and there was no reason besides the bond’s invasion of privacy for him to see her. But it seemed that he couldn’t relax until he found the cause of her pain. Found it and burned it to ashes.

“Lucien!”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Dinner, tomorrow evening, Nolan Manor – Mother did you get any of that?” Vassa’s eyes were light and her tone teasing, but Lucien was feeling more beast than man with his bond so wound up.

“No offence, Vassa, but I think you might be finally losing it if you think I’d be interested in dinner at the Nolan’s.” Lucien rolled his shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension as he looked back down at the book he’d been pretending to read for the past hour. He could feel Vassa’s eyes on him, assessing him as she always did whenever he came into conversation, which was far too often for his liking.

“Are you still on that?” Vassa eventually huffed, tucking her legs up under herself on the armchair. Lucien just raised a brow at her. Had anything changed? Was Graysen any less of a dickhead? If not, then yes, he supposed he was still on that.

“Our dear Lucien’s a mated male, Vassa,” Jurian quipped without raising his head from his paperwork. “It’s how these things work.”

“But it’s not really fair on Graysen is it?” Vassa flicked a fiery strand of hair over her shoulder.

“Not fair?” Lucien ground the two words out, feeling something animalistic rear its head inside of him. But beyond the primal urges of the bond and any threats to it, Lucien did genuinely dislike the boy. What he did to Elain was beyond cruel, and if he had done that to anyone Lucien would’ve still disliked the boy, granted he might not be baring his teeth at Vassa as he was doing now.

“He did give us the manor, Lucien,” the queen’s voice taunted him.

“One act of kindness doesn’t make him any less of an asshole,” Lucien’s own voice was low and daunting, as though he were daring Vassa to make another comment. Lucien hadn’t intended for his tone to turn brutal and dark, but Vassa clearly had no education in the expectations of a mated male.

“No, but he’s still the asshole putting a roof over our heads,” Vassa sighed, setting her book down. “Does it really upset you?”

“What?”

“Having him help us?”

“We don’t need his help.”

“No,” Vassa cocked her head, “But it’s certainly been of great use.”

“You like him?” Lucien spat, feeling something sour flood his gums as he pulled on his inner leash. Vassa was his friend. Vassa was supposed to be his friend, and Lockhart Manor was supposed to be the place in which he could escape from the demands of this bond.

“He didn’t do anything to me,” Vassa shrugged nonchalantly, “In fact, all he’s been to me is kind and accommodating. Why should I have a problem with him?”

“You know why.” Something feral was awakening in Lucien as he spat those three words at the queen, and in response to the autumn son’s anger, the fire flared dangerously, filling the room with the sound of snapping wood.

“Really?” Vassa’s eyes widened slightly as she assessed Lucien, evidentially amused by his grip on the chair’s armrests and the deathly look in his eye. “That girl can do this to you when she hasn’t even shown her face in-”

“Vassa,” Jurian’s sing-song voice curled into the air from where he was hunched over the worktable, signing off contracts, “Whilst it’s delicious to poke the beast, you can only go so long before it’ll bite.”

“Maybe that’s what I was hoping for,” Vassa shrugged nonchalantly as she inspected her nails. Lucien just glared into the fire, done with this conversation and done with his friends, at least for the night. Sometimes they forgot that he wasn’t like them, that he was fae, and he more or less operated in an entirely different world to them. He couldn’t blame them though, sometimes he forgot too.

Talking of Graysen had Lucien’s thoughts once more swirling of Elain. Though there was no concern in these thoughts, just admiration. He was picturing her in the cream gown she’d worn when he’d come one day to hand deliver a stack of reports to Rhysand. It was made of cotton and lace, the same hearty materials so often found in towns of Autumn. It was so unlike the favoured revealing cuts of Night Court fashion, and so Elain in every sense. The soft gold and white colours, the layered skirts and fluttering sleeves. Looking at her as she tucked herself into a small ball on a sofa, a hefty book balanced on her lap, Lucien had wished that he’d met Elain when she was human, when she was happy and content. Maybe then she would just see him for, well, him. Not a reminder of everything terrible that had happened to her.

“I’m sorry about prodding Lucien,” Vassa smiled at him, pulling him from his thoughts as her freckled cheeks dimpled. “Can I make it up to you by letting you beat me at cards?” She was baiting him, daring him to bite back that no one ‘let’ Lucien do anything but, tonight Lucien was tired. Of everything.

“I’m tapping out,” was all Lucien said in response, standing from his armchair and throwing his book down behind him. The storm was now torrential, and Lucien welcomed the chaos, somewhat comforted by the idea of lying down in the dark and listening to the rain batter against the windows as he brooded himself to sleep.

So, Lucien set off for the stairs, happy to leave his friends to themselves for the rest of the night, but he’d only managed to cross the room before a short, shy knock reverberated from the front door and sent a wave of cautious silence and shock throughout the room.

[breanne-says-boo]

Regarding the IWTV casting choices and canonical in-novel descriptions

I would eventually like to do either a full text post or a video discussing the tv series and the changes the plot that are apparently being made, but for the time being I wanted to address some concerns with both Lestat and Louis’ casting that have been brought up both on my post and on others. There’s been a lot of confusion on both character’s canonical descriptions and backstories, and I would like to clear some of that with pieces of the original text.

Please note that an adaption doesn’t need to be 100% faithful to the books. This information is for those who are looking for canonical comparison.

THIS IS A LONG POST. You’ve been warned.

As a sidenote, I would like to state that I support Jacob Anderson as an actor, and hope for the best in his performance as Louis and hope that he is well both mentally and emotionally through the inevitable and disgusting backlash, but I do not support the show runners’ decisions to change Louis’ character in the way that they did (according to the plot descriptions online) because I feel (in my opinion) the homophobic and racist implications and stereotypes that coincide with these changes were not properly thought through. While I discuss this shortly in Louis’ section, this post is not about this issue. Onto our characters...

LESTAT

1.) “I thought Lestat was turned into a vampire when he was 15/16?”

Lestat was turned when he was 21. His birthday is November 7 (Anne Rice’s late husband’s birthday), so he was freshly 21 when he became a vampire since Magnus kidnaps him not too long after he kills the wolves in winter.

The confusion of Lestat being a teen when turned into a vampire may come from Lestat describing his days in theater as a teen shortly before he’s turned.

2.) Sam Reid looks nothing like Lestat! He’s too old/ too masculine/ etc.

Sam is definitely older than Lestat is canonically but Anne stated in an old interview they may have to do that so there’s no facial inconsistencies during filming of the whole series. Sam does share Lestat’s short, narrow nose and wide mouth if you ask me. Hair and eye color will no doubt change in costuming. Here’s Lestat’s physical description of himself in TVL in its full glory:

There’s another instance where Lestat describes his own face as “cat-like” but I can’t find it at the moment. So Sam’s face is much more masculine and wider than Lestat’s face shape is interpreted as sure, but not necessarily a major issue in my book.

3.) Lestat is a villain character, not an anti-hero

This is the biggest issue I have with Lestat’s character description for the tv series because this is how many people interpret him if they’ve only seen the movie or read the first book. Lestat is being described essentially as a villain who becomes violent and angry when he doesn’t get his way. Sure, Lestat is the ‘Brat Prince’ but him being a brat in the books is primarily motivated by Lestat’s persistence in maintaining his pride and insistence on keeping those he loves in love with him in return for fear of abandonment. Love is Lestat’s biggest character flaw and I think nothing more shows this than Lestat’s internal struggle with feeding on Nicki when they first reconnect after Lestat becomes a vampire:

4.) Lestat has a French accent and should have this in the series.

Yes and no. Lestat has a French accent but his American dialect he obtained through learning English apparently betrays him on occasion. Here is a sample of the Sam Spade Detective radio show and Lestat’s description of his voice:

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

LOUIS

1.) Louis was in his early 20s when he was turned by Lestat.

He was 25.

2.) Louis actually was a person of color in the novels! He’s Creole (mixed European/black).

Surprisingly not that uncommon of an interpretation from the novels. Louis is mentioned to have a Creole-French accent by Daniel but Louis’ not aware of this and it’s suggested the accent was obtained during Louis’ move to Louisiana from France. It’s Creole-French and mostly likely not Black-Creole since Daniel recognizes the accent when Louis mentions “Louisiana” and after the fact labels it as “French.”

Louis originally comes from France and moved to the states after his family receives a land grant for the indigo plantations as mentioned in the first sentence of that photo.

Not that black people can’t be from France, but there are several instances of Louis separating himself from people of color in IWTV. Note “OUR mixed blood and that of the islands” in the first photo:

So, while Louis could be mixed race (we don’t get solid descriptions of either his mother or father), it’s unlikely by the way these paragraphs are written. There is a lot of instances in which Louis refers to his slaves as mystical and savage and being afraid of how “African” they are. He could maybe experience internalized racism, especially by the way Louis is raised in the upper-class white society, but not likely. He’s initially described as having “bleached bone” white skin and green eyes with wavy black hair that “barely touched the edge of the white collar” of his shirt. We do know that Ricean vampires’ skins whiten (gross) after being turned, especially after years of being a vampire. So, like, it’s possible? But Louis just says a lot of gross shit about African people and other people of color in the novel.

Does this mean Louis can’t be black in the adaption? Absolutely not. Of course he can be written any which way the writers and producers want! But I mean, if you’re going to write Louis’ African slave-owning out of the series (good), why re-write him as a sex-slave owner (bad)? Why the “black pimp” stereotype? He’s got a large family. Why can’t he be black and have a sugar mill owned and operated by his family? Sugar mill because I think it’s a hilariously stupid call back to a small detail in the books and family-owned to re-inforce the idea and importance that he loses one family and regains another through Lestat and Claudia and I just *clenches fist* ...

I am excited to watch Sam Reid and Jacob Anderson make out. I will say that.

[stillness-in-green]

The Way You Survive Is... (4/4)

One of the joys of meeting new people is gaining a new perspective.

(Things were always going to change after Deika. This, though, Rikiya did not see coming.)

Chapter Warnings: Spinner has a judgey streak a mile wide, but compared to everything that's come before, he's a veritable bodhisattva.  There are a few mentions of Rikiya’s injuries from Deika also.

Pre-ship for Spinner/Rikiya if you want it to be, but it starts because they're both Big Smitten for Shigaraki.

———      ———      ———      ———

Chapter Four: Dealing With All the Todays and Tomorrows 

The end of it came unexpectedly, during Rikiya’s first meeting with his new leader after the hospital stay.  Rikiya had spent the better part of an hour in Shigaraki Tomura’s personal suite, members of the League drifting in and out from the living room (and Skeptic doubtlessly listening in as well) as Rikiya recounted the Liberation Army’s holdings and activities in exhaustive detail, precedent to its new Grand Commander deciding what he wanted to actually do with the organization he’d so suddenly found in his possession.  For all Rikiya’s preconceptions about him, Shigaraki Tomura had proven to have a keen interest in his new resources, asking a shocking number of pertinent questions about troop distribution, societal permeation, and goals-to-date.

Finally, though, they’d circled back to one of the very first things that had come up: Detnerat and its support goods, and, now, what sorts of creations might be in the offing for the members of the League.

“You may have seen Trumpet’s at the end—he was wearing it when he approached us.”  Rikiya hadn’t seen it himself, too focused on Shigaraki and what he might say, how to give voice to overflowing emotions of reverence and regret, how to plead for the lives of his followers in a way that stood any chance of success.  Still, he’d grown up with Trumpet’s voice; he knew all of its timbres, and the sound of it filtering through Sevens Loud was unmistakable. “But my Claustro was another.”

“The mech suit thing?”  Shigaraki was a gaunt, black-clad figure propped up against the headboard of the bed, all but swallowed up amongst the pillows scattered across the king-sized mattress.  He’d commandeered (and factory-reset) one of Skeptic’s laptops, though he hadn’t used it once during the whole of Rikiya’s presentation.  It sat open beside him, the screen turned away.

“The very same!  It was a pressure mechanism to boost my stress levels.  I’m having it rebuilt, of course.”  The influence of the painkillers in his system made it wonderfully easy to deliver that bit of news with such cheer.  Shigaraki gave him a long look, then snorted lightly.

“Don’t bother.”

It was like having his legs out from under him a second time.

“I’m—I’m sorry?”  Rikiya stumbled on the words, completely blindsided.

“I said, don’t bother,” Shigaraki repeated shortly.  “S’more expensive than it’s worth.”

“But it really is effective,” Rikiya argued—and oh, what was he doing, arguing with this young man?  He winced when Shigaraki turned the full force of an annoyed scowl on him, but forged on.  “I know I didn’t make the best showing of it in Deika, but if you give me another chance to demonstrate it, or even just let me show you the numbers—”

“What are you, into bondage or something?” Shigaraki’s eyes narrowed, and between that and the stab of nausea at the very thought, Rikiya broke into an uncomfortable sweat.  “You’re too desperate.”

“No,” he said slowly.  “It’s just that I want to be at my most effective for you.”

“You being at maximum effectiveness isn’t our most effective play, Mr. CEO.”  His young leader’s words dripped with scorn.  “I’m not blowing your cover on a fight.  Take the money you’d spend on that and earmark it.  We’ll figure out what to do with it when we’ve got our plans more in place.”

“Yes, sir.”  No more Claustro.  No more Claustro.

He rallied somewhat, the thought plucking at strings within him that hummed with a giddy delight that felt twenty—thirty—possibly younger than he’d ever felt in his life.  Stress was still important, of course, but if Shigaraki really did mean for him to lean into his business resources rather than utilize him in combat, then…

“Okay, I take one part of that back.”  Shigaraki, who’d been staring at him the entire time he was processing the command, rolled his eyes and turned away.  “I also want you to go get a massage or see a hooker or something.”

If he were on his prosthetics yet, Rikiya would surely have tripped over then.  It certainly did the trick for wiping whatever sort of glassily ecstatic look he’d had on his face back off it.  “I—I really don’t know that that’s necessary.”

Shigaraki pulled the computer back into his lap.  “Wasn’t asking for your opinion.  If I’m going to keep having to deal with you, I want you wound down, not wound further up.”

Wound down.  Rikiya tried to contemplate it and found himself at a loss.

“That will be a bit of a new endeavor for me, but I’m sure I can figure it out,” he said, and the words felt like an open rooftop—free air, but no guardrail in the way of a sharp drop.

———      ———

“So what exactly do you do to relax?” Spinner asked him a few weeks later when the two of them were, yet again, the last to clear out after a meeting ended.  Shigaraki had vanished off to his mysterious doctor’s lab three days prior, and already the absence of him hummed through the organization, crackling in the long stares his compatriots received in the hallways, the glances that moved between Rikiya and the new lieutenants, always landing back on him as if silently asking, Now?  Do we attack now, while their guard is down?  Just say the word. 

The members of the now-dissolved League seemed to be handling it with rather more aplomb, thankfully.  Dabi’s standoffish rudeness aside, all of them had found at least some aspect of the merger that they seemed to enjoy, be it Toga Himiko getting her choice of advisors who were willing to feed her hungers within safe boundaries, Sako Atsuhiro’s bright, malice-edged banter with Galvanize, and Bubaigawara Jin’s—well, he mostly seemed happy to be in good company. Rikiya had high hopes.

And then there was Spinner.

Rikiya gave him a politely blank stare at the question.  It wasn’t the first time he’d fielded such an inquiry—poor Miyashita had asked, and various colleagues at industry conferences, and a number of people back in university, but in all cases, a pat answer was required, a mistruth or a deft lie. Spinner was a compatriot in the true labor, the cause of Liberation, and, more to the point, he was now Rikiya’s peer. That demanded a more truthful response, but Rikiya didn’t have one that he suspected was on Spinner’s list of acceptable replies.

“I mean it,” Spinner said, insistent, and crossed his arms over his chest in what was becoming a familiar mannerism.  “Shigaraki told me to make sure you relax some while he’s gone, so spill it.”

“Shigaraki did?”  Rikiya blinked, touched, but moreover, surprised.

“Yeah, he did,” Spinner said, still looking combative. Was he less than pleased with such instructions himself, Rikiya wondered, or was this just his usual awkwardness with socialization?  “So what do you do for fun?  Golf?  Ski resorts?  I mean, we’ve got work to do, so you can’t just take off, but—”

“Spinner, I…”  Rikiya smiled, bemused.  You may as well say it.  “I’m not trying to be reticent.  It’s just that there isn’t anything.”  Spinner favored him with a supremely skeptical stare, and he reiterated, “Truthfully.  If Shigaraki thinks my—relaxing will be helpful for the cause, that would—well, it would be a first.”

“There’s gotta be something.”  Spinner’s face twisted into disbelief.  “A hobby, maybe?  Bonsai?  Archery?”

“How traditional,” Rikiya attempted the joke, already turning apologetic as the last of Spinner’s aggression dissolved into bafflement.  “But no, there really isn’t.  Perhaps we can try one of your past-times?”

“Mine are—uh…”  Oh.  He can blush. Isn’t that cute? Rikiya’s thoughts informed him as the scales around Spinner’s cheeks infused with red.

“It will probably all be a new experience to me,” Rikiya offered.  He smiled wider, more genuine.  “How exciting.”  His assurances did not seem to make the other man feel any better.  In fact, he looked a bit like he wanted to crawl up the wall and escape.

“I’d need to…  Uh.  Order some stuff in.”

“Of course, of course!  Our resources are completely at your disposal.”  Rikiya beamed.  “Shall we set a time for this weekend, then?”

Spinner somehow went redder still, but mumbled agreement all the same.

———      ———  

The room Spinner had settled on for the venture—video games, Trumpet had predicted dourly, and Skeptic had confirmed—was an out-of-the-way conference room, not the villa’s biggest or airiest, not a corner room or common area, but one of those little meeting spaces tucked away in the bowels of any large enough building, accessible only through three different turns down four different hallways, the sort of thing you only ever saw if you’d built it, you cleaned it, or you explored enormous buildings for fun. Iguchi Shuuichi certainly didn’t fit the bill for the first two options, leaving only the latter, and Rikiya could only wonder if Spinner had found the place in idle wanderings or as the result of a deliberate search.

Regardless, the electronics took up much of one end of the room, a large-screen monitor set up on a low table, along with a glowing computer tower, a game console and sizeable speakers.  Two curved black and red rocker chairs on the floor sat, Rikiya thought, rather closer to the screen than was probably recommended by the Ministry of Health and Welfare.  The back end of the room was mostly bare, a table shoved up against the wall with a few damaged chairs and gutted computer towers speaking to the room’s prior life as a storage space for office supplies awaiting repair or repurposing.

Not a bad metaphor, all things considered.  I wonder if he intended it.

“Oh, hey.”  The he in question stood up from behind the TV, dusting off his hands and starting when he caught sight of Rikiya.  “So you did show.”

“I did.  And dressed down, as requested.”  Rikiya spread his arms in brief demonstration of innocuous brown dress pants and a white button-down shirt, top button undone, cuffs rolled back twice.  It was hardly casual, but it was as close to it as he could manage on short notice.

Spinner had done a much better job of it, a hoodie and jeans replacing his normal tac vest and dark pants, his hair long enough to brush his shoulders, thick and bushy, when his usual goggles and band of cloth weren’t holding it up.  He could almost pass for a normal person on the street, save for all the knives—the one part of his costume he’d left on, sheathed and strapped to his side.

He glanced over Rikiya, looking not entirely convinced—he was an open book generally, and being able to clearly see his forehead (rather high, actually) made reading his expressions even easier—but conceded a nod.

“Well…  Have a seat, I guess.”  He slid a remote control on the floor towards the two chairs with his foot.

Rikiya closed the door behind him, privately thankful for the barrenness of the other end of the room—he could almost pretend the room wasn’t functionally a cellar with all that clear space at his back—and made his way over to one of the rockers, easing himself into it.  It had been literal years since he’d been expected to settle into a casual seating arrangement with someone who wasn’t in his inner circle, and even those had mostly been relegated to the dinners as they’d all gotten older and busier with work.  Typically the chairs were higher off the ground.

