#i have a quiz come wednesday

[blotsjunkyard]

it's been a hot minute since i've drawn because uni and art don't go well together... and all of my existing wips are BIG so i broke down and scribbled jet and buzzcut zuko

[illdothehotvoice]

Bro trying to fit in everything I gotta do this week before Brothership is gonna be the end of me I think

[magewritesstories]

[ ᴊᴇꜱꜱ ᴍᴀʀɪᴀɴᴏ ] ᴍᴏᴛɪᴠᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

summary: Luke doesn’t understand where Jess’s sudden motivation to do well in school is coming from TW: none note: i love him sm, but it’s a pretty short fic

“I’m leaving!”

Luke looked up, astonished at the sight that greeted him. Jess stood in the doorway of the diner, with a book bag slung across his shoulder, headed towards the library.

This had been happening for about two weeks now. Every Wednesday at 15:45 on the dot his nephew— his school despising nephew— had been leaving to go to the Stars Hollow Library

The older brunet had made sure that he was actually going to the library and not off to Walmart to pick up some extra shifts.

Jess made his way across the townsquare towards the local library. Everyone who knew the boy in the slightest would know he had no business there— his habit of annotating books meant he couldn’t borrow any, and he despised the quiet— so why was Jess Mariano going to the Stars Hollow Library?

The answer was very simple; Jess had a crush.

You were always there. Sitting in a faraway corner, of the library, working on homework or reading for an assignment. 

A few weeks ago he’d gathered the courage to walk up to you when you were reading Wuthering Heights. He was surprised when you remembered him from your english and biology classes (mostly because he was rarely there.)

You were sitting in your usual spot when Jess arrived. It was a small wooden desk, with enough place for two people. The edges of the table were worn, just like the fabric of the pillows on the chairs. There was small yellow-light over the table that blinked every now and then.

The black-haired boy made his way over to the table, letting his bag fall onto the floor with a loud thump. 

The sudden sound made you look up from your math assignment, “Oh, Jess, hey,” You gave him a bright smile, “Didn’t think you were gonna make it today.”

“Oh please, I am nothing if not consistent,” He quipped as he tried to ignore the feeling of his heart hammering against his chest.

You rolled your eyes, “They only thing you’re consistent in is bailing, Mariano.” Jess shrugged, “Doesn’t really matter what it’s in, I am consistent.”

“I heard you missed the math quiz yesterday?” You asked, turning back to your homework, “And I missed you in english.”

The teen shrugged, grabbing his books, “I had some stuff to do.” You raised an eyebrow, “Stuff?”

“Yeah, stuff.”

“Well, you missed Ms Bledel handing out our assignment,” You continued. Another thing Jess loved about being around; you didn’t push too hard on things that weren’t your business.

You handed him a copy of your notes, “It’s a two person assignment, and since you weren’t there I made sure we were paired up— so you better not choose next week thursday to be consistent.”

Jess laughed, taking the papers, “I make no promises.”

It was a busy day in the diner when you stormed in. Jess was refilling Rory’s cup of coffee, when the bell rang and you shouted his name.

He looked up in surprise, along with Luke and Rory. “I got an A!” You shouted, running over to him. The black-haired boy wrapped his arms around you in surprise when you jumped towards him, “Thank you!”

You were referring to the fact that he’d helped you with the english assignment and you’d gotten an A for it— which was practically unachievable since Ms Bledel never gave A’s.

Jess rolled his eyes, hoping that the tinge of red on his cheeks wasn’t obvious, “It’s not a big deal,” He shrugged as you pulled away.

“It’s a huge deal,” You countered, “She never gives out A’s, I don’t think I’ve ever gotten an A for english in my life.”

Rory, who was watching the scene amusedly, nodded along, “Yeah, even I haven’t gotten an A in her class before.”

Having heard the commotion Luke walked over to the three teens, “I heard someone got an A?” You nodded, proudly holding up your’s and Jess’s copy of the assignment— bit with a red A on them.