Curious would have laughed at this for days.  He set the thought aside, accurate though it was, and shot Spinner an expectant smile as the man picked up a pair of controllers and thrust one out at him.

“Are you sure it’s all right that I haven’t touched one of these since university?” Rikiya asked.  He took the device and experimentally fit his grip around the handles, turning it over to examine the array of buttons and controls.

“It’s fine,” Spinner responded.  “I’m pretty sure games like this all teach you how to play them as you go.”  He sat down in his own rocker and angled himself slightly in Rikiya’s direction.  “So wait, what did you play in school?”

Hardly something Rikiya had committed to memory, given how much else had been going on in his life at the time.  He dredged up what he could anyway.

“Some sort of game where players would select a character to fight another player’s character.  Martial arts-themed, as I recall.  There was one that involved some sort of government agent killing zombies. And I had a friend in a study group who always going on about the last game in a series he enjoyed.  Something with ‘Fantasy’ in the title.”

Spinner muttered something under his breath that might have been Oh, boy and might have been Normies, and turned on the TV, simultaneously pressing the center button on his own controller. As the screen blinked on, resolving into a home screen for the game console, he flicked over to an entry labeled Seed, the image a single bright red flower on a black background.  A few logos later, they arrived at the title screen, which flickered periodically through homophonous kanji (Truth, Interval, Wait), and Spinner talked him through selecting New Game, Two-Player, and selecting himself as Player One.

The game began with a figure—small, features undefined beneath the hood of a simple blue robe—standing in a dim, firelit cave, a few shelves mounted on the walls.  A simple tutorial involved moving about the cave collecting items off the shelves: a bag, a canteen, and a small spade.  All basic joystick controls, a simple press-X-to-interact, and then the figure extinguished the fire with a spadeful of ashes and walked unprompted into the dim tincture of daylight on one side of the screen.

Outside, a short video showed the screen’s view expanding from the flat two-dimensionality of the cave to more sprawling environs of a lush forest, all dappled greens and yellows.  Tangles of vines proved impassable as Rikiya wandered up to them, attempting interaction to no avail.

“It’s not full open-world, but there’s not a time limit or anything, so you can poke around all you want,” Spinner offered, watching Rikiya uncertainly steer himself around the screen.

“And the goal is?”  A soundtrack had kicked in, a pleasant and melodic string piece, interspersed with birdsong when Rikiya passed close to a flash of feathers in the verdant tapestry.

“You’ll find out when you trip over it.  Just look for anything interesting.”

Rikiya obediently headed down the way that seemed generally laid out, noting a patch of particularly sunny ground up ahead.  “And where do you come in?  Or do we take turns?”

“The two-player functionality is for later on.” Spinner shifted positions to tuck one foot under himself—less sitting, more perching—the controller tucked in his lap. “You’ll see.”

Rikiya hummed assent and returned his focus to the screen, where a button prompt saw the character stooping down into a kneel and using her—his? its?—tools to dig a hole, drop in a seed from the bag, and recover it before pouring a small measure of water over it.  A circling motion of their hand followed, some silent little ritual, and in response, a flower bloomed up from the spot, small but brilliantly red.

The character didn’t immediately rise, but the screen shifted focus slightly, and when Rikiya nudged a joystick, they returned to their feet, and so he set out through the trees again.  He spotted another sunny patch before long, on a raised bluff, which lead to a new button option that resulted in a quick climbing animation and, shortly, a yellow flower glowing in the sun.

As promised, the controls were intuitive, and soon Rikiya had planted two more seeds and been forced to leave one promising-looking spot alone when the character proved unable to make the necessary climb. The next wrinkle presented itself shortly after—an empty canteen.  Further exploration yielded a small brook, glittering in the light, and the ability to refill his water supply.  A line of stones offered passage across the stream, and Rikiya paused, considering the implicit invitation to press forward.  But after a moment, he doubled back, watering the planted seed (a purple flower this time) before heading back towards the brook.

“You’re gonna be one of those 100% completion types, huh?” Spinner observed from where he’d been watching without comment since weighing in that the unreachable spot from before might be a New Game Plus thing.

Rikiya turned the phrase over in his head, then smiled slightly.  “Probably,” he allowed.  “Is that a problem?  I could prioritize progress instead of thoroughness.”

“You’re playing, not me.  Just play how you want.”  A hint of rolled eye suffused the words, and the combination brought back the memory of Shigaraki on the stage—We’re gonna do whatever we want!—a study in contrasts: a hand-tailored black suit worn with ratty red sneakers, sprawled like a street thug in a chair that belonged in a gentlemen’s club, wrapped in bandages with one splinted leg, but still speaking in a voice so effortlessly confident it gave Rikiya chills to remember.

Whatever we want.

“Is that part of the exercise here?” he asked; his voice emerged strangely hushed to his own ears.  That Shigaraki’s presence could have such an effect, even in his absence… Rikiya held back a sigh.  Trumpet had given him a very sharp glance the last time he’d sighed over Shigaraki and it came out revealingly wistful.

He’d half-expected Spinner to respond in denial or confusion—real or feigned, he’d not decided—but Spinner only sat quietly for a long moment before answering with, “If that’s what it takes, I guess.”

“To get me to relax?”  On the TV, the camera shifted perspectives—another video—to watch the character pass between two enormous trees, screen fading to black for a few seconds before returning to show a new landscape, the terrain hillier, the trees more sparse.  For the first time, sky was visible, a patchwork field of blue tumbled over with clouds.

Spinner shifted in place, the movement bespeaking awkwardness.  He tapped his claws over the controller in his lap, a drum of keratin on plastic.

“…Look, this is gonna sound pretty bad, but you’re—it’s like you’re on a commercial, all the time.  Mr. Compress feels less fake than you do sometimes, and I haven’t seen his real face the whole time I’ve known him.  The only time you feel real is when you talk about Shigaraki and how ‘liberated’ he is.”

“I believe it very much,” Rikiya offered, then fell quiet, because it wasn’t the right time to interrupt, and also, the wistfulness had just been waiting for him to speak again to leak out into his voice.

“Right, but—Shigaraki’s gone.  For the next four months.  We’ve gotta keep this thing together until he gets back, and—you know we’re the only ones who really care about it.”  Spinner’s shoulders had gone taut, Rikiya found when he looked over at the other man, his scaled fingers wrapped around the game controller.  “Shigaraki said something about you having an aneurysm, and I know he was just joking, but your whole thing is about stress.  And if that’s why you feel like you don’t ever not have a game-face on, then.”  He made a sudden frustrated sound, scratching at his hair.

“It doesn’t matter how you play the game,” he went on, just as Rikiya was opening his mouth to respond.  “This isn’t the kind of game you can lose.  You can just—play it how you want and nothing’s riding on it.  So you don’t have to turn around and ask me what’s the right way to do it.  Just—play it however feels right to you.”

On the screen, the little figure in blue with their inscrutable face had knelt, clothes moving slightly with a simulated breath.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much practice with—not having a ‘game-face’ on,” Rikiya said at last.  He thought about debating the assertion that no one else in his erstwhile organization cared about the new venture, but it was true that his own closest companions were making little attempt to hide their dissatisfaction.  Skeptic, of course, was quite vocal, but Trumpet, too, was entirely missing his usual charm around fellow warriors.  As for Geten, well, it was only a wonder that none of the League had commented yet about how long the ice in their drinks could last before melting.

“Yeah,” Spinner said with a shortness that Rikiya translated to, That’s obvious.  “But it’s just the two of us down here.  I won’t tell if you won’t.  Shigaraki’s the only other one who likes video games, anyway,” he added in a grumble.

“I’m surprised you all could find time for such things,” Rikiya said, which felt safer than anything else, to which Spinner snorted.

“We couldn’t.  I think he’s too practical to lug around a game system when he’s on the run. What’d he even hook it up to?  But he does that thing where he talks in gaming metaphors when he’s thinking about strategy.”  A mix of exasperation and fondness colored his voice.

“Do you suppose he might join us for this”—Rikiya waved the controller vaguely at the screen—“when he returns to us?”

Spinner’s cheeks colored slightly, and with a plaintive note, he answered, “I have no idea.  He—I don’t know.”  Rikiya made a questioning noise, lifting his brows, and Spinner shot him a look of residual distrust before relenting.  “He’s always either on or off.  No in-between.”

A somewhat garbled bit of metaphor, but Rikiya understood, if not the sentiment, then at least the dazed origin.  Still, he was learning things about Shigaraki Tomura, and there was a distinct thrill to that, to find a kindred spirit in this new cause, to see a look of mixed incomprehension and wonder in someone’s face that felt correspondent with his own.

“He’ll probably need some time to recover from the surgery, at least,” Spinner concluded after another moment on consideration.  “I guess we can ask.  The worst he can do is laugh at us.”  A beat of silence, then he amended, “The worst he would do is laugh at us.

“What?” he asked, suddenly defensive as he looked into Rikiya’s eyes.

“Mm?” Rikiya blinked at him.

“You’re smiling at me funny,” Spinner accused, and Rikiya blinked, realizing the truth of it.  He was smiling—still was, in fact, the expression oddly resilient even under the force of Spinner’s raised hackles.

“Apologies,” Rikiya murmured, still staring at the way Spinner’s beak twisted around an awkward scowl as he looked away, lilac pink eyes narrow.

“Just get back to the game,” he muttered.

“Ah, of course.”

——— 

It was a rather nice little experience, in the end.  The game progressed through different environmental stages, growing more barren from forest to plain to desolate shoreline and eventually into an abandoned city, all shattered glass and cracked asphalt and dim skies, hinting at some sort of apocalypse. It encouraged exploration of its different areas, with well-placed lulls in activity to take in its vistas and views (and it really did have exquisite color design), and each new area requiring more ingenuity to find water or soft earth or even sunlight.  In the third area, the second player’s role became clear, as the main character encountered some sort of wind spirit (hinted to be a ghost in the second-to-last stage) that could reach and manipulate areas and objects out of the main player’s grasp, as well give their jumps a modest boost.

The whole thing climaxed in a grueling slog through a blasted wasteland, all pale ash and white-hot sunlight and scouring winds. As played by Spinner, the spirit pushed insistently at the main character’s back even as their steps began to falter, and when they finally collapsed, it was in the shadow of their own body that they planted their final seed.  The wind spirit—now in ghost form again—pushed the ashes over the hole as the cloaked figure dribbled out the last of their water, then, together, they performed the ritual gesture, both hands moving as one.  A long, tense moment followed—predictable in the cinematic sense, but by then Rikiya was far too absorbed to quibble—before the seed unfolded into a red flower.  Seconds passed, and then another blossom found its way out of the sere earth some distance away from the fallen figure in blue.  It was followed by others, and the whole time, the red flower grew and grew, until a graceful tree, branches draped in crimson, stood at the center of the field of brilliant colors.

The credits rolled over a sweeter, fuller version of the game’s main theme, and a final little scene showed the two characters at the entrance to the cave from the beginning of the game, the blue-cloaked figure watching the canopy of the forest as the wind spirit toyed with a swirl of leaves.

“Well,” Rikiya said.  He and Spinner had not been entirely silent since the exchange about Shigaraki, but Rikiya had let him set the pace of conversation.  That had led to Spinner asking again, during the first beach area, whether Rikiya really had no hobbies to speak of; when asked in turn about his own, he had—reluctantly at first, then with increasing enthusiasm—talked about his personal favorite games. Rikiya was left with the distinct impression that Seed was not the sort of game Spinner normally favored, which showed a generosity of spirit Rikiya thought best rewarded by not drawing attention to it.

“That was a very charming experience,” he went on, ordering his thoughts for discussion—and also stretching out what remained of his legs; he would need to make some time for physical therapy after this.

“Was it relaxing, though?” Spinner asked, striking Rikiya to a chuckle with his blunt focus.

“I think the ending was tense enough to keep it from being entirely relaxing,” he said after giving the question due consideration. “But it felt like the intention was more to be cathartic, and it was that.”  Rikiya felt a rare lightness in his body—not as profound as Shigaraki overthrowing all his burdens, certainly, but—akin to it, perhaps.  A sense of stress expunged that, prior to Deika, he had typically only experienced after spars, and it had been rarer and rarer for him to take part in those as the years went on, much less expend any significant amount of stress in doing so.

“It was a wonderful tone piece,” he went on. “I think it would have been that much just to watch it, but the interactivity gives it its real impact. I can see why it’s well-regarded.”

Spinner nodded, uncertainty lingering in his eyes. “So—do you want to try to do it again sometime?”

“I’d be happy to.  You should bring some of the games you talked about next time.”  He paused as Spinner first brightened, then visibly tamped himself down and turned his attention to the game, beginning the process of exiting and turning off all the various components with a cursory mumble of agreement to Rikiya’s suggestion.

Unfortunately, with Spinner once again getting cagey, the sense of the contours of the room was creeping back in.  The transporting nature of the game was confined to the experience of playing it, and outside that, it really was quite a small room.  And if they did convince Shigaraki Tomura to join them, all the presence and intensity of him in such close quarters…  The thought tightened a cord around Rikiya’s chest, hope and fear mingled in the remembrance of the sublime.

If I’m going to have to keep having to deal with you, I want you wound down, not wound further up.

There is one thing you could ask for.  It was a small thing to ask in some ways, a large one in others, and if he let himself linger on it, he would doubtlessly talk himself out of it, which seemed disrespectful to the amount of time and effort his companion had devoted to this whole endeavor.

“Spinner,” he said abruptly, and the man looked back over at him with a small, suspicious frown and wary eyes.  “The next time we do this…”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we might do it somewhere with windows?”

Should I explain?  Would he even want to hear about something like that?  Can I even talk about something like that?

Spinner studied him for a long moment, and Rikiya wondered suddenly how much more Shigaraki might have told him, about their confrontation, about the Claustro, about—well, about whatever conclusions Shigaraki had come to.  As the seconds stretched on, he felt the tiny curve of a smile on his face, not the expression of someone brimming with happiness to be shared, but the resigned air of someone awaiting a trial.  Not his best work, it had to be said.

“Yeah,” Spinner finally said.  “That’s fine.”

The answer—Spinner’s decision not to press—felt like a weight lifting.  A small one, to be sure.  But it was…

Well, it was a start.

…And perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to look into finding a few video games to bring in himself next time, too.

———      ———      ———      ———

Seed may look like a complete rip-off of Journey, but it also takes some inspiration from Prune, Monument Valley, Flower and a dash of Gris as well. It's using the verb-form of its titular word, which in Japanese would be pronounced ma, as would be the other kanji mentioned. (The kanji for devil has the same pronunciation, but the game devs didn't include it.)

Thanks for reading, all!

[welllpthisishappening]

Once Again as in Olden Days

She’s absolutely freezing cold. 

It’s a dumb metaphor, one that only serves to make Emma even more pissed off than she already is. Because two hours ago it was summer. But a few more hours before that, she was also locked in a tower guarded by a fire-breathing dragon. And now she’s outside. With her kid. And a pirate that isn’t hers, explicitly, but keeps staring at her like he wouldn’t mind if he was. 

So maybe it’s not the worst. Maybe she’ll be able to get warm eventually. 

-----

Rating: A whole bunch of teen-type canon divergence.�� Word Count: 6.4 K to fit in all the ridiculous Meet Me in St. Louis references AN: Back at it again with the Festive Fic Prompt A Thon and two anon prompts today: "you can put your cold feet on me." & "i don't wanna get up-- you're comfy." I started writing this as Lieutenant Duckling the other day, got a thousand words in, was like nah, then came back today and wrote nearly six and a half thousand words of 4x22 canon divergence with a frustrated Emma, enthusiastic Henry and deckhand!Hook who just wants to help. And listen to badly summarized movies. Anyway, they kiss. 

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

-----

She can’t stop shivering. 

Every inhale comes with an almost automatic exhale that seems to wobble its way out of Emma, uneven and shaky and neither of those are good adjectives, but none of this has been good and the storm had come out of nowhere. 

She assumes it’s a last-ditch effort to steer them off course, and while he might not be exactly the same man, Killian Jones is still exceptionally good in a crisis. And on his ship. 

She hasn’t told him that the Jolly is his ship yet. 

So, really, she might be the world’s biggest coward. 

Mostly Emma is pissed off. 

Magic storms. In the middle of summer. 

Of course. 

Fuck this reality, honestly. 

She lets out another burst of air, and it’s cold enough now that she can see it linger in the space in front of her. Every inch of Emma feels frozen—muscles tense and skin raw from the shackles she is positive she can still feel and she’s starting to think in metaphors now, anger curling at the base of her spine and threatening to burst out the tips of her fingers, but that may also just be her magic and—

“Mom?” Henry mutters, snow clinging to the edge of his hair. She jumps approximately forty-seven feet in the air. 

It is admittedly a rough estimate. 

Henry’s teeth find his lower lip, far too familiar to be anything except vaguely jarring. Emma huffs, and she’s not sure where her lungs continue to find enough oxygen to keep doing this, pressing the heel of her hand into her cheek, like that will help ground her and her vaguely vertical emotions. 

“Yeah, kid?” He jerks his head behind him, lights Emma hadn’t noticed before glimmering in the not-so-far distance, and maybe this will be ok. At least passably acceptable. Possibly warm. God, she wants to get warm again. 

That’s another metaphor. 

Killian hasn’t said a single word since they anchored the Jolly. Emma hopes that isn’t because she’d teleported them off the Jolly. She was actually surprised she’d been able to do it, but Regina had always told her magic was about emotion and she’s been feeling nothing except emotion, every single thing she hasn’t said yet and wants to say and is hopeful she’ll eventually be courageous enough to actually say. 

She’s started biting her lip at some point too. 

“We could get inside,” Henry suggests, already backpedaling and Emma knows there’s not really another option. The ends of her gown are drenched. She doesn’t want Henry to be out in this snow much longer. 

She’s going to strangle Issac as soon as she sees him. 

And then Rumplestilskin. 

And then Isaac again, for good measure. 

“Maybe get some food,” Henry continues. “That’s how it always works in the stories, right? Roadside taverns and mead and—’ “—You are not getting mead,” Emma cuts in. 

Henry makes a distinctly teenage noise in the back of his throat, a bit of normal that Emma is going to think about for at least the next forty-five minutes if only because she can practically hear the nervous energy rolling off Killian. She wishes he would talk. She’s not sure what she’ll do if he does talk. 

“Alright,” Emma says, inhaling sharply. She’s desperately got to learn how to breathe. And control her magic. 

Killian flinches slightly. 

Henry widens his eyes. “Unless you guys want to break into some barn somewhere. Hay is warm and it’s not like we have any gold, do they use gold in the fake Enchanted Forest?” “No idea,” Emma shrugs. “I could probably just magic it, though. I think that’s possible and—” “—I have gold.”

She whips around so quickly she almost loses her balance, far more fabric around her ankles than she’s used to. Killian’s staring at his shoes by the time she straightens out her knees, lips tugged tightly behind his teeth and impossibly straight shoulders, more nerves and anxiety wafting off him. 

Emma resists the urge to reach her hand forward. 

They’ve got to get out of here. 

She needs to magic herself some new clothes too. 

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispers, but that only gets him to furrow his brows, a small smile tugging at his lips. 

Her magic flares, racing up her spine and taking root in the back of her brain and the center of her soul, which also seems impossibly melodramatic. Killian lifts his head. 

“What else am I going to use it on?” he reasons with a shrug, and Emma can’t help the sound that flies out of her. 

It’s not a laugh — there is absolutely nothing funny about any of this — but it’s not quite the sigh she expects, something closer to a scoff and a hint of disbelief and her hand moves. 

She absolutely cannot help it. 

Her fingers brush over his, a quick hitch of his arm, like he’s not sure if he should pull back or push her away and Emma rocks closer, ducking her head into a gaze that can’t seem to hold hers for more than five seconds. 

Those few strands of hair drifting over his forehead may be the death of her. 

“It’s a fair question,” Henry mumbles. He’s smiling. She can tell, hear it in his voice and Emma’s cheeks object to her own lip-type movement, but it’s still snowing and freezing cold and—

Seriously those strands of hair. 

“See,” Killian says, “the lad’s got some sense.” Emma lifts her eyebrows. “Seems to suggest that I don't.” He blushes. It’s absurd and wonderful and entirely awful. All at the same time. She has no idea how she’s going to sleep when her magic is roaring in her veins. 

“No, no, no, that’s not—” Killian stammers, and Henry doesn’t even try to mask his laugh that time. 

“No?” Emma prompts. Killian swallows. The muscles in his throat move, jaw clenching and it’s another rush of passably familiar that Emma wants to hold onto with both hands. “No,” he echoes. “I—we have to get out of this storm.” “This is what I’m saying,” Henry groans. “So we’ll use Killian’s money and we’ll get some food and maybe some mead and—” “—Seriously, how is no mead confusing?” Emma asks, glancing over her shoulder. Henry sneers. Killian is back to being frustratingly silent. 

The color in his cheeks hasn’t disappeared. 

It doesn’t have anything to do with the snow. 

Seriously, the snow has to stop soon. 

“Let’s go,” Emma says. She claps a hand on Henry’s shoulder, trusting that Killian will follow them when they start to move and that’s not quite a metaphor, but it might be the basis of everything else and—

She’s right. 

She can hear the snow crunching under his boots behind her. 

The air is musty and tinged with what smells like a mix of sweat and ale as soon as Emma pushes the door to the inn open, biting back a groan while her stomach does its best to rise up in the back of her throat. 

There are people everywhere, crowded at clearly sticky tables and tucked into dark corners, a surplus of leather and more than a few flashes of steel, the telltale sound of dice rolling on a variety of wooden surfaces. Emma’s eyes scan the space, gaze falling on what looks like the world’s oldest bar and a bald man with a round face and a towel draped over his shoulder. 

She snaps her fingers. 

And the magic that twists across her own face isn’t entirely uncomfortable. It’s warm, but it also makes it feel as if her skin is melting—like candle wax, shifting and reforming until her nose isn’t quite where it’s supposed to be, her eyes deep set and her forehead a bit wider. 

Her clothes have changed as well, gown replaced by breeches and boots that almost provide some warmth to her otherwise frozen toes, a vest and empty sword belt. 

She’ll have to fix that last part eventually, she’s sure. 

“Whoa,” Henry breathes. “Mom, that was so cool!” Emma can’t help the quick smile she gives him, a flash of pride that disappears almost as soon as her brand-new eyes land on Killian. 

He looks stunned. 

And maybe just a hint terrified. 

Of her. And her magic. 

The witch in the tower, indeed. 

“I’ll, uh—” she starts, but the words scratch at the inside of her throat like they’re not all that interested in being spoken. “I just figured it’d be best if no one saw me. I mean—do people even know what I look like?” “Lily did.” “Yeah, but she was a dragon.” “That we knocked out of the sky,” Henry reasons. “She’s probably got people to report back to. That’s how it always works in the—” “—Stories,” Emma finishes. Her stomach twists again, fear mixing with dread and those are kind of the same words. “We get a room. We eat. We get a few hours of sleep and then we get out of here. Got it?”

Henry nods once, and Emma doesn't bother glancing back at Killian. That’s not great. She’s not—

It doesn’t matter. 

This isn’t real. 

They’re getting out of here. She’s going to save all of them. 

And Killian isn’t freaked out by her magic at home. 

So. 

Emma stalks forward, twisting and turning between tables and half-drunk townsfolk, doing her best to breathe through her mouth while ignoring anyone’s curious gaze. It doesn’t matter. No one casts her a second glance, and it takes a few moments of pointed coughing to get the attention of the barkeep. 

He brings up the crazy weather at least six times. 

Emma keeps nodding. It leaves the muscles in her neck aching, fear tugging on the nerve-endings there because she’s not entirely convinced this is a good idea, but then it’s only a few more minutes for gold to exchange hands, Killian dropping a small pouch of clinking coins on the wood in front of them. 

The key to the one room they have left in this entire godforsaken place is cold in Emma’s hand. 

One room. 

Naturally. 

She might kick Isaac too. Several times. 

“C’mon,” Emma says, nudging at Henry’s back when his eyes widen at the sight of several foaming mugs of...something. “Right, left, kid and up the stairs.” He grumbles as he moves, and part of her is loathe to to be responsible in a moment like this. Part of her wants to down several tankards of ale and a few more rounds of mead, but Emma also isn’t entirely confident in how to mix Enchanted Forest alcohol and—

There are two beds in their one room. 

Naturally. 

Version two point oh. 

She sighs, running a suddenly exhausted hand over her face, which is only a little jarring because it’s not really her face. The string of curses that fall out of her is more than a little surprising, even to herself, but— “I forgot to get food,” Emma hisses, half to herself and half to this version of the world and Henry is already perched on the edge of one of the beds. 

There are only two beds. 

She’s going to scream. She’s trying very hard not to cry. 

“I’ll take care of it,” Killian says, soft enough that Emma barely ears him. Her magic is doing that thing again. 

So is his jaw. 

She’s got to stop staring at his jaw. It’s far too close to his lips. 

“You sure?” she asks. He lowers his eyebrows again, a quick jerk of his head that feels a little placating and a little hers, as if he’s amused every time she lets him do anything for her. 

And Henry. 

For them. 

Collectively. 

“Positive,” Killian promises. “I’m not sure it’ll be very good food, but—" “—We’ll live,” Emma interrupts. 

“Aye, I’m sure we will.” It’s not another promise. She knows. He knows. Henry knows. The goddamn barkeep probably knows. And yet. The words slink under Emma’s skin and find a rhythm with her pulse, a guarantee for a future that she’s only just started allowing herself to dream about. 

Idiot. 

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m going to come downstairs and do something vaguely threatening,” Emma says. 

Killian’s lips twitch. “I’ve no doubt.” “And there aren’t clocks in this realm,” Henry adds. He’s definitely still smiling. 

Killian nods again—although that one has a distinct air of confusion to it, which only serves to make Emma’s stomach do something else she doesn’t have time to think about and she’s honestly got to stop thinking such absurd things. Because then he’s sweeping back into the hall and his boots are heavy on the stairs and she doesn’t have to turn around to see the expectant look on her son’s face. 

She can feel it. Behind her eyelids. 

“So, uh—” Henry starts, but Emma waves both of her hands and she’s not all that surprised he ignored her. It’s a weird thing to be proud of. “He didn’t even argue, you know. When I found him.” Emma licks her lips. She shivers again. 

And Henry isn’t done. “I got rid of Black Beard and then he just...I mean, it’s not right. Anything here, and especially Killian because he’s—” “—Yeah, I know,” Emma whispers. 

“Still didn’t argue, though. He might not remember everything, Mom, but I know he’s—he still cares. About you. About us.” She hums, a noncommittal sound because her tongue appears to be taking up most of the real estate in her mouth and she’s still as much of a coward as advertised. Even more so than the man who’s not quite the man she—

Emma lets out a shuddering breath, stumbling back against the nearest wall. Her knees have started to wobble as well. 

And Henry doesn’t say anything else. 

She’ll thank him for that eventually. When they get home. Let him play video games for an extra hour or something. 

Maybe go sailing. 

She’d like to go sailing. 

She’d like—

The door swings open again, a tray of food in Killian’s hand and a smile on his face that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. As if he’s worried it’s wrong. 

Until. 

The warmth of something Emma resolutely refuses to name as soon as her gaze meets his is like falling back into blankets and some joke about the tides and a steady rhythm and his smile stretches, settling on his face like he’s just been waiting for her to make sure it lands there. 

Henry snorts. 

Whatever is in the bowls Killian is holding is steaming. 

“Not exactly dinner at the palace,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. Emma feels her eyes widen. “But it’ll at least keep the chill at bay and—” 

He jerks his chin down, a small pile of fabric Emma hadn’t noticed before tucked under his left arm. Blankets. 

Some of her muscles loosen. 

In a nice way. 

“Thank you,” she says, hoping she’s able to infuse as much emotion into two words as possible. Killian hums, another quick nod that isn’t quite as terrified or concerned and— “Can we eat?” Henry asks. 

Emma laughs softly, reaching out to grab bowls and blankets and the food isn’t great, but she’s fairly certain none of them have been poisoned. So, she’ll take what she can get at this point. 

And the whole thing is oddly comfortable—blankets strewn across the floor and Henry’s tugged his boots off at some point, recounting his defeat of Black Beard and Killian’s ability to sail through that storm, as if Emma weren’t there too, but she can’t bring herself to tell him to stop. 

Not when his voice picks up that way, excitement and adventure and he’s so sure they’re going to fix this. 

She’ll regret that later, she’s sure. 

Letting that hope linger. 

God, but she’s the most depressing person in any reality. 

Henry’s eyes start to flutter shut eventually, head lolling towards his shoulder and chin bumping against this chest and Emma makes to move, but then Killian’s mumbling something under his breath that sounds a lot like I can do it and Emma’s far too busy making sure her heart doesn’t explode to object. 

It might explode anyway. 

She tugs her legs closer to her, resting her chin on her knees and eyes never leaving Killian as he hauls Henry up, moving him towards a bed with, she assumes, slightly scratchy sheets. Every shift of Killian’s arms is slow, almost calculated, like he’s holding something important and a word that’s bigger than that, but Emma’s having enough difficulty coming to terms with any of this that she can hardly be expected to care about syntax. 

It’s still snowing out. 

Henry doesn’t wake up when he rolls over, stuffing a hand under his pillow and twisting one leg across the mattress. 

Exactly the same way Emma sleeps. 

And exactly the way Killian has complained about Emma sleeping. Her mind jumps to memories — weeks of calm and seasonally-appropriate snow, tucked into a different bed with sheets that seemed to drape themselves over her skin and her soul and she’s clearly losing her grip on her sanity. It is, Killian frequently tells her, because Emma’s feet refuse to retain their natural heat. 

It makes him jump every time, a soft gasp that leaves her laughing and giggling just a bit and she’ll never admit to that second one, but he always knows and he’s always known and the tenses don’t matter.

Emma shudders, standing up abruptly and all but sprinting towards the window. 

The snow drifts look unnaturally large. If she didn’t know better, hadn’t spent the morning with sweat dripping down her back and hair plastered to her forehead, Emma would think it was Christmas. And if she didn’t know better, hadn’t watched a dragon try and burn her alive a few hours earlier, she would believe that she could be happy here. 

An Enchanted Forest princess with a son and a man who would go to the ends of the world for her, no matter what he believed or who he remembered and she’s started rocking her weight between her feet. There’s a certain rhythm to it, matching up to a song no one else in this realm has probably heard of from a movie Emma only barely remembers the plot of. 

Maybe she can do something about the snow in the morning as well, still emotional enough that her magic could probably move mountains and that may give up their position, but she’s not a battle strategist either or even a pirate and— “Are you alright ma’am?” It’s probably for the best that her heart has already exploded. Makes it less likely for it to shatter. Dramatically.

Emma doesn’t look behind her, can’t actually bring herself to move at the sound of Killian’s half-mumbled question and she can see his outline in the foggy glass anyway. He’s got his fingers in his hair. 

“Fine,” she bites out, and the lie tastes bitter on her tongue, threatens to scorch away all those other words hanging there. 

He hums, a step towards her. It’s not as cautious as it’s been in the few hours since he and Henry found her. She can’t believe it’s only been a few hours. 

Emma’s perception of time is entirely skewed — and not just because of the goddamn snow, some twisted winter wonderland that leaves her thinking of more possibility and decidedly misplaced wants and there are no goddamn clocks in this realm. She can remember everything and nothing, her real life and her life here, but that’s a generous descriptor for what’s felt like decades chained in a tower. 

She wonders how long it’s really been. 

She wonders if this Killian Jones has ever wanted the same things she does. 

“You may want to practice that a few more times,” he continues, and the floor creaks when he steps that time. “If you’d like me to believe it.”

Emma’s head nearly flies off its neck. “The cheek on you, Captain.” “I’m not a Captain.” “God, that’s so weird. It’s—do you have a sword?” “No.” “Shit. That’s—do you have enough gold for that? I mean...I don’t want to use your life savings or anything here.” The last thing she expects is him to laugh, so, naturally, that is exactly what happens. Killian throws his whole head back with the force of it, Henry mumbling at the noise, and Emma is not entirely prepared for that specific shade of blue. He’s smirking at her. The asshole. 

“None of this is mine,” Killian says, laughter clinging to the words even as he keeps inching closer to Emma. “Black Beard didn’t leave much of his horde on the ship—wanted to spread things around, you see, make sure no one would be able to rob him, but—” “—You’re a pirate?” Emma suggest. “Something like that.” “You’re blushing, though.”

“Aye, that too.”

Emma twists a strand of hair around her fingers, desperate for something to do with all the excess energy she’s suddenly bursting with. And the air around them isn’t quite tension-filled, but there’s a certain charge to it, an electric current that’s always been there. More jokes about tenses. 

“Were you singing just now?” Killian asks. The windows in that room have a distinct draft to them. 

“No.” “No?” “We’re going in circles,” Emma grumbles, and his mouth doesn’t change. She’s got to stop staring at his mouth. 

But it had taken everything in her not to throw her arms around him before, to push her own fingers into his hair and yank him forward, find some kind of steady something in the feel of his mouth against hers and the way he always seems to fall into her. Or the other way around. 

Seriously, syntax is not important right now.

It’s probably best she didn’t. 

Emma would not have been able to cope with it being different. 

“What was the tune?” Killian asks, voice almost steady, and Emma is greedy enough to want the conversation. If only because of the color of his eyes when he looks at her. 

“You wouldn’t know it.” “Try me.”

“No, honestly, it’s—” She has every intention of being stubborn. She does—walls that she can practically establishing themselves around her heart and her soul and it’s incredible that one person can be so consistently idiotic. 

He still cares. About you. About us. 

“When I was a kid,” Emma starts, sliding down the wall and pointing towards the space next to her. Killian sits. “I used to uh—well I never lived anywhere very long. And this time of year—” “Summer?” “Nah, winter. Well, this is fake, but—” “—The snow felt fairly real when it was falling on us. You were shivering quite a bit, ma’am.” “Noticed that, did you? And you’ve got to stop with this ma’am stuff.”

“Ma’am stuff,” he drawls. “God, of course you’d be able to tease me,” Emma grouses, but Killian’s staring at her expectantly. Almost as if he’s waiting for marching orders. That probably doesn’t happen on a boat. Ship. “I just—” “—The last thing I want to do is offend you.” The sincerity in the words rock through Emma, leaving her teeth digging into her lip again until she’s threatening to bite the stupid thing in half and Killian’s eyes flicker towards the movement, like he’s thinking about things too and— “I’m not exactly the most respectable person in the world,” Emma reasons. “A crazy witch with out of control magic.” “That’s not true.” “You didn’t know that until Henry found you.” “Aye,” he agrees. “But I—well, it was easy to believe him.” Her lungs have got to get a grip. 

Or, whatever. 

Work. She needs her lungs to work. 

“Thank you,” Emma breathes. That’s not the working she was hoping for. “I—well, I…thank you. For all of it. Dashing rescues—” “—Did you say dashing?” “If you don’t stop calling me ma’am, I’ll punch you in the face.”

Killian barks out a laugh, the sound leaving him almost looking like him and feeling like him and Emma’s fingers flutter on instinct. With magic. He clenches his jaw. “And, uh—what am I supposed to be calling a magical princess, then?”

“You’re trying to flatter me.” “Is it working?” “Maybe,” Emma admits. “More cheek, though.” “Aye, that’s—unexpected, I suppose. But so are you, Swan, it’s—” Killian cuts himself off, eyes bugging and the veins in his throat are obvious when he jerks back, staring at Emma like she will actually punch him. 

The magic in her vibrates. With want and desire and goddamn normal. 

“That works,” she says. 

He blushes again. He might not have ever stopped. “Has that happened before?” “Hmmm?” “The cold,” Killian says. His voice shifts again, sounding a bit farther away than it had, like he’s trying to place a memory or moment and Emma doesn’t want to hope again. It’s not the best thing to remember, anyway. “You were—we...I was…” “You were?” “Worried. Terrified, even. I can—there was ice or—” “—No, that’s right,” Emma interrupts. “It was a giant wall and it wasn’t really Elsa’s fault, but—” “—Should I know who Elsa is?” “Probably not.” He makes another noise, a slow nod that only serves to shift those pieces of hair clearly designed to ruin Emma’s whole life. “The song, then? It was inspired by the snow?” “No, I don’t—well, I don’t know, really, but the song is kind of depressing, honestly.” “Is it?” Emma nods, and her head is close enough to his that her chin nearly bumps his shoulder. She’d like to put her head on his shoulder. That may freak him out. 

It’s kind of freaking her out, admittedly. 

“I haven’t thought about that movie in forever,” Emma continues, “It was old when I used to watch it. A beat up VHS—” “—What is that?” She clicks her tongue, not sure how to explain now-redundant technology to a pirate who isn’t her pirate in a realm that does not have clocks. The whole thing makes her head hurt. And it’s just absurd enough to make her laugh a bit too. 

Killian’s eyes flash. 

“That’s not the important part,” Emma says. “And it’s not even really a Christmas movie. It’s, um—well, it’s about a family. In this place called St. Louis—” “—Is that in the Enchanted Forest?” “Has anyone ever told you that you’re a rather pitiful listener?” “You’re teasing.” Emma grins. “St. Louis is not in the Enchanted Forest. It’s a city. In the reality—shit that’s so weird to think about. You know what? That doesn’t matter either. The point is that there was a family and they lived there and then they were going to move. And Judy Garland was upset because the guy she loved—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence. 

It feels like it’s weighing down on both of them anyway, more metaphors and passing similarities and she wants him to call her Swan at least forty-seven thousand times. 

“She didn’t want to leave this man, then?” Killian asks. “Judy Garland? Was she a princess as well?” Emma shakes her head. “No, but she did get to go to a ball. At Christmas. With a very red gown.” “Red?” “Yuh huh.” Killian swipes his tongue across the front of his teeth, that same thoughtful look Emma’s grown to memorize and maybe covet just a bit. It’s because it always ends with that pinch between his eyebrows. “So, John,” Emma adds, “That’s the guy that she loves. HIs name is John and he...he couldn’t get to the ball at first because he didn’t pick up his tuxedo. He was playing basketball.” “What a strange word.” “It’s a really strange game if you actually think about it, honestly. Henry’s more into soccer, though, so—we’re drifting from the point.” “Are we just?” “You’ll make me think you’re not enjoying my garbage storytelling, Killian.” The pinch disappears. 

At the same exact time his lips part. 

Seriously, his lips. 

“Does John eventually get to this ball?” 

“Yeah,” Emma nods. “Romance conquers all. He gets the tuxedo and they dance and it’s—well, Judy Garland wasn’t shy about being in love with him. She sang about it at the start of the movie, but everything kind of comes to light there and, um...when I was a kid, I always thought it was very pretty.” “The dancing?” “The whole thing. Happily ever after.” She can still see the tip of his tongue pressing into the side of his mouth — another tell for her Killian and this is her Killian, just with altered memories and ridiculous allusions to 1940s musicals and—

“What happened after the ball?” “John asked Judy Garland to marry him,” Emma says. Her voice cracks. It’s ridiculous. “She says, yes, of course, but they’re still leaving St. Louis and her sister is there and she’s beats up the snowmen.” “What?” “They’ve got the most ridiculous snowmen in the backyard and Tootie—” “—This child’s name is Tootie?” “I didn’t write the movie.” He chuckles, slumping a bit against the wall. His hand is very close to Emma’s. “And where does your tune factor in?” “Uh—before the snowmen, I think. Freshly engaged Judy Garland sings this song called Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. It’s...like I said, it’s kind of depressing if you listen to the words and—” “—What are the words?”