“Oh this is so going on the fridge,” Luke smirked, which made the black-haired boy groan, “Please don’t...”

You giggled slightly at the scene in front of you, before realising you had other places to be. “I have to go,” You said, “But I’ll see you at the library tomorrow?”

That’s when it clicked in Luke’s head; the sudden motivation to do well in school had nothing to do with his threats of kicking Jess out if he failed, it was simple puppy love.

The brunet watched in amusement as his nephew’s eyes followed you all the way to the end of the street.

You had become Jess’s motivation.

word count → 782 words links → gilmore girls masterlist

[dangerpronebuddie]

WIP Wednesday!!

Tagged by @tizniz @inell @exhuastedpigeon who all shared WONDERFUL stuff y'all should absolutely show some love!! 🩵💚

Since a lot of people expressed interest in Clipboard Buck's sexuality quiz, I'm sharing some of that 😊. Haven't had a lot of time to write today, had to take pupper to the vet for his shots (he's okay! A little mad about it, but he's kinda dramatic lol). Anyway, this fic is slowly coming together. I'm hoping it won't take super long, but ya know. Have one of my favorite parts:

"So you're..." Hen trails off. She's biting back a smile that screams I knew it. "I don't know what I am," Buck shrugs. "For the longest time I thought how I felt was just... normal." "It's not abnormal," Hen assures him. She rounds the coffee table and sits on it. "That's what Maddie said," Buck sighs. "All I know is I am definitely not straight, and I want to know what I am." "You don't have to pick a label," Hen points out. "I never did," Chim says before taking another bite of celery. The entire team looks at him, varying degrees of surprise on their faces. He looks around the group. "What? I'm not straight. This can't be news to you." "I knew you were flirting with Eddie his first shift," Buck declares at the same time Hen says "it's not news." Eddie raises his eyebrows and grins at Chim, who honest to God blushes. "I was being friendly," Chim insists. "You were being a possessive golden retriever trying to mark your territory, I... didn't want him to feel unwelcome, that's all." "Aw, thanks, Chim," Eddie says, patting his knee. "Or was it Asian Fabio?" Chim shoves at him. The force throws Chim off balance and he falls against Eddie's side, knocking him into Buck, who half collapses across the couch like a line of ridiculous dominos. Hen cackles and Bobby scrubs his hands over his face with a long suffering sigh. By some miracle, their coffees- and Chim's celery and peanut butter- escape the mess unscathed. Chim scrabbles up and takes a seat beside Hen on the coffee table, glaring at Eddie like all that was his fault. Eddie sits up and takes Buck's hand, pulling him upright. "Oh, so you help Buck but not the guy who wasn't afraid to flirt with you?" Chim balks. "I've always been the favorite," Buck says with a cheeky grin, knocking his shoulder against Eddie's. "Before we end up calling an ambulance to our own firehouse," Bobby says, "have you thought any about the label you might want?" Buck sighs, his shoulders dropping. "I've tried. It's all really confusing and I've read articles about each one that might apply to me until the screen went blurry." "Why don't you do one of those quizzes they used to put in magazines?" Bobby suggests.

(tags under the cut. As always, please let me know if you want to be added/ removed):

@13shadesofanni @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @loveyouanyway

@ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @daffi-990 @kitteneddiediaz

@spagheddiediaz @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @thekristen999

@actuallyitsellie @fortheloveofbuddie @wildlife4life @theotherbuckley

@rainbow-nerdss @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

@lunarspark-cos @idealuk @shipperqueen6 @slowlyfoggydestiny

@misshiss727 @likeamollusconarock @lin27 @jshadow01 @orangeboxfox92

@smallandalmosthonest @thegeekcompanion @emilybahu @lemotmo @awolfnamed-nyx

@kaseysgirl86-blog @darkrose6578 @totallynotagoraphobic @dandelioncasey @bibuckbuckgoose @whatsgoodinthehood22