Emma has to swallow as soon as her brain processes that particular tone of voice. Because it’s not nervous. Or anxious. It’s vaguely hopeful and a little greedy as well, an overstep for a cowardly deckhand, but exactly what Killian Jones would do and Killian Jones would come back. 

With his tuxedo. 

Or leather jacket. 

As the case may be. 

“I’m not really a singer,” Emma mutters, ignoring whatever is fluttering in her stomach. Magic, maybe. Emotion, definitely. 

Killian nods, a quiet sound of agreement or acquiesce and that might be what changes everything. The easy way he’s looking at her, like explaining the plot of Meet Me In St. Louis is entirely normal and she can barely herself when she starts to sing under her breath. 

It’s decidedly off-pitch, Emma desperate to keep her voice low and her nerves in the pit of her stomach, but Killian doesn’t blink and she shakes slightly when she reaches— “Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.” She blinks, sudden tears on her cheeks that are a misplaced sense of warmth and she hates that she’s crying. She hates that she’s feeling, wisps of hope and shards of her own want and Emma can’t imagine there’s even something like Christmas in the Enchanted Forest. 

And she’s just about to apologize for it—for being anything except the Savior everyone always expects her to be, but then there’s a crack and a shift and her magic practically rumbles out of her chest and— Killian’s thumb brushes across her cheek. 

“Can you—” he stutters, color rising again and tinging the tips of his ears. “The mask. It’s—can you get rid of it?” She’s going to eventually run out of air to dramatically exhale, Emma is sure. 

In the moment, though, she’s got just enough, body surging forward as soon as the thought clicks into place and he wasn’t scared of the magic. 

He wasn’t scared of her. 

“I’d like to see you,” Killian adds, “If that’s—” Emma blinks, nose barley settling back to its appropriate place before she’s leaning forward and that same nose is pressed against Killian’s cheek. He doesn’t kiss exactly the same. 

It's not as horrible as she thought it would be. 

It’s softer now—still a little cautious optimism that’s almost as weird as the rules of basketball, and it takes a moment for him to tilt his head, a quick flicker of his tongue that leaves Emma reeling just a bit. That’s all it really takes, then. She lets her fingers fly into his hair, barely any space between them when she clamors closer, knees bumping his side and his hook finding the small of her back. 

Like always. 

She twists and he tilts his head and it’s not quite hungry, but there’s something about it that’s almost like a low simmer, steady and even and normal. It’s absolutely, totally normal. 

She’s not sure how long they stay there, making out like teenagers on the floor, but it doesn’t matter because Emma is at least ninety-six percent positive she’s just become Killian Jones’ first kiss and the thought leaves her a little dizzy and even more breathless than normal, goosebumps exploding on her skin that don’t have anything to do with the temperature. 

“What happens to them?” Killian asks, pressing the question to the corner of Emma’s mouth. “John and Judy?” “Her name is Esther in the movie.” “Another strange moniker.” She laughs— giggles —and it’s easy to feel Killian’s answering smile against her jaw. “Well, they’re engaged when it ends, and it never really says they get married, but I’d imagine they do after the fair.” “The fair?” “That’s a whole other plot point we don’t have time to go into. It’s—c’mon, we should probably get some sleep.” The smile is gone. “You should sleep, Swan. I can take the watch.” “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” “Someone should be awake, this isn’t the safest place.” Emma waves her hand, lock clicking into place and it’s probably wrong to take some perverse pleasure in Killian’s stunned expression. Or the position of his tongue. “Impressive.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” “You should at least take the bed, love.”

If he realizes he’s switched endearments, he doesn’t show it, but Emma does — and so does her magic. It roars and soars and some other word that is slightly less positive because the thought of not falling asleep next to him is suddenly the single worst thing she could come up with and—

“There’s enough space,” she reasons. 

Killian wavers for a moment, more than a few quick breaths through gritted teeth. Emma takes her boots off. 

And climbs into the bed. “The sheets suck though,” she says, and it gets the desired laugh out of him. He probably doesn’t understand the idiom. 

It doesn’t matter. 

He follows her anyway — and that’s a multi-fold thing and maybe they’ll be able to find a copy of Meet Me In St. Louis at home. Maybe she can get another red gown. 

Maybe they can— “Bloody hell how are your feet so cold?” Emma buries her face in the pillow to mask her laugh, body shaking despite her best efforts. Killian looks scandalized. 

“Bad circulation, I guess,” Emma reasons. 

“You’ll get frostbite like that, love. That can’t be healthy, I—what?” “Nothing, nothing, just...I’m sorry about my cold feet.”

He narrows his eyes, looking for the double meaning to those words and he’s always been very perceptive. So. It doesn’t take long for him to understand. “It’s alright,” he says. “Here, c’mere. You can...I’m warm, at least.”

“Yeah, I know.”

It takes some twisting to get comfortable, but that’s really more the sheets than anything and Emma’s head manages to find its way to Killian’s chest, an arm around her middle and lips grazing her hair and— “Swan. Swan, c’mon—Emma, love, we’ve got to get up.”

She grumbles, pressing her face further into the fabric under her cheek, but that fabric is also moving and the man wearing it is breathing and laughing in her ear and it takes Emma a moment to get her bearings. 

There’s light streaming in through gauzy curtains, a soft roar coming from behind the closed door of her bedroom. No, that’s not right.

Their bedroom. 

In their house. 

With their family. 

It’s—

“Merry Christmas, love,” Killian says. 

Emma jerks her head up, reality rushing back to her and she’d been dreaming. Of a different reality and a past that had been fixed years before. It’s been years. 

What sounds like several different crashes sound from, what she can only imagine, is the general vicinity of the kitchen. 

“Merry Christmas,” she mumbles. Killian ducks his head, catches her lips with hers and he laughs again when she objects to his movement. “No, no, you’re comfortable.”

“And warm, I know. But—” He winces at another crash. “I believe the little sea monster is awake and likely determined to open the the rather alarming large mountain of presents she’s been presented with. Also, your parents will be here soon.” Emma nods, a schedule flitting through her brain that includes breakfast and lunch and dinner that will end with—

“I expect your dance card to be filled tonight, your highness,” Killian adds. He nips at her nose when Emma doesn’t answer immediately, a knowing flash in his gaze and it had been her mother’s idea. 

A ball. 

At Christmas. 

Emma is almost unreasonably excited. If only because those few strands of hair that still fall across Killian’s forehead have started to take on a distinct silver edge and she can’t really think when she notices it. 

She’s anticipating a good deal of making out. In dark corners. 

And dancing. 

“Aye, Captain.”

The flash gets noticeably darker, another kiss they don’t have time for, but that’s also kind of their thing and—

Crash. Several. In quick succession. 

“She might have knocked the tree over,” Emma mutters. “I’ll go and assess damage. Make sure you put socks on, love. It’s probably cold downstairs.” Emma salutes—in tandem with her flipping stomach. 

And the kitchen isn’t nearly as bad as she thought it would be, a living room eventually covered in wrapping paper and laughter hanging in the air and Emma lets her mother pin her hair up later. 

The gold matches the red in her gown. 

And the red on Killian’s cheeks as soon as he sees her, one side of mouth tugging up and that same flash—disarmingly familiar and consistent, no matter the realm or the years or the curses they’ve lived through because—

He takes a step forward, a quick bend of his head and lips brushing her knuckles. 

Emma’s magic flutters. 

He lifts his eyebrows. 

“Your highness, ma’am.” “Captain.” “It’s a very good color.” “No problems with the tuxedo?” Killian shakes his head “I don’t know how to play basketball.”

She can’t help the size of her smile or the force of her magic, memories he probably shouldn’t remember, but they’ve watched the movie enough that he could probably sing the songs by heart now. And he does, humming soft melodies in Emma’s ear all night until she’s dangerously close to swooning. 

In a slightly darkened corner. 

With her husband’s mouth on hers and his hook pressed to the small of her back and happily ever after playing out around them. 

[jadedbirch]

ARTIST CLAIMS ARE NOW OPEN!

If you have questions about some of these fics before signing up and want us to follow up with the authors, please shoot El an email.  Otherwise, read all 24 of these, and email in your top 4 picks!

SUBMIT CLAIMS BY APRIL 23rd

1. Good ships scuttled on the deep

His fingers follow flecks of blood down to the point of his captain’s cheekbone. A thin pink scar, no wider than John’s fingernail, marks Flint’s pale skin. Flint’s eyes close completely. “I thought it was a welcome,” John says. Silver and Flint become lovers following the battle on Maroon Island. S4 AU with established silverflint relationship and some canon divergences.

2. Pray For The Wicked On The Weekend    John Silver spends his days in a faded green pickup truck filled with salt-loaded shotguns and silver and holy water on the back roads of the United Stated hunting monsters and demons and things that go bump in the night, and he’s fine with it, because it’s the easiest way to forget what he’s lost. But there’s something coming, something that he can’t face alone. So where else would he turn but the best Hunter the US has ever seen. Even if no one has heard from James Flint since Thomas and Miranda Hamilton went missing.

3. patron saint of lost causes

It takes two weeks to get Flint off Skeleton Island. Or rather--it takes two weeks for the island to let them go. In which Skeleton Island is a living character and brings a host of nightmares through the mist which force Silver and Flint to confront the dangers of their minds. Featuring surreal dreamscape horror as Silver literally battles figures from his murky, unnamed past and Flint moving through a river of blood and ghosts until he and Silver finally meet in the middle. Influences include Guillermo Del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth and The Devil's Backbone and Maria Luisa Bombal's work.

4. Let It All Unbreak You Post season four. Alone in taverns, at different points in time, Flint and Silver ponder what went wrong with their different relationships. They drink, remember and regret. They reflect upon the little they had together, and regret not making it work after the war with Madi or Thomas, while knowing very well that the very reason it all went wrong is that they had changed too much, had given each other too much, yet were not brave enough to admit it to each other when it was still time.

(Ships: Silverflint, flint x miranda x thomas, flint x thomas, silver x madi) (Angst, definitely not fix-it, no happy ending)

5. Pirate Sex is In Vogue

My fic is a modern AU primarily through email correspondence between Silver and Flint, although other mediums (such as texting and phoning) will be introduced as the story evolves. Silver is a crack erotica writer and Flint is the librarian who just wouldn't showcase his books at the Nassau Public Library, despite the insistence of the latter. They become unexpected virtual pen pals after Flint sends a heated rejection letter and grow closer through their correspondence, helping each other confront the inner demons of their personal lives. There will be polyamory, since Flint is involved with Thomas and Miranda by the time he and Silver fall in love.

6. Tell me we're dead and I'll love you even more

In the year 1725, or thereabouts, John Silver finds himself driven by a winter storm into an inconsequential little port town, barely a speck on any civilised map. Returned to the life of a drifter, tired and rough around the edges, he is resigned to waiting for the weather to pass before he can sail on again to the next town, and the next, and the next. That is until he overhears a conversation in the inn about a local fisherman, one Captain Barlow, and his tall tales of tempests and becalmings, devils and sharks, and Silver finds a new future opening up to him, haunted by the spectres of his past. Whether landed in this place by fortune, or fate, or even divine intervention, he finds he cannot leave again without following this trail that leads from an old and half-forgotten tether knotted deep between his ribs to somewhere that feels familiar and safe, like home. The way won’t be easy; it’s paved with notable absences and painful unspoken truths, and there’s as good a chance as any that he’ll find a knife to his throat before he can so much as say ‘Long time no see, Captain’. Still, all roads do seem to lead to them baring their souls to one another in the dark, and Silver would be lying if he said he hadn’t missed it.

7.  An Epilogue

After the events of Treasure Island, John finds James and Thomas. There’s a gradual awkward descent to domesticity when pirates retire. Madi brings Jim Hawkins with her from London. This is the ultimate fix it where there are no unanswered questions and everyone lives happily ever after. SilverFlint, SilverHamilton, SilverFlintHamilton, SilverMadi

8. Stealing Hearts

A 1920s AU with Flint as a mob boss, fighting a corrupt police force/police system, and Silver as a thief who gets caught up in all of it.  

9. Space Raiders of Nassau

The space station Nassau is in open rebellion against the interplanetary Imperial Alliance.  Captain James Flint is in deep shit for rearranging the face of a fellow raider captain.  As punishment, Nassau's leaders assign an inside man to his crew, with a very convincing cover story (that they're married). Complicating things further is the fact that Flint's shifty new husband, John Silver, knows a lot more than he's telling about their secret mission. Their own survival as well as Nassau’s future depend on how successfully they can navigate the dangerous skies… and each other.  

10. The Pirate Captain's Wedding Once he has his hands on the thief Flint is willing to do whatever it takes to get the page from him. And then Billy & Gates say marriage is the only solution left on the table. Or rather matelotage – the time honored pirate form of matrimony. Billy says it’s the only way to regain the crew’s trust, by marrying one of them, and Gates agrees. For once Flint’s desperate enough to agree to it. He never expects to actually fall in love with the little shit. Canon-Era Season1/Season2 AU– with angsty developing feelings, public consummation, & There Is Only One Bed night after hot sticky sweaty night. 11. The devil's gotta' earn

Supernatural AU. James Flint has been a hunter for over a decade now and he knows people join this profession for plenty of reasons and few of those are happy ones. Some people just seek the thrill, some want to protect the so called innocent, some - like him - are out for revenge and John Bloody Silver apparently is just trying to get rich. [Borrows mostly from first seasons of Supernatural, little to no prior knowledge of this show required. Miranda lives, Thomas tragically does not. Lots of angst, few monsters of the week and a demon or two.]

12. touch me James is a widow, bartender and owner of the gay-bar “The Rainbow“. After Thomas' death it had been John who had lift him up. One day one of his usual dancers - because what is a gay bar without your occasional striptease - can't perform. John offers to fill the space and James has to face that John is more than just a friend. Slow burn and StripperJohn!AU

13. Adamantine Flame Flint is a forest god called The Flame and Silver is part of the cult that worships him that resides on the fringes of the underworld. 14. [Title TBD] Silver never met another werewolf before. Well, realistically, he knew he must have because he wasn't born a werewolf so someone had to have done this to him. But that didn't count since his memory of the whole incident was lackluster at best. He knew others had to be out there somewhere though and he wanted to find at least one, just to know he wasn't all alone. Flint was surrounded by werewolves all his life. Always part of a family, always knowing someone cared for him. Knowing he had someone to care for. The memories were as vivid as ever, of a time when he cared for someone. But they were gone and he knew he was meant to be all alone. 15. set my soul on fire

Nothing quite like getting out of prison to make a man feel like pulling off the biggest heist you’ve ever heard of. But he can’t do it alone - he’s going to need some money, a plan, a crew, and of course, his partner. His incorrigible, oral fixation-having, blue-eyed devil of a partner. Who is this smooth, seasoned con man with his eyes on the prize? James fucking Flint, naturally. And his partner? John Silver.Viva Las Vegas, baby.

16. cat dad

Modern au. Flint's life is fine. It's quiet and it's fine and he's fine. Well, except that his upstairs neighbor is a dick and his relationship with Miranda is strained and maybe quiet isn't all it's cracked up to be. But then a one-eyed cat enters his life and with it one John Silver. Flint's not sure how he feels about that, but he's working on it. Plot includes cat shenanigans, cooking, fluff, and feelings. 

17. [Title TBD]

A post-canon rendition of the Silver and Flint reunion wherein rather than seeking each other out the two are brought back together by outside forces. There’s a wedge of sour history and new lives built between them but love and desire become hard to deny when every path you set out on to leave someone behind sends you hurdling straight back to them. Treasure Island divergent/ignorant, though I pull some things from TI including the bird. (Includes SilverMadi and FlintHamilton as side-pairings, warning for canon Black Sails side-character death.) 18. The Spark

it's a Girl Genius AU

That's it, that's the whole shtick. It's basically the plot of the show, but clockwork-punk with mad geniuses (of course Flint is one), Urca being chock full of Aztec tech a'la Mysterious Cities of Gold, and dr. Howell and colleagues taking medicine to some quite Frankenstein levels - convenient with so many characters who should know better than to fucking die.

Also John Silver might be a construct.  The prosthetics are not nearly as complicated as in treasure planet, but at least one person has a gun arm? dirigibles are "Supposed Not To Be Invented Yet", but not for the lack of trying. Silverflint revolves around having "The Spark" and personhood and is shaping up heavier than i intended... luckily they will have plenty of people to set them to rights - i'm aiming for a happy polyfamily forming in the background.

19. he’s funny that way

1920s Atlantic City. Everybody knows the only way to leave crime boss Eleanor Guthrie's business is through a funeral - either delivering the sermon or laid out in the casket. Still, Flint leaves anyway, because he likes to make his life as difficult as possible. Case in point: his new partner, the scruffy, irate, one-legged racketeer with a pretty mouth, a quick tongue, and a rye recipe even Pussyfoot Johnson wouldn't spit out. His new partner's making sure he's not joining the church and taking a celibacy vow anytime soon - but will anyone be able to save Flint from his early - or long overdue - grave?

20. Ship to Wreck 

"I don't know if you've noticed, Doctor," Silver snaps, incredulous, "But every moment the Captain is unconscious in that bed is another step away from five million fucking dollars. As if that weren't enough, we're locked in a ridiculous show of force with a madman who seems keen on blowing us sky high unless we concede to his demands; we've got a crowd of men up top losing their Goddamned minds because they've been promised a fight that we cannot presently even hope to deliver; and--" Silver pauses, exhaling hard. "Actually, you know what? There is no and.  I’d say that’s about enough shit to make us all a little tense, wouldn’t you agree?" "Hm," Howell says, mildly. A post 204 fic in which: Flint gets a fever, Silver has a panic attack, and Howell gets a migraine. Includes, among other things--Silver trying and failing at playing nurse; Silver trying and failing at controlling his feelings; Flint being dazed and delirious and soft; some singing, some yelling, and heavy doses of mutual pining. Love, obviously, turns out to be the best medicine. 21. More Than One Odysseus

Reunion fic, about two years after 4.10. Quite a lot of talking and a little of the following: fishing, sex, hunting, bathtubs, Jewish surnames, books, stories and Terra Australis. Canon-compliant, not TI-compliant. A few animals killed (for food, not sport).

22. Seedlings

"If there's anything I can help you with-- Or if you'd like to order flowers for an upcoming occasion--"

"All right, honestly?" Handsomely disgruntled customer looked Silver dead in the eye and said, "I'm looking for a gift that says, 'You are making a dreadful mistake, and you will regret these actions for the rest of your days. Call me when you've figured out what a fucking hash of things you've made.'" He spoke the way some people chewed tinfoil.

Silver felt two things: lust like a plague of locusts, and the words 'uh-oh' waft through his brain.

On the second anniversary of the worst day of his adult life, John Silver─temporary florist, burgeoning gardner, and former thief─meets James Flint. It is only love at first sight for one of them. (Or is it?)

23. The Curse of Aeaea

Inspired by the connection between Flint and Odysseus: Silver and Flint find themselves dealing with a very Circe-like situation. Once the curse affects Silver, they have to figure out a way to end it or be trapped on an island that’s not on any map.

(Animal Transformation, Body Horror, Poor Coping Mechanisms, Circe’s Curse, Odysseus, Post-Season 2, Pre-Season 3)

24. With Strange Aeons Months after the disappearance and presumed death of Captain Flint and Long John Silver, Max smuggles Jack and Anne to Oglethorpe’s plantation. Thomas learns that not only do the three of them have a friend in common, but he is not the only one whose dreams are haunted by a strange city and a terrifying name. Meanwhile, Flint and Silver try to escape an island trapped in time, impossibly built and impossibly old. Along the way they’re forced question reality, each other, and themselves.

And in his house in R’lyeh, dead Cthulhu waits dreaming. (Prior knowledge of Lovecraft is fun, but not required.)

[kusunokihimea]

[ @kyuuzuchiha ] [ x ]

     As much as his mother and father have talked about the past, its implications, and the possibilities of the future...Fugaku has never truly understood the worry in the crease of his father’s brow, or the latent fear in his mother’s eyes. The faraway looks in his uncles’ gazes when they think he isn’t looking. The tension that seemed to follow them everywhere.

     Not until today.

     There’s a growing curve to his mother’s middle as they make their way through the thoroughfare. Come Autumn, she tells them, they’ll have a new little sibling. Something little Fugaku looks forward to with barely-restrained eagerness. Even at this age, he realizes how few they are. How important it is that their family keeps growing.

     That it stays safe.

     And finally, Mikoto won’t be able to hound on him about how he’s the baby of the family.

     His sister keeps a disdainful grip on Ryū’s right hand, clearly unhappy at being dragged about like a kid. Her left occupied with a short list, Fu must instead grip the hem of her shirt, not wanting to get separated. It’s so crowded today, he can barely see where they’re going.

     It must be the crowds that embolden them to strike.

     In a single moment, time seems to slow to a painful crawl. A gap in the throngs opens before them, and at the head of it - almost like they appeared from thin air - is a figure, masked and cloaked. It takes a fraction of a second for them to crouch, knees bending and beginning to move forward.

     Eyes lifting from her list, Ryū stares as they widen. Mid-step, she shifts her feet to a wider stance. The paper flutters as it’s dropped without a thought, hands both pushing her children behind her. In the same breath, she summons a barrier along her palms that blooms between Fugaku and his sister, and the enemy.

     All the while, her eyes remain fixated on the approaching assailant, pupils shrinking as a desperate necessity flares her chakra. The rush is so fast, responding to a mother’s instinct, that it whips about her person like an unnatural wind.

     Staring in both fear and awe, Fugaku watches as his mother suddenly changes. The warm, soft, nurturing woman who’s never raised her voice, never struck out, who loves her family more than life itself...shifts into a feral beast with only one intention:

     Destroy the threat. Protect her offspring.

     Her brow furrows to create a deep crevice along the bridge of her nose, lip lifted in a snarl that bares gleaming teeth. Knees bend in preparation for conflict, arms raised and cloaked in ethereal, chakra-born limbs. The enemy swings a kunai, blocked with a gong-like toll against one palm. But the hand keeps reaching, clearly not expected as she pounds them against the road. Clawed fingers tear into the stone, pinning them beneath the phantom limb that’s far more solid than it looks.

     It takes no more than handful of seconds from start to finish. And by then, onlooking shinobi begin to react. Shouting breaks out amidst the shocked shrieks of civilians. Ryū heaves several growl-like breaths, staring at her enemy as allies tentatively try to help.

     “...k...kāchan...?”

     Fugaku’s voice is tiny, a whisper among the sea of screams. But it tenses his mother’s spine like a shock. With a gust of sound, the chakra dissipates, the wild waves of her hair no longer billowing in its wake. For a moment she stands in place before turning, looking to them both with an expression of fathomless fear.

     A look he mirrors.

     In a moment, her facade shatters into relieved tears, and she scrambles back to them. The barrier fades at her urging, and Ryū crashes to her knees, taking them both to her chest, a face in each crook of her neck. Fingers bury in both black and white locks, shaking and clinging to them for dear life.

     “...I’m so sorry...are you all right?” Sitting back, she looks them both over, palms moving to cup their cheeks. And still that fear pervades her face, desperate to ensure not a single hair is out of place. “Oh, my darlings...” Her voice descends into senseless, allayed mumblings, hugging them close again.

     Behind them, now properly restrained, the assailant strains against their bonds. “You’ll get yours, Uchiha whore...!” They grunt behind the cracked remains of their mask as a Hyūga officer begins blocking tenketsu. “The Uchiha will get what’s coming to them! You can’t evade the shadows forever! You’ll all pay for what you did! The remnants will join the masses - THE NEW ROOTS WILL CHOKE OUT THE DISEASE-RIDDEN BOUGHS UNTIL THEY SLOUGH BACK TO -!”

     They then go blissfully silent as Sasuke enters and jabs an elbow to their temple, Sharingan burning with fury. “Don’t fling that filth at my sister, you gutless piece of shit...! Take them in! I’ll see to their interrogation myself...”

     By now, more than half a dozen other UHPF officers linger tensely, Hyūga and Uchiha alike. Shisui stares with equal disgust and wariness, glancing to the trio as Itachi gently kneels at Ryū’s front. Hands take her shoulders, and she flinches, looking up with a gasp. Both twins turn in her grip to look to their father.

     “...Itachi...!” The name is whispered breathlessly before words tumble from her mouth. “They came out of nowhere, I barely had time to sense them - I just...reacted! There were civilians, and I put the children behind a barrier, but I almost -”

     “Let’s not have this discussion here,” her husband murmurs, tone steady and yet edged with steel. He gives each of his offspring a careful glance. “...you’re safe. We should get you home. I’m going to go with Sasuke and see what we can learn. Shisui will escort you, and anyone else they can find to help watch the house.”

     Jaw shaking, Ryū manages a jerking nod. “...find out who did this.”

     Itachi stands, and Fugaku sees the mask of a cold shinobi slip over his father’s features. Suddenly, he is more weapon than man. “...we will.”

     “C’mere, kiddo,” Shisui offers, scooping Mikoto to his hip. A moment later, Ryū does the same with her son. He can feel her fingers dig into his skin, desperate to keep ahold of him as they begin to move.

     “Any spare officers, we’ll rally to the house. No one’s getting anywhere near you three.”

     “What about -?”

     “She’s in the Hyūga compound - they had a clan meeting his afternoon. Don’t worry.”

     “You make it sound like I have any choice.”

     “Kāchan...who was that person...?”

     “...I don’t know, darling. But they can’t get near you again.” Ryū gives her son a careful squeeze. “...you know I’d never let anything hurt you. Anything.”

     Fugaku remembers the look of pure maternal fury on his mother’s face. And he believes her.

     But he is still afraid.

     [ OKAY SO this is what I mentioned in the tags of the linked post - this is something plotted in ALAS that I never actually got to write (I stopped at about the twins’ first birthday before finally burning out xD This is when they’re newly six-ish (they’re born May 1, Reika is Sep 6th)). Basically, this was New Root’s first major strike directly against any Uchiha. Ryū, as the only non-shinobi of the group (and the two kids) was singled out first as their biggest weakness. Hence sending only one officer.

     But she’s tougher than she looks :3c

     BUT YEAH, this is where Fu first learns to be afraid of...a lot of things. Of New Root, shinobi, and FOR his family. By the time he’s an adult, he’s over all that, and uh...VEHEMENTLY protective of his clan. It’s basically his “button” - push that, and he’ll go full apesh*t on you.

    BUT as a small bean, he’s very meek. This starts it (in addition to Ryū’s coddling), and it worsens as Mikoto’s treatment of his does. I haven’t firmly decided yet, but I kinda want this to be when he wakes the Sharingan (but didn’t write it here cuz I’m still undecided about it). Which then leads to Mikoto’s jealousy that eventually simmers into full-blown hate =‘D

     BUT THAT’S WAY DOWN THE LINE.

     THIS was just meant as a lil expansion of what I mentioned that reply that...got a lil out of control. But you know me: I ramble. Especially about these babbs/this verse. It was my baby for like five straight years, and honestly I need to pick it back up again. Writing this reallllly makes me want to.

     But here ya go: a lil snippet of the “epilogue” arc, aka from a few months after 699 until the twins are about...20? I think is where it was planned to stop? (So about a 20 year chunk with some timeskippage) And at that one year twins mark, I had 300,000 words. Which have sat dormant for...A WHILE.

     And I’m seriously rambling but this kicked me in the feels, forgive me uwu So Fu eventually learns what Hashi told Sasuke: a shinobi is one who makes sacrifices to protect what they love. And Fu loves his clan, so...he puts aside his distaste for violence to protect them from the lingering hatred against them (mostly by New Root but also a few randos that don’t think they deserve forgiveness). He’s a lot like his dad in that regard, just...more so in the distaste part. That’s supposed to come from his mama. Aaand I’m still going. I’ll stop now xD ]

[tysonrunningfox]

Tired, Hungry, and Chiefly

This chapter is my pride and joy.  You think you’ve seen Eret be bad at women?  No you haven’t, he peaks here.  Wait, no he doesn’t, there’s that time he’s gonna super awkwardly bring up marriage at a bad time but whatever. And the poor boy can’t be trusted with his little mini stoick thing he’s got going on.  Someone help him.  The baby boy.  

Tumblr | AO3

“Is it broken?”  I feel stupid asking the question as I stare at the dam Sven wants help with.  I’ve never looked at a dam for this long before, of course I understand the basic idea of it, that it stops water from flowing and makes a pool that we can draw from more easily, as evidenced by the channel taking water down the hill to the fire suppression system.  But there’s also water trickling through the front of it, a smaller stream than the one uphill, sure, but isn’t it supposed to stop the water?  

“No,” Sven shakes his head, “we just need a bigger reservoir behind it, the chief gave permission for a secondary channel down by the hanger in case of fire and when we try to fill both,” he shrugs, “it doesn’t work.”  

“Ok…” I sigh, “dumb question, but why don’t we just stop all of the water coming through it?  Can’t we grab this water.”  I dip my toe in the trickle through the front of the rocks and Sven looks at me like I’m stupid.  

“If we fully dam the creek and get more rain than we expect, that’s a flood for sure.”  

“But wouldn’t it just go the new way you tell it to?”  I point at the diverted channel and Sven shakes his head, obviously frustrated.  

“Well, no, it’d flood the dry riverbed and eventually the North fields and the village itself, most likely.”  

“So we can’t do that.”

“No.”  

“What exactly do you need again?”  I rub my forehead like that’ll make it think faster or de-clutter the thoughts that are already there.  I’ve been on my own with this stuff for a week and a half now but it feels like a lifetime, or at least like I have a lifetime worth of everyone else’s problems jamming up my brain.  Bang nudges my hand and I pat his nose.  

“You ok, chief?”  

“Acting Chief,” I correct, because the opposite of what people say almost always sounds better. Acting Chief sounds ineffective when I don’t know what to do but Chief sounds like I should know what to do. There’s no winning with it really. “Just a headache.  I’m fine.  It’ll be better when we figure this out, so what exactly do you need? Again?  Again again?  Sorry.”

“We need the pool behind the dam to be bigger.”  Sven speaks slowly in a way that would usually offend me, but it’s about all I can keep up with right now.  “So conventionally, that means we need to make the dam wider and taller, but I don’t know what rock to use and we can’t spare the dragons to go off island for it.”

“Right,” I look around like I keep forgetting to, the absence of wild gronckles fluttering around more ominous than it should be.  “What kind of rock do you need?”  

“Any of the bedrock around here works best.  Big pieces,” he holds his arms out wide to tell me how big, “are good, but I’ve used them all.”  

“Big pieces…”  I think to myself for a minute, but I’m apparently too tired to be contented in thinking about a list of places I’ve seen the biggest, hardest rocks and my mind tries to wander.  The chief would know the answer, if he were saying anything other than the blandest small talk I’ve ever had to suffer through. Fishlegs might know, Hel, Rolf might now and I should probably check in on the dragon catalog anyway.  That’s just another thing that got pushed aside in all of this, that and the fact I haven’t talked to Fuse about our plan in weeks. Fuse…Fuse!  “Oh!  Fuse Thorston is about to blow out that wall at the edge of the wood bin, by the new dock, I wonder if there’s a way to make it crumble into big enough pieces for this.”

“That’s an idea,” Sven shrugs, and in some ways I like talking to him more than other people, because he tells me when my ideas are stupid instead of just taking pity on the young, frazzled Acting Chief and letting me get away with being wrong. “I’ve used a lot of her rubble before, it’s usually a little small but it’ll do.”  

“I’ll ask her if there’s any way to make it bigger.”  I swing onto Bang, “and I’ll let you know what she says.”  

“We need this by the end of summer!”  He calls the deadline after me like I’m not stressed enough about it and I steer Bang a little higher than is really necessary, closing my eyes as we cut through a cloud and cold water condenses on my face.  My beard’s getting long again, just on the cusp of annoying, and I make a note to shave it later, you know, if I have a single instant at home and awake enough to remember.  

The easiest way to avoid Aurelia and the chief’s sad, dead eyes is to get home late and wake up early. Unfortunately, there’s more than enough to do to fill pretty much all of that time, so that means I don’t see Stoick or Mom either.  And maybe that’s something I’m avoiding too, because at this point I’ve left her alone with this far too long if she isn’t as ok as she’s been acting.  I hate that somehow, I’m at this point where I’m in a position to doubt what my mom tells me, to read into it more than she might want me to.  

But she’s been ok. She’s been keeping up with the house, Stormfly’s saddle is shiny and her axe found its way back inside after spending a couple days in the demolished trunk out front.  Maybe she’s doing what I’m doing and keeping busy to avoid thinking about anything and maybe that’s all anyone can do sometimes.  

I land at the edge of the square, pointed towards the Thorston house and walking quickly enough to avoid any reasonable interruption, but when someone grabs my hand with an irrationally strong grip and crows in my ear, I know it’s not reasonable.  

“Oh, Eret, I just need to ask you for the quickest favor!”  It’s Mrs. Ack, her wrinkled arms almost mystically strong as she hooks her elbow through mine and reaches up to pinch me on the cheek.  Or she tries, I think she gets mostly beard because of her height and slumped back and the fact that there’s not much unbearded cheek at the moment.  It hurts anyway and I rub my face when she lets go.  

“I’m a little busy right now, Mrs. Ack.”  

“It’s really the smallest favor,” she drags me towards the farm stand on the other side of the square and I look almost wistfully over my shoulder at the barely visible roof line of Fuse’s shed.  It’s quiet there.  I bet if I asked, she’d let me hide for half an hour.  I wonder if she’d mind if I took a nap, honestly.  “I was just thinking to myself how I’d bought too much heavy food when I saw you landing just nearby.”  She squeezes my arm the way she pinched my face, ��you just remind me so much of your grandfather.”  

“Stoick the Vast was known for his food carrying abilities?”  I laugh and try to loosen her grip on my arm, but it’s pointless. I’ve learned that in the last couple of weeks.  Vikings are stubborn and cutthroat and can’t fathom being wrong, but when it comes to Viking women, that’s all a horrible understatement.  And it gets worse with age, for me to tell a woman over eighty that I don’t want my cheek pinched at this exact instant is essentially an act of war.  

“He was always so ready to help.”  Mrs. Ack has no visible problem picking up a basket and setting it in my arms and before I can start walking towards her house, her arm is back through mine even though she’s dragging me more than she appears to need help walking.  

This is the part of being even acting chief that I wasn’t prepared for.  When I was helping the chief out, I usually had a directive, I was doing one small thing to completion to the best of my abilities.  But when I’m alone out here, I’m always being pulled a million ways at once, and it seems like the strongest pulls, literally when considering Mrs. Ack’s fingers digging into my arm, come from the least important places.  

But I don’t exactly resent the few smaller errands I end up with a day, the grocery carrying is new but there’s always a terror in Mrs. Ericson’s tree or a yak in Mrs. Jorgenson’s house that they end up wanting help with.  And they usually feed me and try to coerce me to stay for tea and even though they’re pushier than most of their husbands, they’re generally more complimentary on the kind of job I’m doing and at this point, I’ll take what I can get. If my praise is coming in the form of Mrs. Hoarkson shoving her homemade apple bread into my mouth and commenting on how I can’t keep growing if I’m running myself into the ground, at least I’m both full and tired.  

“I’ll take that back,” Mrs. Ack drops my arm and nimbly plucks the basket from my hands with one arm, setting it inside her house on the floor and shushing an old Nadder that whines when disrupted from its nap in front of the fire.  “Do you have time to come in for a cup of tea?  I have leftover pie from last night and if I may say, you’re looking too skinny, chief.  You can’t spend so much time taking care of all of us that you forget to eat.”  She pats my face again and I laugh.  

“I’m just skinny, Mrs. Ack, unfortunately no amount of pie is going to change that.”  I take a step back and avoid another cheek pinch, if only narrowly.  “And maybe some other time.  I’ve got a lot to do today—”

“Can I at least send it with you?”  She walks further into her house and starts wrapping up something in waxed parchment. Her husband grunts about giving away all the food and she shushes him.  “It’s just Eret, Sigurd, if he doesn’t slow down and have some pie he’s going to blow away the next time he takes off!”  

“I’m really fine.”  I take a step back from the door but she practically sprints after me, shoving the food into my hand and patting my arm.

“Come by any time, chief, we’ve always got an extra seat at the table since our Burpa moved in with her son last year.”  

“Thanks.”  I’m probably not going to take her up on that, but at the same time it’s nice to know I have some option to be very well fed even if tensions get too high at home.  “Have a good rest of your day.”  

She squeezes my arm before letting go and I hear her chewing out her husband interspersed with brief seconds of praise that I try and take in while they last, because if I let them sink in maybe it’ll be a cushion the next time someone directly calls me stupid or naïve or laughs when I try to tell them to do something.  I unwrap the pie almost immediately, eating it as I walk back across the square towards the Thorston house.  

“I thought Mrs. Ack was going to lock you up inside her house and never let you out.”  Someone appears beside me fast enough to startle and I drop my pie, barely catching it in the other hand and crushing it slightly.

It’s Ruffnut and when she looks at my clumsiness with vague disgust, it makes her look more like Fuse and less at the same time.  Mostly it makes me miss Fuse’s fond annoyance at my antics, even though it’s only been a few days since I’ve seen her.  

“She seems convinced she can feed me out of my skinny phase,” I look down at myself, the bony lines of my ribs practically visible through the shirt that’s somehow tight on my shoulders and loose everywhere else.  Maybe it’s a holdover from when Mom was…incapacitated and the chief was getting someone else to do all the laundry.  It must have shrunk and then stretched funny.  “I told her it’s not a phase.  What can I do for you, Mrs. Ingerman?”  

“Oh come off of that,” she rolls her eyes, “I wiped your butt.  It’s Ruffnut, whether you’re some fancy chief or not.”  

“Acting Chief.”  

“Yeah, you are acting like a chief but I’m not going to hold it against you.”  

“Do you need something?” I shove the slightly crushed pie in my mouth and almost choke on a crumb, coughing after I manage to force it down.  

“I was just checking that you’re actually that clueless,” she shakes her head, “and not letting yaks into the Jorgenson house just to check up on the misses.”  

“That was so weird,” I laugh, “it left really willingly too.  Which was good because I know about as much about livestock as I do about—”

“Women?”  She raises an eyebrow and everything about the way she’s looking at me makes me uncomfortable.  It’s like she’s both on my side and against it and I have no way of knowing which way she’s facing at any exact instant.  “Yeah, I’ll bet.”  

“I was going to say being chief but, I mean—”

“Women works better.” She rolls her eyes and shifts her basket to her other hip. She looks young like Mom, but in a different way, like she stole it from other people’s youth by teasing them until they willingly handed it over.  “Don’t let some grandma pinch your arm off before my niece comes to terms with how clueless she is, alright?”  

“I uh…” I frown, “I’m going to go talk to Fuse now if she needs help with something.  Not that I usually have more clues than she does, but—”

“That’s gotta be the Astrid part, right?”  She’s talking through me more than at me and I get that all too familiar feeling that everyone knows something I don’t.  “Hiccup figured it out eventually and it wasn’t as obvious.”  

“You’re being super cryptic and not helpful at all…”  

“Odin, that’s always weird,” she shakes her head and sighs at me like I’ve caused her great personal distress.  “When you do the…the talking thing, like that.  Ugh.  Anyway, I’m not going to ruin the surprise for anyone, so I’ll see you around. Also, just in case you didn’t know, Terrors don’t actually get stuck in trees.  They can fly, just, by the way.”  