@lady-elaine @buckley-diaz-rules @buddiedaydreamer911 @monroemary @pirate-hunter

@nonspeakingkiku @eddiedisasterdiaz @drunkandsupportiveeddie @traumabuddies @epicbuddieficrecs

@tofanasmuse and anyone else who wants to share!! 🥰🩷

[sunnie-angel]

Part 3: The Invitation

part 2 | part 4 | series masterlist | ao3 link

jason todd x f!reader

summary: an invitation to jason doesn’t go as planned, but you find other ways to spend time together

tags: mostly fluff, some minor angst

rated explicit (mdni) | wc: 2.3k

a/n: this update is still fairly fluffy for this fic, but fair warning it is going to get darker in tone and content as the story continues. my chapter count just keeps increasing from my original outline (💀) so it’s taking longer to reach the darker elements but they will be coming.

The first week of term passes, and life resolves into a series of patterns. Jason slots neatly into your social circles with the confused grace of a man that’s not quite sure how he managed to find himself in his position but is grateful for it anyway. Walking to classes together turns into hanging out with your friends after. Invitations to grab a meal with the group get accepted more often than not. He’s only gone out with the group once, a Friday night that had started out in Danika’s apartment and ended with takeout shawarma from your favourite shop on Gilman Avenue. Snapshots of the evening remain in your memory, the casualties of letting Rei make the drinks.

Between your classes and internship picking up, there hasn’t been any time for going out since. Your days revolve around campus and promises to yourself to visit art exhibitions, to pick up groceries from the farmers’ market, to take advantage of the public library’s programs dissipate unfulfilled. It’s easier somehow, to let those promises to yourself slip away than it is to break a promise to your friends. Monday lunches and Wednesday study afternoons, the occasional movie night organized spontaneously. These commitments are easier to keep because they’re with someone else.

It becomes a weekly thing, then, sharing Jason’s lunch on Mondays. Went a bit overboard meal prepping on the weekends, he always offers, a sheepish hand running through his curls. You notice you’re the only recipient of his overzealousness though, and quietly you wonder. There’s a kind of warmth under your skin every time he pulls out a too large Tupperware container and turns to you, asking for your assistance. You’re not totally altruistic — the food’s too good for you to turn down — but the kind gesture makes you chafe a little bit after a while. All that kindness directed at you, nothing asked for in return, it doesn’t sit right, not with the way you were raised. Kindness was a commodity in the Alley, respected and well-received, but always returned. So you start returning the gesture. Snacks between classes and during study sessions appear out of your bag, pressed into Jason’s hands but never mentioned outright. Your grocery list gets the slightest bit longer but it’s worth it. The gesture soothes that itch in the back of your brain and every time you discover what makes the corners of his eyes crinkle up with pleasure you take careful note of it.

You’d thought, first, about returning his gesture in kind. A first text message with a pasta recipe you’ve never been able to replicate quite so perfectly never really materializes into the connection you’d hoped it would.

You: Dr Okafor said the quiz’s only on week 1-3 right?

You: sidenote I can’t quite get the pasta sauce right, you sure there’s nothing missing from the recipe you sent me?

Jason: weeks 1-4

Jason: shouldn’t be

Jason: you’re only adding the fresh herbs after you deglaze the pan right?

You: Yeah every time

Biting your bottom lip, you hesitate before finally pressing send. The cold light of your screen stares back up at you, unfeeling.

You: You could show me?

You: I’ve been meaning to host more at my place, maybe you can teach me and then I could feed you for once?

A typing bubble pops up on his end, then disappears just as abruptly. Nerves have you still chewing at your lip, the pit of your stomach tight with anticipation as it reappears.

Jason: maybe not this time, yeah?

Jason: my bad, it’s on weeks 1-3, week 4’s the next quiz

Taking a deep breath, you scrunch your eyes up. You want to kick yourself for getting your hopes up. The invitation was too personal, too much. It’s one thing to hangout in an apartment in the nicer side of town with friends and a completely different thing to invite him over to your apartment in the notorious Crime Alley to spend time alone. Even if the area is seeing better days under its new management, reputations don’t get shed as easily as snake skin.