“I know terrors can fly,” I call after her but she doesn’t stop, a fact I’m frankly glad about because I wasn’t enjoying that conversation.  “But I did think that one was weird,” I mutter to myself, licking a spot of filling off of my thumb and feeling oddly like I’m being watched. It’s probably Mom, probably ready to jump out and tell me off for my manners, because even chiefs can’t escape those.  

Right before I turn to walk up to the Thorston place, I spot Hotgut out of the corner of  my eye, landing hard in front of the forge, belly probably full of something heavy and explosive.  Fuse slides off of her and I change direction, clicking when Bang doesn’t follow immediately.  He’s been sluggish too, well, that and clingy to Mom any second I let him out of my sight.

Smitelout drops whatever she’s doing, literally, and leans over the window to talk to Fuse.  Fuse has one of those wrinkled drawings and Smitelout frowns at it, trying to smooth it on the windowsill.  

“Ok, but how does blowing up an island help anything?”  Smitelout asks at full volume right as I get there and I shush her, earning a spectacularly dirty look.  

“There’s a thermal vent under the island that it seems like the dragons are trying to get to.”  Fuse explains casually, voice low, and I hope she’s not still dwelling over Aurelia.  I hope this isn’t fake confidence, because that’s not something she’s ever supposed to have.  

“How could you know that?” Smitelout scoffs at an appropriate volume and I lean in slightly like my back could possibly shelter anything we’re doing.  The drawing is just a shell, thankfully, nothing that’d give it away as anything out of the ordinary.  

“We found some old drawings that said that island wasn’t there a few hundred years ago and now the sick dragons keep diving into the volcano—”

“Ok, ok, I get it. Let’s blow the bitch then.”  

“We’re trying,” Fuse rubs her temple, dirty bandage on her first finger stretching halfway up her nail. Her fingertip leaves a dot of soot behind next to a freckle and I don’t believe she’s ever been clueless in her life. “That’s what that baffle you worked on is for, it’s a directional amplifier and I can’t get it quite right yet. We need something really big to get a vertical fracture that’ll actually opens something up—”

“And that’s your shit,” Smitelout cuts her off and I glare at her, “and the twerp likes hearing about it, apparently, weird flirting, again—”

“Can you just help without all the commentary?”  The arm closest to Fuse feels hot, like I can tell she’s uncomfortable, like bringing up flirting makes it worse for no reason that makes sense.  Maybe it’s because it’s Smitelout and because Aurelia just did what she did, maybe Fuse feels weird trusting someone who’s clearly delusional.  

I can’t say I don’t share that fear.  

“You need six of these?” Smitelout looks at the drawing again, “I assume you can’t pay, given that this is some kind of secret…”  

“How much do you want?” Fuse rolls her eyes and I shake my head, leaning my elbow on the counter.  

“It’s Smitelout,” I scoff, “the answer is probably your house, your shed, everything in your shed—”

“I’ll do it for free if you go away, Twerp.”  Smitelout looks smug, like she pulled one over on me and I sigh.  

“I think I might be able to manage that,” I push off of the counter and look at Fuse, half frozen for a second as I dig for something in the mess of my short term memory.  “I had to talk to you about something.”  

“What is it?”  

“I don’t remember,” I laugh, “it’s been a day.  I think your aunt might have threatened me.”  

“Which Aunt?”  She frowns and I didn’t know she had more than one.

“Which do you think?”

“Oh my gods, go flirt somewhere else,” Smitelout bellows, smacking her hammer against her anvil like she can spook us away like wild Terrors, “you’re scaring away customers.”

“Nope, just your personality, Lout.”  I start walking with Fuse anyway, unsure if I should address the flirt comments or not. “I don’t know why she finds the idea of me flirting so funny. Like yeah, it would probably be a disaster, but that seems to be the only thing she can find to make fun of.  Which…come on,” I gesture to myself and wish I hadn’t said anything.  She glances at me like I’m crazy, cheeks suddenly red like she’s thinking about making the quietest escape possible and I scratch the back of my neck, “uhh, that thing I had to talk to you about though.  What was it?  I know this…”

“How would I know what it is?”  She frowns, eyebrows knit together and how did Smitelout think we were flirting? She’s looking at me like I’m the dumbest thing she’s ever seen.  

“I know you don’t know.” I smack my forehead a couple of times with the heel of my hand, “I swear, I get why the chief carries a notebook around all the time now, how am I supposed to keep everything straight?”  

“Maybe get a notebook.”

“Super helpful, Fuse, I hadn’t thought of that.”  I gripe, and I keep going back to the flirting comment, because it’s so stupid and disruptive because I know I have something real to talk to her about and now I can’t think of it.  “Wait! I remember.  Sven needs rocks to shore up a dam and I asked you to go ahead and column the corner of that wall and I was wondering if there’s any way you could like…leave bigger sized rubble when you take it down so that we don’t have to find dragons that can search for stone off island.”  

“How big?”  She slows down, dragging her feet slightly as that practical engine lights up behind her eyes.  I hold my arms out and accidentally bump her in the arm but she doesn’t notice or if she does, she doesn’t care because Smitelout is an idiot above all things.  

Some things remain the same, at least.  

“About like…eh, maybe? I think a bit bigger or smaller would be fine, but we don’t want like…pebbles.”  I sigh, “I’m not being descriptive enough, am I?”  

“No, I get what you’re saying.”  She bites her lip, snaggletooth peeking out slightly as she narrows her eyes, counting something only she can see.  “Maybe some smaller charges at the top and bottom spaced a little wider than that. There’s always going to be that vaporization bubble but if I could try and get sort of a grid on it…”  

“Vaporization bubble?”

“Some of the rock vaporizes if it’s close enough to the bomb.”  She grins, her eyes lighting up like I just told her she could blow something entirely new up.  I’m glad she’s looking better, like she’s not dwelling on Aurelia, and I’m really hoping the Mrs. Ack’s of the island hold off long enough that I can ask her about it.

“That’s awesome.”  

“Right?”  She laughs before falling serious for just another moment, “and I can try it, I mean, no promises.  I’ve never tried to control rubble size before except, you know, making it smaller than could fall on someone and kill them but…I’ll try it. I’ll let you know when he could expect it to be done when I figure that out.”  

“Thanks,” I laugh, “did you know that you make things really easy?  There’s more arguing in carrying old Mrs. Ack’s groceries than in getting you to do something crazy and impossible.”  

“It’s not impossible,” she shakes her head, “I don’t know if I’ll get it right the first time but if building materials are a thing we’re looking to optimize—”

“Something crazy then.”

“They’re not very big charges—”

“Ok, there we go, there’s the Viking stubbornness.”  I laugh and she doesn’t seem sure if she should laugh with me.  It’s frustrating, because I can’t tell if that’s just Fuse being Fuse or if she’s still upset and I wish I were funny enough to draw that line a little more clearly because all that’s left for me to do is ask, and that feels like ruining probably the only pleasant conversation I might get to have today.  But it’s the right thing to do and as I’m becoming a boring slave to that idea, I sigh and try to figure out how I can best get this over with quickly.  “Also, just…how are you doing?”  

“Why are you saying that so significantly?”  

“Because I should have just asked how you’re feeling about the whole Aurelia thing and I’m an idiot.” I sigh, trying to read her face as the question sinks in.  

She thinks about it a little longer than she usually does and shrugs, “I’m not happy.”  

“I’ll talk to her again when I see her, alright?”  

“If you’ve already talked to her, I doubt you’d have anything new to say for trying it again.”

“Not everyone’s brain works as fast as yours, Fuse, I’m frequently left coming up with excellent come backs days to weeks after a conversation actually ends, so I’d be willing to bet I’d surprise myself.”  I can feel myself talking funny, not funny like I’m trying to sound like someone else, just…odd.  It’s like I want her to correct me, to tell me that I’m smart or something, which is kind of a failed attempt from the start in a conversation where I couldn’t remember an important conversation from three hours ago.  “I won’t though, if you don’t want me to or—”

“You’re checking in on me.” She stops and cocks her head, braid falling over her shoulder.  It’s tangled and only holding onto what seems like about half her hair at this point, the rest tucked behind her ear and sticking to the front of her vest.  

“You were upset.”  

“But it wasn’t your fault.”

“Well, not directly, but…I still care when you’re upset.  You’re my friend.  One of my best friends, really.”  

She halfway smiles, brows still furrowed like she’s waiting for me to say something else and unlock a last, mystery piece of some puzzle.  

“What?”  I wipe my beard, “do I have pie on my face?”

“Thanks,” she grins, slow and quiet like her smiles ever are and I feel better for opening my mouth, for once.  I don’t have to worry how she’s feeling because I know.  “And no pie, you’re clean.”  

“Thanks,” I say because that feels like a compliment even though it’s not, really, unless I’m someone who doesn’t believe in myself to get food into my mouth without messing it up. Which, fair, but not necessarily encouraging.  

“Eret,” my mom appears beside me and rests her hand on my shoulder and I jump like she just caught me doing something wrong.  I turn to look at her and she’s giving Fuse a pointed look and I step out from under her hand.  

“What?  What’s up?”  

She raises her eyebrows at me and looks at Fuse again like it’s something she can’t say in front of her and I almost blurt out that I tell Fuse everything anyway, but that’s volunteering her for something without asking first and with my family involved? Well, it could be bad.  

“Can I come find you later?” I ask her and she looks between me and my mom, shrugging.  

“Sure, I’ll let you know what I come up with.”  

“Yeah,” I nod, “good. Thanks for, you know, making it easy and stuff.”  

“Sure…” She lingers for a second, glancing at my mom before deciding not to say anything else.  

“What?”  I turn back to my mom, trying not to let a sudden flash of irritation creep its way into my voice.  “Is something wrong?”  

“Don’t you have some work to be doing?”  She raises an eyebrow like she knows something I haven’t told her and I look over my shoulder like Arvid or Aurelia is going to be lurking there, armed with something they promised not to share when we were on better terms.  

“Like what?  Do you need something?”  

“You volunteered for this, Eret—”

“What are you talking about?”  I gesture after Fuse, “I was just talking to her about the wood bin, she’s doing something the chief asked her to before—well, he asked her to and then Sven needs rock for some dam and I was asking if she could, I don’t know, help me out with that and she said she could.”  

“And Smitelout—”

“She was overcharging Fuse for the special thing I’m asking her to do,” I half lie, “I fixed it.”  

“And Mrs. Ack—”

“Come on, Mom, you’re going to say I’ve been goofing off with Mrs. Ack?”  I roll my eyes, “she asked for my help with carrying something, I’m just trying to help people which, last time I checked, is the gist of my job.”  

She stares at me for a second like she’s looking for a lie and I scratch my face, taking a step back and looking over my shoulder for Fuse.  Maybe I should have asked about that nap in her shed, because I’m about that exhausted at this point.  

“Can Fuse do it?”  

“Can Fuse do what?”  

“Whatever you asked her to do.”  Mom raises an eyebrow, “because you were asking her to do something, right?”  

“Oh, yeah, she’s going to try.  Apparently it’s going to vaporize some rock but—”

“That’s encouraging.” She sounds angry in a way that almost means something and I wonder what I’ve missed at home while avoiding it as much as possible.  

“I thought it was kind of cool, honestly.”  I mime my hands blowing apart and make a sound like what I’d imagine vaporizing rock would sound like.  Kind of a whoosh.  “Just…as a concept.  Just…boom and the rock is gone.  And the crowd goes wild…”  

She’s unimpressed.  

She purses her lips at me and crosses her arms.  

“Have you told Sven that Fuse is working on it?”  

“Well, no, because she just finished telling me that she could do it.”  I gesture up the hill where Fuse went, “and then you interrupted the end of our conversation and that brings us up to the present.”  

“Is that an attitude?”

“Is trying really hard to be cooperative even though you’re interrogating me for no reason an attitude?” My voice cracks slightly and I clear my throat.  “Because if so, yes, this is an attitude.”  

“I like this attitude. It’s good.  Keep it up.”  She nods at me and I fidget slightly under the odd weight of her gaze, like she’s trying to scan my brain for something I missed.  

“I’m just trying to keep things together.”  I shrug, “I’m probably messing everything up but…”  

“Go talk to Sven, maybe make sure he has a secondary plan in case Fuse can’t do what she thinks she can.”

I cross my arms, “the secondary plan is send dragons off island to search for stone.”  That’s a challenge I hate posing, I hate wanting her to say something other than I know she will.  

“Well, what’s wrong with that plan?”  

“Lack of dragons, Mom. That’s one question I do know the answer to.”  

She frowns but I’ve hit the one subject she won’t argue with me about because like everyone else I’ve tried to talk to, she’s not willing to admit I have a point because somehow, that magically might make it right.  I don’t think it works that way but Hel, I could be wrong.  Maybe if I found some optimism I could turn this whole thing around. Maybe Acting Chief means the kind of power everyone wants it to be.  

“Fine.  Are you going to be home for dinner tonight?”  

I shrug, “I don’t know, Mrs. Ack did invite me—”

“You should come home for dinner.  Stoick hasn’t seen you in days.”  

“He hasn’t seen Bang in days, you mean.”  

“Well,” she tugs on the tight shoulder seam of my shirt and frowns, “you two are kind of a package deal so…”  

“I’ll be home.”  I barely resist the urge to roll my eyes.  

“Good.  I’ve got new clothes for you.”  

“Fine.”  I take a step back and she looks almost hurt, “I mean thanks. I’m sure they’re good.”  

“See you at home.”  

[lunaragk]

FMoI Ch 4: Ugly Truths and Broken Detectives pt 1

4/20, Wednesday, Cloudy.  

-?-

The three high-schoolers balked slightly at the elementary student’s introduction, coupled with the facts Yu himself had stated.  Yosuke started loudly as usual.  “Wait, are you telling me the ‘Kid Killer’ is your neighbour?! AND he followed us into the T.V.?!”  The young man seemed to be panicking, badly.  

Yu sighed, trying to stay calm for his team as he gripped his friend’s shoulders, squeezing them slightly to get him to focus.  “Yosuke, focus.”

He froze up for just a moment, before looking at Yu.  Yosuke took a deep breath before letting it out.  “Okay, okay, I’m good.”

Chie on the other hand looked between the young boy and her classmates, confusion on her face.  “I get the kid introducing himself as a detective is surprising, but why are the two of you freaking out so much?  And what’s with this ‘Kid Killer’ business?”

Conan snorted, “The news papers coined the ‘Kid Killer’ nickname because when I attend his heists, the Kaitou Kid never gets away with his target.”  He looked up to the young woman in green, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.  

“As for them freaking out, well, elementary student regularly stopping a famous jewel thief from getting away with his targets, and in the papers for helping solve other crimes…” He lets himself trail off, before adopting the kiddy nature, realizing the oddity of the situation had caused him to slip.  “They’re being silly, aren’t they, Nee-chan?”

She stared at child before her, turning to her two teammates that were watching the boy carefully, a shaky hand pointed at him.  “He’s joking, you’re both joking about what this kid has done, right?”  Her voice had gone slightly high at the end of it.

Both Yu and Yosuke shook their heads.  Their de-facto turned to Chie, “He has been in the papers numerous times, more for solving crimes more than stopping the Kaitou Kid.”  

Yu pushed his glasses up to massage his head, this situation was beginning to give him a headache.  “Mostly murders, shockingly enough, either by himself or with a group of other children called the Detective Boys.”

The fact that Yu knew this about Conan’s exploits had the young detective on edge.  He kept himself outwardly calm, keeping his childish mask at the forefront.  “I’ve learned alot from Mouri-ojiisan and Shinichi-niichan.”  

Chie was confused by this, “Mouri-san and Shinichi-san, who are they?”  New apparently did not travel far out into Inaba.

Yosuke was starting to get worn by her cluelessness.  “Really, Chei, have you never picked up a paper or checked online before?”  He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation, “They’re two of the biggest names in the media for solving crimes.”

That left her confused, and slightly impressed,  “Wait, if the kid’s that smart, then let’s take him with us!”  Chie was becoming excited.  “If he’s had that sort of training, then he could be a huge help with us finding out who did this!”

Yu started to shake his head, before he stopped, and thought about this a little more.  “That might not be a bad idea, so long as he sticks close to Teddie.”  Yosuke looked at them both like they’d gone nuts.

Conan chose that moment to speak up, “You may as well accept you’re not getting rid of me, and I can be a lot of help!” The shrunken detective put his hands behind his head, “Besides, a fresh perspective might help.”

“Alright I give up, the kid can come, IF he wants to.”  Yosuke threw his hands up and turned around, “Now let’s find that dumb bear and get going.”

That left Conan confused, “Bear?” He quickly got his answer in the squeeking footsteps coming up behind him.  “Oh, this is bear-y unexpected, a new face?”  That got him to turn around, and come face to face with the oddest mascot costume he’d ever seen.

He held up one finger, ready to say something, before dropping his hand and letting his mouth click shut, “You know what, I don’t want to know.”  He turned to leave, only for a fuzzy paw to grasp his shoulder.

“Hey there kiddo, what’re you doing in here?”  The blue bear, whom could only be Teddie, turned the him around, looking up at the trio, “Is he coming with us, Sensei?  Or should we send him back?”

The grey-haired teen walked over and lightly removed Teddie’s hands from the young detective.  “He’s coming with us for right now Teddie, but I want him to stick by you once we get to the castle.”

The blue bear fired off his best salute, “Got it, Sensei!”  Conan wasn’t sure how much of the cheery bear he could take.

“Alright, let’s head to the castle.”  Yu directed the group, letting Teddie take the lead so his sharp nose would keep them from getting lost.

Conan couldn’t help but wonder at the fact there was suppose to be a castle near by.

-Yukiko’s Castle, Entrance-

...Though it was a bit hard to make out through the fog, there did indeed appear to be a European style medieval castle sitting in the middle of where-ever the hell they were.

The not-child turned to the teens and the mascot.  “So, Amagi-san is in here somewhere?”  He tilted his head to one side,  “Why hasn’t she just left on her own?”

The group shared a look,  “You’ll see when we get in there.”  They all has various levels of unease on their features.  “It’s something that has to be seen to be believed.”

Conan had an expression on his face that said he would be the judge of that.

-Yukiko’s Castle, 5th Floor-

Conan did admit that the masked blobs that resolved into strange, and in some cases terrifying monsters, Shadows, did have to be seen to be believed.  As did the three teens summoning giant figures with names from mythology to fight them.  Persona, huh, what an odd power.

He almost collided with the back of one of the boy’s legs, the whole of the group seems to have frozen in the doorway to a large room.  Confused and worried chatter passing between them.

“What’s going on, why is there someone else in here?”  Chie was concerned, even though she didn’t recognize the figure in the blue suit, in here, it was hard to tell if it was human, or someone’s Shadow.  The brown hair was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place where.

“But it can’t be, I’m bear-y sure I haven’t smelled anyone else come in here but you guys.”  Teddie started wracking his mind to see if he could remember anything else.  No, he hadn’t smelt anyone else come in today.

“What do we do, Partner?” Yosuke had his hand gripping Yu’s shoulder, the beginnings of panic starting to thread into his voice.

Yu looked over the figure before them carefully, it did look slightly familiar, but from where?  “We take it slow, if we can get past it without instigating a fight, for now, that would be best, since I don’t see the person it belongs to.”

Conan was confused as to what they were concerned about, he managed to get himself out from behind the group spying the figure.  Caution turning to quiet rage as the form turned around.

“...What, is this?”  Conan’s voice dropping in pitch as steel filled it.  He turned to the group, his eyes far harsh, harder, than any grade schooler’s eyes had a right to be.  “Who is that?”

The change in tone and stance startled the Investigation Team.  Yu glanced between the child and the young man in the blue suit.  “Do you know who that is, Conan-kun?”

“Someone pretending to be Kudo Shinichi, again,” he bit out, turning back to face the stranger.  He’d been impersonated one too many times.