You: Sure! No worries :)

You: oh you had me so stressed for a minute there

And it’s true, though you weren’t so much worried about the quiz as you were his response. But he’ll take what he wants from your answer, and you’ll get away with the truth. The truth is, you’ve become unreasonably greedy when it comes to Jason.

Spending time with Jason is easy. He’s got a sharp sense of humour, one that matches your own enough that you joke it’s the only gift Crime Alley gives to all her former residents. He doesn’t laugh often but when he does, you’re the cause of it more often than not.

“I can’t believe you think Nightwing’s best look was Discowing.”

“Wait— so hear me out Jason. Assuming Nightwing’s not, you know, immortal, he’s gonna get old. And when he’s old and in a nursing home he’s gonna tell his grandkids, “well back in my day” and then he’s gonna be able to whip out the Discowing photos. I’m talking intergenerational trauma when the kids realize “Oh no, grandad was hot AND insane.” It’s probably not your best work, but it turns his snorts into full belly laughter. Quite possibly it’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve seen.

So it might not be the immediate close connection you were hoping for on that first day of class, but it’s a friendship. One that’s all the more precious for the ways it's been unexpected. The anticipation of seeing him next carries you through the knowing looks you get from your friends. You’re a little more careful now, extending invitations only to places you’re sure won’t make him uncomfortable.

It’s a little hard to describe what exactly it is about Jason that draws you in, besides the obvious. He’s a deeply attractive person, all broad shoulders and sharp angles, though most of the time he seems uncomfortable with the effect his looks have on others. No matter how many times Lina calls him ‘pretty’, the answering red tinge of his ear tips never goes away. Probably, you decide, it has something to do with the enigma of him. The air of loneliness you’d noticed about him on that first day never quite dissipates. Even in the midst of a crowd there’s a sense that he’s still separate somehow. Despite the distance wrapped around him like his leather jacket, he never stops being kind.

Being around Jason is different than being around your other friends. You’ve known Danika since high school and her first cheerful insistence that we’re going to be best friends, I just know it. Lina, Rei, and Will had followed over the span of university, over long hours in the library and pulling out your hair over last minute assignments. They were good friends, good people, but you never lose the feeling that they expect a specific version of you. The version that got out of the Alley and made something of herself, with the uncertainties of where her next meal would come from or if the lights would still be on next week far behind her. Jason doesn’t have that same weight of expectation built on experience. There’s a sense that he’ll accept whatever version you present to him, even the one that still has a complicated relationship to the past and present. It’s been a scarce handful of weeks and yet he’s already seen you at your highs and lows.

The first time you’d shown up to one of your hangouts, just the two of you, bags the size of coins under your eyes hastily covered with concealer and caffeine jitters making your hands twitch like a marionette’s, he’d gently uncurled your fingers from where they’d clutched at your travel mug and simply listened.

“Sorry, sorry,” you’d tried to explain. “I didn’t mean to be late but I slept through my first two alarms and missed the bus I was going to take. Duvall’s midterm is later this week and that class has been killing me. It’s like he’s forgotten what it’s like being a student, and, you know, having more than one class to worry about.”

“D’you need to be off studying then?” He offers the out mildly, like he doesn’t know just how badly your sanity has been hanging on to the thin hope of seeing him before your exam. He doesn’t, so you can’t really fault him for it.

“No! No, it’s fine. I probably need a break from studying before my brain starts melting out of my ears. Or at least that’s what Will tells me.” You purse your lips together in remembered frustration at your friend’s thoughtless comment.

“But you don’t think so?” He prods.

“No, well— I don’t exactly disagree? Just that everyone else already finished their midterms and they don’t exactly have the same pressure of maintaining a scholarship like I do.”

“‘Kay then, let’s study. What’s Duvall got you doing?”