“The Missing Highschool detective of the East, Kudo?” Yu turned to look at the two of them, “How do you know it’s not really him?”

The figure walked slowly closer to the group, eyes opening to reveal bright Shadow yellow, a harsh, humorless laugh ringing out.  “Yes, do tell, Conan, how do you know I’m a fraud?”

Yellow eyes flicker to the rest of the group, “All of you can leave if you like, save for the little liar.”

“Conan-kun?  What’s he talking about?”  Chie’s eyes darted back and forth between the boy and the Shadow.   All eyes fell on the young detective.

The small frame locked up, for just a moment, but all present caught it.  He bit out his reply, “I don’t know.”

That caused the Shadow to grin even wider, “Oh really?  Maybe I should show them then.”  Its gaze dancing up to the teens before locking back onto its target.  “We’ve gone against everything we stood for.  EVERYTHING!”  Shadow Shinichi shouted, its form flickering, being replaced with Conan’s own form.  “Remember Kudo, ‘There is only one truth?!’ “

The members of the Investigation Team took a step back at that.  Even with everything they’ve seen so far into their brief venture into the TV World, that, if the Shadow was to be believed, the child in front of them was actually a teen their own age sent them reeling.

Conan stood silent, seething at the creature wearing both his faces as it flickered back to his original for.  Another humorless bark of laughter, “Not going to say anything for yourself?”  Harsh frowns etched across both faces.  “Your silence speaks volumes, Lair.”

“So, let’s try something else then.”  The Shadow had drawn closer, “Tell me then; which is real, and which is the lie, Shinichi?  Or Conan?”

Silence spanned the space between the two.  “Of course you can’t answer, because both are the lie!”  The Shadow’s form began flickering erratically between Kudo and Edogawa.  “Edogawa Conan doesn’t exist, and Kudo Shinichi died that night at Tropical Land!”  

It stabilized once more looking like Shinichi, the Shadow now looming over the not-child, “We don’t deserve to exist anymore, not after all the pain we’ve cause, especially to her!”

That last line cause Conan to break his silence.  “Shut UP! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”  The Shadow’s expression was blank for a moment, before splitting into a rictus grin.

That response seemed to cause the teens to snap out of their daze at what was occuring in front of them.  “Don’t say it!”

Their plea fell on deaf ears, rage in every line of his small body.  “You’re not ME!”

Hysterical laughter and dark black-red fog started to fill the room.  “You’re right! I’m not you, not anymore!”  Shadow Shinichi had been completely encased in the fog now,  “And soon, I’ll make sure you can’t lie or hurt anyone again.”

The haze burst apart, Conan was blown back, weakened, but aware, as the twisted form his Shadow had take was revealed.  A mirror, encircled by a shark floated before them, the team moved in between the two.

“Don’t interfere!”  A dark, bloodied claws slammed into the glass from within, joined by more, breaking it and sending shards scattering to the carpet below.  Dark, tar-like substance dripped out as the two stained hands grabbed the edge of the shark and broken glass, heaving itself out.

What emerged was a caricature of Kudo Shinichi, wrapped in bandages, tar rolling off it, sharp shark teeth in a manic grin under the single exposed yellow eye. A bloody hole in its chest over its heart, black feathers driven into it.  Long clawed limbs snaked out of the tar-like substance, winding around it, holding fast.  “I am the Shadow, the TRUE SELF, and I will see that one truth, prevails.”

[ted-hyung]

Sequel to the thunderstorm au(?) So.. the thunderstorm doesn't seem to stop and is getting stronger. While talking to Sungjin Wonpil doesn't even notice it but suddenly an extremely loud thunder is heard. Being afraid of it Wonpil jumps and now maybe wants to crawl into a hole (because he just revealed his biggest fear to his oh so cool crush and also because, you know, there's still a thunderstorm going on)

tf anon-sshi has it been like, two months? i hope you’ll read this lmaooooooooooooooooooo tell me whachu theenk. tagging le sungpil queen @6ungjin

“do you knowwhere everyone is, sungjin-sshi?”

sungjin looks upfrom the floor. he spilled exactly two froot loops, yellow and green (he didn’teat them), and instead of getting back up he sits right there; legs crossedwithout any care in the world. wonpil recalls their dorm incorporates a weeklycleaning rotation system because they don’t get a janitor whatsoever, with theoctober schedule and their names neatly pinned to the announcement wall next tothe fridge. wonpil is sure he never saw anyone cleaning the kitchen becauseit’s never ever dirty in the first place, and honestly? wonpil finds a newconversation material to keep going. he still wants to talk to the older man—hey, are you positive the floor is notnasty, sungjin-sshi?—even though he might be making a fool of himself sincehe’s sure never bothered to check the important announcement board let alonetaking his time to clean the kitchen.

anyway.

“call me hyung,”sungjin answers, easily, as if thisis not the first time they’ve ever talked besides exchanging polite smiles andnods in the hallway like, five times tops? wonpil knows, because he would always squealeverytime, leaving brian shaking his head and jae-hyung and dowoon teasing himabout his crush on the teddy bear~

wonpil bites hisbottom lip to prevent himself from smiling even wider. jae-hyung and dowoonaren’t exactly wrong, it’s just that wonpil is shy and had been content enoughwith admiring sungjin from afar. at least until now. thanks for nothing, brian-hyung.

“they’re prollycamping out anywhere they found fit. told ‘em our building will most likelyhave a power outage during the storm. it happened last year.” sungjin sucks thetip of his thumb and wonpil sniffs, looking away to the window just in time towitness another loud thunder striking.

he flinchesbefore taking a deep breath.

“…up chat. brian and jaehyung-hyung are stuckin the library, right?” sungjin is watching him, his handsome face framed inugly specs is unreadable and wonpil scrunches his nose, waving a hand todismiss the silent question about his obvious aversion towards the thunder. hischeeks are burning because he likes the attention a little too much.

“how do you knowthat?” wonpil asks, tilting his head and swaying his legs in the air. the stoolis set on its maximum height.

sungjin hums,“they told me in the group chat.”

huh.

there’s a pausecoming from wonpil because he has to process the information. something isamiss.

and then, with apout, wonpil huffs the question, “our dorm has a group chat?”

“uh, yeah.”sungjin blinks, frowns, and curses quietly. his smile falls. “i haven’t invitedya there, have i?” he goes to his feet and maybe wonpil is biased but thesimple motion of sungjin getting up in all of his tight black t-shirt glory ismaking him have visions.

of those thickarms and big hands.

preferably onhim.

…

“wonpil? kimwonpil?” sungjin snaps his fingers in front of wonpil’s face. they smell likepowdered sugar and wonpil grips the edge of the stool tighter or else he willblurt out something about sungjin’s arms on his very own narrow waist.

“let’s go to myroom, imma get your number and you’ll be in the group chat,” sungjin says,patting wonpil’s left arm. “c’mon. did you have dinner? i have ramyeon cups, ifya want.” he holds out his hand, fingers sticky with powdered sugar, and wonpilhops off the stool with sungjin’s help; squeezing their entwined hands justbecause he can before letting go.

it's not surprising that sungjin’s room is neat.it really is neat that wonpil doesn’tthink it’s possible. he’s a senior.he’s probably writing his thesis soon. there is no way his room is the literalmanifestation of any drama main character’s room that wonpil and dowoon like tobinge watch every wednesday. nope.

the RA’s room isthe same size as the regular room for two, meaning sungjin has lots of freespace for himself that he fills with books; tons of them in tiny, white shelvesfrom ikea. wonpil notices that there’s no band or sports team poster on thewall, just a huge world map. sungjin’s wardrobe from what wonpil can seeconsists of black, white, with a bit of pinstripes.

his bed sheet isin plain black cotton.

his room is coldand comfortable and it smells like fresh laundry.

they’re sittingon the floor with their legs bundled up in the kotatsu table’s thick blanket,eating a cup of ramyeon each and sharing a bottle of soju in between slurpingthe hot soup and exchanging anecdotes about dowoon. every time sungjin goes softer at the mention of dowoon this anddowoon that, wonpil finishes another inch of soju in his tiny paper cup, mostlyto convince himself that he’s not disappointed by the turn of event. to thinkthat he’s finally making a huge progress from stealing glances to actuallybreathing in the same confined space with his crush, well.

“dowoon is justthe cutest, isn’t he?” wonpil slurs.

“yea.” sungjinnods, eats a piece of kimchi, and stares at wonpil, who spills the last drop ofsoju from the bottle to the kotatsu’s wooden top.

“ahaha ha, whoops, sorry.”

“’s fine.”

wonpil is not,though?

“yah,sungjin-hyung. are you okay? you sat on the kitchen floor earlier. i mean, iknow it looks clean but is it?”

sungjin laughs.his shoulders are shaking and his adam’s apple is making attractive ripple ashe throws his neck back; his ugly specs not somersaulting on his face becausehe’s taken them off to eat the ramyeon. he’s got the prettiest doe eyes, ifwonpil is being honest and not totally biased. they’re just so big and round and expressive.

“you’re adorablewhen you’re drunk,” sungjin chuckles then, leaning forward to take wonpil’sempty paper cup and bowl. “just don’t make a mess.”

wonpil blinks.“whaaaaa? am i sleeping here, sungjin-hyuuung?”

“yea.” sungjinsays, getting up with their trash. “i‘m not draggin’ you to the second floor.go swish your mouth in the bathroom.”

another perks ofbeing the RA is a personal bathroom that’s only as big as necessary. this one’salso so neat with minimal row of skincare; just a bottle of shampoo,conditioner, body wash, facial wash, and moisturizer that are all coming fromthis brand’s green tea for men series. wonpil is so taking a mental note as hesniffs each bottle eagerly, you know, maybe it’s time for him to change hisskincare brand? anyway, sungjin uses the same sunscreen brand as his and wonpilfeels weirdly proud knowing that. he finds the mouthwash—for sensitive teethand gums—and takes a swig.

okay maybe asplash of cold water would be great before bed. he pats his face dry withtissues and glances at his reflection on the full-length mirror that needscleaning because remnants of hot steams are making it dull. he looks great.ramyeon doesn’t make him bloat.

“kim wonpil? yaalright in there?” sungjin asks, knocking on the locked door.

wonpil poutsbecause what’s with the formality? “it’s wonpillie!” he whines, because ifsungjin can tell him to call him hyung then wonpil can do the same with hisfavorite nickname!

but sungjin onlylaughs. as loud as the next thunder and wonpil thinks that maybe he kiiinda gets why brian doesn’t want himto get close to sungjin? he’s weak. his heart can’t take the sudden increase ofcrazy palpitation and the irrational urge to have sungjin’s thick arms aroundhim like an anchor, no matter how already steady his feet is. ugh! wonpil shudders when sungjin callshim exactly how he likes it, and unlocks the bathroom door.

“alright wonpillie,” sungjin quips, grazing hisknuckles to wonpil’s chin as if he’s talking to a sulky kid. “go to bed.” andthen he presses a quick kiss to the side of wonpil’s head before entering thebathroom, locking it behind him like he didn’t just do something that’sabsolutely not okay for wonpillie’s heart!

[njcklenjart]

a moment of apricity, 4/?

Chapter Title: vicissitude

Summary: Newt returns to school. Although, he’s a few years too late and in the wrong continent.

A/N: Ahhh, this is so late! I've been busy with life and whatnot! Thanks for @allscissorsallpaper for making me rewrite so much of this chapter- girl, I would’ve forgotten a lot of it if you didn’t ask about it!

Also on FF an AO3

First • Previous • Next

Out of all the courtyards Ilvermorny has to offer, there's only one Newt’s remotely interested in.

It's not the biggest, nor is it the grandest. It is a simple thing, a square piece of land located near the edge of the school. At its center, a large Snakewood tree.

Unlike the courtyards at Hogwarts, which are plain and mostly barren excluding a bench or two, Ilvermorny makes even the smallest garden look like a landscaping masterpiece, bursting with color and different species of plants. But, where the rest of the courtyard is impeccable and appealing, the tree is not. It looks to have never been pruned, its branches just as gnarled and thick as its roots, breaking out of the stone path and spreading out to intertwine with the neighboring plants. With its flaking bark and ugly burls at its base, it reminds Newt of a senior outliving the younger generation out of spite.

Despite the oddity of the Snakewood, it's not the sole reason he's interested with this courtyard. Rather, it's the creature that resides in it.

He's learned that the Pukwudgies are less submissive and subservient than house elves, grouchy to a touch past extreme. They take care of the school, somehow popping up right when needed, but rarely stay long enough to chat. Not since his first day at Ilvermorny has he spoken with one and ask about the myths that surround their species, but, within this courtyard, he's found one that keeps to a schedule without fault.

Its hair is peppered, dominatingly white around its ears, and its skin looks to be pulled so tight every angle on its face is exaggerated tenfold. Like the rest Newt’s seen, it also wears breeches, only it has a sash of animal skin doubled over it.

He walks up beside it. “Hello.”

It doesn’t respond, ignoring him in favor of magicking the snow away from the path surrounding the tree, hands orchestrating an imaginary symphony with ever slow flick of the wrist. From there it shuffles away to the hedges, trimming them with a snap of its fingers.

Newt follows, undeterred. “I always see you here tending to the tree or shining the founder statues.”

Still, the Pukwudgie doesn't respond. It leaves him to walk around the tree, peering up at the branches with an analytical stare. Newt follows its line of sight and spots a nest of Woodpeckers. It mutters to itself; another snap and the nest gently floats down and into the Pukwudgie’s bony hands, who then nestles it into the quills of its hair. The baby birds trill at Newt, begging for food he doesn’t have.

As the Pukwudgie goes on with its chores, Newt steps closer to the Snakewood and the simple plaque at its base. A quick read of the words tell of the good and bad of Salazar Slytherin and Newt wonders about the history behind it. No doubt it's merely a small piece of a bigger story.

He knows a bit about Ilvermorny’s history, the basic story of its founder, the rest easily read from the many books the library has to offer about this particular subject. Escaping England, surviving in pre-colonial American wilderness, building a school from the ground up, Isolt Sayre sounded just as astounding as the Hogwarts founders.  

“Incredible woman.” He doesn’t mean to say it out loud, but there it goes, following the breeze and brushing up against hard bark.

“She was,” comes the gruff voice.

Newt startles. The Pukwudgie stands to his right, hands in its pockets. He could've sworn it was across the yard on his left, bending over a pair of shrubs that shivered and cooed under attention. “You knew her, did you?”

The creature scoffs and, wonders of wonder, continues to speak. “Impossible. I'd be over three centuries old. Don't you wizards know how to count time?”

Newt finds himself laughing. “I suppose we don't. We seem to lose it so often.”

The Pukwudgie grimaces and Newt supposes that is the closest to a smile it can express.

He presses on, taking the moment for what it is- an opportunity. He must tread lightly however, for he doesn’t want to scare off the only potential lead he has for his research. Start small, instructs a voice that sounds unnervingly like his brother’s, be casual. “I don't mean to pry, but I've been wondering… why haven't I heard of any students coming to your kind for advice. It seems to me that you lot have much to offer. You've lived here for countless years- know the school better than anyone else.”

The Pukwudgie takes the small talk in stride. “I think it has something to do with my less-than-welcoming attitude.”

“I find you attitude quite enjoyable- certainly better than what I've encountered.” Newt keeps his tone sprightly, habitually bobbing his head from side to side. The encounter has been dominantly light in spirit, far better than his usual conversations, and he intends to maintain it. “I generally don’t get on the best side of a lot of people, so this is a nice change of pace.”

“Do you think buttering me up with flattery will get you anywhere, Englishman?”

He pauses, mouth already half open with a wry comeback. “How do you know I'm English?”

“Your accent gives it away. None of the younger folk talk like you. You speak proper-like.”

“So you've heard it before. Might I ask from whom?”

“No.” A stilted silence and then, “An old friend.”

“An incredible woman?” he asks, lips quirking.

“Impossible,” it says.

Newt smiles. “Quite right.” Pickett squeaks in his pocket, reminding him of the time. He has an afternoon class in twenty minutes. “Well, I must be off. It's was nice meeting you, Mister…”

“You’ll not get a name from me, Englishman. Call me what you like.”

“Very well,” he says. He pretends to ponder, weighing his next move before continuing with a casual, “You seem like a William. Very strong, that name- quite a story behind it, too, I'd wager. How about it?”

“That is... acceptable,” the Pukwudgie says with another grimace-smile and, if Newt didn't know any better, he would label the sparkle in those dark eyes as amusement. He congratulates himself on doing his research before seeking the creature out, lucky that he had come across a description of a particular Pukwudgie that had been like a father to a lost, orphan girl and bared the name of one.

“Wonderful. Well, William, may I come and visit again? Tomorrow perhaps?”

“If you must.”

Newt feels his smile stretch impossibly wider. “Excellent. I shall bring tea and biscuits.”

Before he even has time to think of the proper way to make an exit, the Pukwudgie is turning on the stone, its quilled back to him. “Do me a favor, Englishman. Catch your Niffler before it ruins the gardens with its holes.”

“My Nif-” he starts, confused, until his brain catches on. He spins and, there in the shrubs, he spots the pilfering pest burrowing in the newly turned dirt.

As if sensing his stare, his Niffler freezes in its digging. Slowly, it turns to look at him and Newt can only raise his eyebrows. There's a pause between them and then-

It bolts.

Newt takes after it without hesitation.

“I'm sorry-” He stops, turns back to the courtyard to apologize, only to realize the Pkukwudgie is no longer there. He remains for a moment, shrugs, and sets off again.

There's no chance of losing his Niffler, not when it leaves a muddy track to follow, the corridors leading from the courtyard to the rest of the school only occupied by a few groups of students. They hastily step aside as he passes and Newt doesn't bother with their chatter, nor does he take the advice of the vocal portraits he passes by.

He inhales sharply when it takes a sharp turn into the Hall.

The number of students within are more than he’d like (study period, most likely), but he doesn’t have the time to have them evacuated from the Hall. Time is of essence if he’s to recapture his Niffler, especially one so evasive.

“Excuse me, pardon- so sorry-”

He dives between two benches and grabs at the Niffler. It dodges his hand and scurries further down the table, weaving between chairs and student’s legs. Newt follows. Girls and boys shout, jumping back and out of their seats- a good decision seeing as it gives Newt more room to move. The space beneath the tables are confining and he's not as small as he used to be, so he's at a disadvantage, but he's nothing if determined.

“Professor!”

“Sorry-” A few benches clatter when they fall and he bangs his shoulder, then his head, as he tries to maneuver in the cramped space.

“Hey! My necklace!”

There's a scream and Newt pops out from underneath the table just in time to see his Niffler crawl out of a girl's hair and fall into her bowl of berries. It pops out a richer blue than before and every student nearby keeps clear as it topples out.

“That’s quite enough,” he says as it slips a rather elegant spoon into its pouch. It's a cheeky fellow, he gives it that.

This continues down the aisle until there's no more table for his Niffler to run along. They've left an absolute mess in their wake, broken dishwares littering the ground alongside books and papers. Newt trips over someone's bag.

Instead of admitting defeat, it evades Newt once again and leaps to the curtains hanging by the door. It's aiming for another impossible escape, Newt’s sure of it; if it manages to get to the balcony, it’ll succeed and he'll lose it in the wilderness. It’s anyone’s guess when he would catch wind of it next- a few days, a fortnight, months?

That is why he climbs after it, he’ll reason later. One good thing from the hall being overly extravagant, the walls are decorated enough to give him stable holds to scale up them easily, then it's only a matter of jumping to the curtains.

“Come here, you little pest!” Students call up to him, some worried while others laugh. “It's fine- bugger, will you stop- everything's completely alright. There's absolutely nothing you need to worry about.”

The words are spoken too soon it seems, a loud riiiipppp sounding out just as he realizes his mistake. He falls with a yell, taking his Niffler and the drapes down with him.

There's a moment where he is shrouded in darkness, limbs flailing as he struggles to fight off the strangling grip of thick fabric. Tassels flick him in the face imperiously and the threads hiss angrily at the damage he's inadvertently done, but he persists, popping out of the mess and breathing sweet freedom once again.

His Niffler takes one look at him and makes a break for itself towards a table on the opposite side of the Hall. The curtains try to pull him down, but Newt escapes and throws himself back into the chase.

Having Dougal within his case for as long as he has has made Newt more than proficient at capturing the notorious escapees that reside his case. “Accio!” A bowl flies into his hand even as he slashes his wand forward and up.

The far end of the table bends upward, curling like the beginnings of roll. The students sitting there are caught by surprise and slip from their seats, as does his Niffler. Perfect.

He slams the bowl down, trapping the little bugger. It begins to slip through the infinitesimal space between the rim and wood as Newt knew it would and he grabs the scruff of its neck before it can escape again.

“How many time do I have to tell you? Paws off what’s not yours.”

The little creature struggles to break free, but he’s having none of it. He empties its pouch, shaking for good measure. Coins rain down, silver and gold clinking into a pile on the floor, spoons, watches, lockets, pens, even some sickles and knuts among the hoard. American currency, muggle and wizard, is still confusing to Newt, but he assumes that what he has at his feet is a quite the amount if he goes by the gasps of the students.

By the end of it, he has a glittering pile that reaches his calves and a mess of a hall. His Niffler flails in his hands, reaching longingly for the treasure.

“No,” he says, uncurling the table and setting the benches back where they belong. The rest of the hall is set back into order with a flick of his wand, ripped curtains and all. “Repario.”

Just as he's debating what spell to use to return the stolen item he hears a pointed cough. The Hall grows quiet and Newt turns.

Ms. Goldstein frowns from the double doors, unhappy.

“Bugger,” he mutters to himself.

 ~

 Newt shifts from foot to foot, uncomfortable.

Ms. Goldstein side-eyes him, arms crossed and oozing judgement. She'd wordlessly led him from the hall, military march and all, through the parts of the school Newt's less acquainted with. A haggle of students had watch the walk of shame in progress, thankfully skipping out of sight with a single look from his personal drill sergeant.

Eventually, he had been led to a decently sized room; along its walls were framed certificates and rules of the school, meticulously positioned to better enunciate the polished trophies and medals on display in the long glass cabinets. At the center, a large, spiral staircase that had rotated at a slow, constant pace, rising up to disappear in the artificial night sky that made up the room’s ceiling. It had branched off as it climbed, smaller staircases reaching out to the walls and sweeping past the dozens of doorways that lined along each of the staggering levels. Newt had craned his neck to view the underside of the rumbling stone as Ms. Goldstein pushed him along, fascinated, wondering how he’d managed to go so long without ever stepping foot in the room before. She didn't slow, giving him no time to fully take in the sight, ushering him along to a door at ground level.

Through there they had emerged to a familiar corridor, at its end a door where they now stood. Engraved on the door of the Headmistress’s office, the body of a rearing Griffin, proud and powerful.

“Blatherskite,” Ms. Goldstein tells the creature. The Griffin eyes them both haughtily, but nonetheless bows its head, splitting along with the door to allow them entrance.

This isn't the first time Newt’s found himself in the Headmistress’s office, but the room seems larger and more foreboding than the few times he's visited. Large and circular, it's as grand as the Headmaster’s office at Hogwarts. Portraits of past headmasters lines the walls, dozing, beyond them a smaller entryway that leads to what Newt assumes is a personal library. Even the fireplace, with crackling flames and warm glow, isn't as calming as it once was.

Ms. Goldstein pushes him further into the room, getting the attention of the four people within. Newt recognizes Headmistress Peregrine, while the other three are unfamiliar to him, but from their dress he deduces that they must be aurors sent from MACUSA.

Growing up with Theseus has taught Newt the difference between a subordinate and a leader,  the presence and stance of a person enough to tell where they belonged and what levels of authority they resided in, and, just as his brother was a leader, so was the auror closest to the Headmistress. The man, dressed in a fitted ensemble and an undercut, stared at Newt with a blank expression that has him suddenly reminded of the “kill on sight” protocol for magical creatures in America. His stomach rolls in apprehension.

Headmistress Peregrine sets down her papers, her expression enough to tell Newt that she’s already aware of what's happened. “Will you leave us, Tina?”

Ms. Goldstein nods and, with a final stare at Newt, leaves the room.

“Anything else, Headmistress?”

The voice comes from a Pukwudgie standing beside the ornate desk at which Headmistress Peregrine sits, the spikes of its hair barely seen over the sleek desk. Newt wonders how he didn't see it the moment he walked in.

“No. That will be all. Thank you, Clementine.”

The Pukwudgie nods and, without bidding the rest of the occupants farewell, walks past Newt without so much a glance (he spots an old-fashioned pipe, like the one his father used to smoke, tangled in its hair). He snaps back to attention when someone clears their throat.

“I take it you know why you're here, Mr. Scamander?”

“Yes.”

Headmistress Peregrine catches his glances at the other occupants, mainly at the man beside her. “Mr. Scamander, this is Mr. Graves. He is the head of our security while the aurors are stationed at Ilvermorny.”

The man inclines his head at her words. “I'm here because I have concerns for the near-situation your creature caused.”

Newt tucks his chin. “I took care of-”

“Are you aware that Ilvermorny has a strict policy concerning magical creatures, Mr. Scamander?” the head auror says suddenly.

He isn't. “Yes, I'm aware.”

“No magical creatures- unless those brought to the attention of the headmaster or headmistress- are permitted in fear of the students’ safety.” Newt can only look at the toes of his boots as the man goes on. “If you knew this, then why did you see fit to permit one onto school grounds, fully knowing that it could bring possible harm to the students?”

“It's a Niffler. I was planning on showing it to my students. It's only found in England, so-”

“That wasn't the question, Mr. Scamander.”

“Well, you see, ah- it escaped-”

“It escaped,” Headmistress repeats, eyebrow raised.

“Yes, it escaped, but I was more than capable of capturing it.”

Mr. Graves looks like he doesn't believe Newt. “That didn't stop it from causing a scene in the hall- which was filled with students.” His Niffler peeks out from his jacket, catching everyone's attention despite. “That's the little fellow, I take it.”

Newt tucks the creature tighter into the safety of his jacket. “It wouldn't harm a student. It's a thief, not a predator.”

“Nonetheless, it still caused mayhem in the school.” Here, the auror looks to the headmistress. “I believe it would be for the student body's best interest if Mr. Scamander remain confined to a room in the teachers’ housing offered by the school when not teaching. I’m willing to have one of my aurors shadow him during his classes so that another incident like this won't occur.”

His Niffler sniffs the buttons of his waistcoat, unconcerned. Newt, on the other hand,  tenses, not liking where the conversation is going- what it might mean for the creature in his arms. “There was no danger-”

“His creature should be dealt with in a similar manner-”

Newt feels heat crawl up his neck. “It’s not dangerous!”

The Headmistress holds up a hand for silence. “While I do appreciate the offer, Mr. Graves, this is a school, not a prison. Instead, Mr. Scamander will get off with a warning.”

His relief is palpable. His Niffler was safe. “Thank you, Headmistress.”

“That doesn't mean you won't be reprimanded, Mr. Scamander. Mr. Graves and his team are here to offer protection, not look after faculty. As such, I will be having your class be under supervision- effective immediately.”

Newt bites back the retort that’s on the tip of his tongue. People at the Ministry had let him be for the most part, so the need for supervision was going to be exasperating and unnecessary.

His distaste for the idea must have shown on his face because Headmistress continues. “If you'd rather go with Mr. Graves’s proposal, then, by all means, take it- but I assure you that my offer is the better option. I will not have you and your creature run amok in my school. Do I make myself clear, Mr. Scamander?”

He keeps his gaze firmly on her desk. “Perfectly.”

“Good.” Headmistress Peregrine stares him down, either ignorant or uncaring of the silence that settles over the room. It's almost as if she's demanding acknowledgement like his Hogwarts teachers once did. She waves an elegant hand. “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Scamander.”

Knowing when he's been dismissed, Newt murmurs a farewell and hurriedly escapes. The door shuts solidly behind him, the Griffin melded to the stone nipping at him when he tries to lean against it. The hallway alongside the office is empty, no students or ghosts around. Even Ms. Goldstein is long gone.

Newt releases the breath he was holding. “Now look what you've done.”

His Niffler ignores him. It pats its empty pouch, whining. A few day's worth of adventure and it doesn't have anything to show for it, not even a knut to add to its collection.

Newt doesn't last a second.

He pulls a galleon from his pocket. Like a child presented with a new toy, the Niffler reaches out, begging. “No more sneaking off,” he tells it with a stern look, handing the coin over. “I don't want to be kicked out when I've only just gotten here- all because you can't control yourself.”

The creature inspects the coin, making a pleased snort when the light of the floating lanterns reflects off its surface and into Newt’s face. The man shakes his head with familiar exasperation, wondering why he even tries, and tucks the small thing more closely to his side, setting down the hall.

 ~

 Newt tells his creatures of the world outside.

Dougal seems to enjoy hearing him talk about strange American customs, while the Occamy are interested in anything to do with his students, though that might just be because he makes smoky figures in the air for them to follow intensely. He tells Frank of the many portraits of his kind, how they differ in style and color (Newt had been surprised and amused to find one in the mensroom). His Mooncalves sway to his drawn out descriptions of the grounds, humming around him as he reclines in the grass.

He talks and talks, and talks some more. He talks until there are no more words, no more frustrations concerning MACUSA and prying strangers. And, eventually, his talk leads him to research.

Like always, Bestarium Magicum offers not a slick of help. It’s descriptions of North American creatures are severely lacking, only offering a name, a basis description, and the standard Ministry rating, whilst some creatures that Newt knows exists are not even mentioned in the book. His curiosities are left unfulfilled and he’s greedy for knowledge of some kind. So, he searches the more general books he managed to find in Ilvermorny’s library, one or two of them referencing a creature fleetingly (except those concerning the Great Sasquatch Revolt of 1892, which is surprisingly informative). It's not much to work with, but he does the best he can.

“I’ll have to come back for the second edition,” he tells Dougal after another near-death experience from the library, the book snapping at him when he had complained about its inaccuracies; his little and index finger are wrapped in bandages, the cuts too small to warrant use of a healing draught. “It’d be a shame to leave these Americans ignorant in more things than etiquette- the creatures deserve better.”

The primate chitters in agreement.

And it would be beneficial to the students, he thinks. He couldn't let an entire continent of children learn from a curriculum that was entirely misinformed, much less his students, some who'd shown real progress and interest in the subject. He’d come back in search of more creatures, material for his book, nothing more.

Still, it's only when he catches himself humming the tune of Ilvermorny’s very own song to his unicorns that he starts to wonder how far this influence will bleed.

He finds that he doesn't mind too much.

[lostboymemoirs]

Finding Your (Creative) Release in Quarantine

“Hey man, gettin’ that release huh?”

Wait, what?

I heard this phrase shouted out from across the street which startled me out of my photo walk daze. Normally my headphones are blaring The Rolling Stones, tickling my hippocampus with tunes to boost my mood in the days of isolation, and I would have never heard this awkward statement.

That day however, I was walking around with my headphones in but playing no music. Sometimes I do this by accident, forgetting to actually start a soundtrack. Other times, like this day, I had them in so I would appear to be listening to music just in case people wanted to interact with me as a deterrent. I wasn’t actually listening to music. I also do this for safety to let me hear traffic since my neighborhood, though quiet, doesn’t have sidewalks.

A statement like this shouted out deserved attention. When I was jolted out of my constant scanning for something to take photos of I looked over and saw this…

In the days of Covid-19, isolation, and social distancing, it’s kind of rare for people to speak to each other let alone look at each other. It’s like we’ve all become ghastly creatures that we can’t bear to look at or are utterly afraid to interact with.

Maybe that was another reason why I was startled as well. I didn’t expect anyone to be calling out across the street at me. And when I first heard it, I immediately thought he was calling me out for walking around with my fly being open or something. Quick glance down and nope, fly was not down. After a couple seconds I processed the message and realized it was probably relating to the fact that I was walking around with my camera in hand.

Internal dialogue: Getting that release. Ahhhh. I get it!

“Yeah, you know, I’m trying to at least!” I shouted back to him across the street. And I also realized how weird that exchange of phrases sounds now.

We both kept walking our respective ways on opposite sides of the street when his whole outfit and appearance hit me. It made me stop in my tracks. Wow, what a photo that would make! So I spun around and paused, still hesitant to ask him for a photo.

You see, that’s one of my biggest struggles — having the courage to ask someone for a photograph. I shoot A LOT of landscapes and travel photos, but asking someone to snap a photo of them seems to be a struggle. But I knew I had to ask. His outfit was the cumulation of life and style in the age of Coronavirus.

So I asked. And he said yes!

It wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought, and I don’t know why asking that simple question has been so hard. Of course his interaction first with me and the acknowledgement of my camera helped. But simple saying, “Excuse me, I really dig your face-mask and that hoodie combo, could I take your photo?” was all it took. Which became the photo above — a really interesting look at life during Covid-19 and our own personal expressions with style.

Now, when I took this photo I was about 30 feet away from him so don’t worry — I practice the social distancing and take all the precautions out in public. Most businesses are closed and all parks are cut off we are still allowed to walk around. This has been my escape lately (when the weather permits me to) and I guess walking can be considered a creative release.

During the last couple of months in lockdown, I’ve struggled to create much of anything. Some days just getting out of bed has been a struggle. I felt like I had to do something — be it writing or photography, but I just couldn’t seem to find the energy to actually start it. I would lay in bed for hours staring at the ceiling. So I forced myself outside. Get out of bed. Put on clothes. Grab the camera. Go outside. Do something! Get it together Ryan!

Just go for a walk and bring your camera just in case I told myself. Stop staring at the ceiling or the wall or the light peeking through the curtains of the window.

I’ve been in the small town of Pawtucket Rhode Island since November, and the combination of not traveling for a long period of time, the cold bleak winter we experienced here, and the loss of clients and work put me into a serious funk.

So how could I beat this and escape this murky period of creative blankness and depression?

Well, it wasn’t really about beating it because I still haven’t. It was more like how I’ve dealt with my depression over the years — adapting to it and filling the void with something. Not wallowing or drowning in it but doing something just to do something.

Sometimes that’s just taking a shower. Other days you find a burst of inspiration and energy. And these photowalks have been my creative release lately.

Walking the neighborhood streets and searching for small misplaced objects or accidental symmetry has been my attempt to boost my creativity for the most part. There isn’t much around here to look at which has stopped me from doing so in the past. Or so I thought.

No ancient castles or bustling foreign marketplaces or mountains and forests or smokey Serbian bars to people watch with cheap beer. Not even the international influence and historic (to America) neighborhoods like you find in Washington DC. No unique character and characters like you might find on the streets of New York.

So what is here in small town Pawtucket?

Pawtucket is mostly just blocks of suburban houses and remnants of an industrial boomtown past its prime. Like an old house that has settled and showing cracks in the foundations and peeling facades. It all sits a little crooked. At first I had no interest in photographing this place, and honestly I didn’t know what to photograph. Many of the streets are covered in litter. Power-lines are the skyline and rusted factories or fast-food chains like Dunkin and McD’s are what make up our array of scenery nearby.

Then something changed after my first couple of walks.

I noticed a lot of trash, yes, but also interesting little things about the neighborhoods. Maybe it’s the way someone’s lawn ornament had fallen over, or the contrast of the rusty industrial towers with the sky, or a colorful and oddly shaped piece of trash that is simultaneously beautiful and disgusting, or one of my favorites — a caution cone that had seemingly fallen into the hole it cautioned of.

It was beginning to become interesting to wander the neighborhood and try to see what caught my eye.

And in turn, this practice also helped me out of a creative rut. Or at the very least supplied a subject for creative release.

You might be surprised by what you observe, experience, and what begins to catch your eye as you walk around sans phone and headphones. Even in a place that you think has nothing to offer you as an outlet for your creativity or even attention might suddenly bestow upon you an unknown element that becomes a catalyst for creativity. Like Pawtucket for me.

I still struggle with being stationary after so many years constantly traveling, and in the age of Coronavirus and all of the restrictions, the adjustment to find something to drive creativity has been slow. But it doesn't mean it isn’t there waiting for you to discover, however rough around the edges it may be or however different from your normal topic of creative release. You just have to open your eyes wider, or just get out of bed and go for a walk.

How have you found your creative release in isolation?

[audience1102]

UNIT 12 Evaluation

 Unit 12 is about engaging with the audience and how their qualities and characteristics serve a purpose to the proposed question: ‘why do artists need a selected audience?’

This then interprets why do certain groups of people respond to art? And how do they relate to it in a way no one else would? And the simple reason being; there is just an appreciation for somebody’s work, it could be either they relate to it on a wider scale, it could also be that they have found something in an art form that is similar to themselves in quite a few ways, they have a common ground.

In my work that i had been working on for the last couple of months, i focused on my dreams that i had been having and proposed, ‘Do dreams affect our mood when we wake up?’ i had to think of a certain audience that may have related to my concept and either liked it for its eerie demeanour or simply the fact that they dreamt of the same things every night as do I. I can’t particularly think of any certain group of people in mind, however i think psychologists might have a curiosity about what i produce due to its’ dark nature.          

Artists like Yves Klein whose art was a cross of ambience and performance art attracted an audience of a certain quality as during his lifetime the subject of his work didn’t allow him to be part of the mainstream, thus, being put in an art underground scene where only select people of his following knew about, making him then and even maybe now still an obscure artist. The kinds of research activities to carry out on a selected artists’ audience could be brainstorms, selected society questions of what people want to expect in their work. Also, find the right crowd, in a sense figure out what kind of audience would be your ideal and then seek out that crowd in a subtle way so then you can draw them out like moths to a flame. In Ancoats in Manchester, is a mural dedicated to mental health by German artist Andreas Von Chrzanowski aka CASE. The piece depicts the still ongoing struggles with mental health in men, which according to statistics, is the biggest cause of death for young men in the UK. On Ancoats is a place called 42nd street, which is a counselling unit for young people, maybe this is linked in with the mural and the counselling, or maybe it is autobiographical to share with the public, for them to relate and think, we are not alone.   It has been directly painted on the wall on a very large scale, 3

For the dream purposes’ i had documented them directly from waking up and onto paper. i studied up on certain artists that i could try and get inspiration from including; Marc Chagall and Frank Auerbach. Because of the nature of the topic, my dreams were often filled with anxiety and sometimes fear (mostly anxiety) i wanted a darker looking approach because the unsettling images just deserved that bit of an edge and characteristic with a uniqueness opted with some simplicity. I did start by documenting my dreams through painting inspired by german artist Franz Marc then i saw the works of Francis Bacon and Frank Auerbach and found a mutual grounding on the eerie psyche of their work and the opted on making a change to the approach than rather from what i was seeing but how i was reporting it on another level.The materials i had used in the beginning had been acrylic and watercolour based paint, then i moved to the simpler methods of charcoal and chalk which then did work in my favour. I then thought about the sized chalk i would want to use on the dreams i was making, whether the markings made significant impact on the outcome or maybe even emphasised some characteristics. i felt like i chose the right charcoal for the outcomes i practiced they made faint guidelines in the start of the process and then i could add more in darker shades and sizes. white chalk proved effective also as used in small quantities gave the figures depth in shadow and stature.

I felt like i have made 2 big steps in the final outcome, i produced 2 large scale pieces on a wall scale, depicting 2 variations, 1 being a duplicate of a dream and the other being an almost truthful version of how i feel like these negative thoughts can come across in a metaphorical way. i feel like i would be happy for a final outcome to be the 2 brown paper scales merged together and make the biggest piece imaginable. My practical skills worked as to plan for the scale and how those figures fit in with each other on paper in an order of individuality and relevance.