And you’re torn, really you are. This wasn’t supposed to be how your morning went. There was supposed to be coffee, maybe a shared lunch out on the quad in the last of the good (for Gotham) weather and some shared bitching about how truly terrible midterms are. Maybe a meandering discussion of how the pop culture status of the Justice League was diluting their mission, a point of contention you’d found Jason had surprisingly articulate opinions on. But you really need to do well on this exam, the lurking pressures of tight finances and the fear of failure of proving them right a constant soundtrack to your thoughts.

“I— are you sure? This was supposed to be us celebrating you finishing your exams, not studying for mine.”

“Look, you go grab a refill — something not caffeinated — and I’ll find us a spot to sit. We’ll do some practice questions, you’ll feel better about it, and then I won’t have to be mad at Will for bein’ an unthinkin’ ass. Really, you’d be helpin’ me out.” He grins, then stands up from the bench and dusts specks of imaginary dirt off his pants. “Go get your drink, I’ll be waitin’ on you.”

Jason’s pulled a blanket out of some infinite pocket of the universe and settled it right at the base of the big oak in the middle of the quad by the time you return, apple cider in hand. He looks over your course materials as you lean against the tree and sip on your drink, the stress that’s consumed you for the last two weeks starting to ebb. He’s got one knee propped up so he can balance a book on it and the other stretched out, the full length of it only a hair’s breadth from yours. You could swear you could feel the phantom heat of it anyway even through the morning chill. He nudges you with an elbow to get your attention, shows you the cover of the one short story that you’d struggled with the most but Duvall seemed to have the biggest love affair with. You groan, then start trying to break down the text.

“—so if we aren’t meant to be interpreting the main theme as ‘love of beauty’ then it’s got to be ‘love of life’ right?” You think out loud, frustrated with how the meaning of this text has eluded you.

“I don’t think it’s gotta be that specific. If we just assume the narrator’s motivations all start with love, the big capital L kind, then even all the crazy shit at the end makes sense too. Subject doesn’t matter ‘cause it's just there as the object of love.” And Jason’s good, really good at this. Breaking things down and seeing things from just left of centre. Makes you revisit your own ideas, trying to see that grey area where both of your ideas intersect.

“No but she clearly doesn’t love the woman in the first chapter. The narrator admires her and calls her beautiful, but she never interacts with the woman like she does with anyone or anything else in the rest of the text. If she doesn’t love the first woman doesn’t it disprove the idea of generalized love?”

“Maybe,” he breathes out consideringly. “Maybe it's not a generalized love, but I think the narrator does love the first woman. The narrator knows she’s descending into madness — maybe for her, the love was in the absence. ‘Cause if the narrator didn’t let on, then her most loved one wouldn’t be infected with the same rot. And all the other people an’ things were collateral damage, the scales balancin’ themselves with the narrator’s most unselfish act.”

“Okay, but isn’t that the most selfish part though? The narrator makes sure that there’s no one else around to hold her accountable for her own mistakes. And part of it’s madness, I’ll buy that, but I don’t think it’s really love if the narrator can bear to force the woman to a distance. The narrator is fully aware as she gives in to her paranoia and forces the woman into the distance between them. ”

Jason hums thoughtfully, but you can tell by the tone that he doesn’t fully agree with you. “I don’t think we’re gonna agree on this, but if you lay out all your thoughts just like that on paper you’ll ace the exam. Why don’t we do this one too?” He pulls out another short story from the pile on the blanket, and you grin, because this one, this one you could talk about for hours.

Being with Jason is easy. When you’re close enough to reach out and run your fingers through his curls if only you were brave enough. When you’re close enough to get a whisper of his cologne as he reaches past you for something and you can hear the creak of leather as it stretches over his bicep. Yes, being with Jason is easy. Just as long as it’s on his terms and by his invitation.

Part 4

[jelzorz]

195a.

It starts on a Wednesday.

It's any other Wednesday. The on-campus coffee shop is emptier than usual because everyone's still away for the winter and the new semester won't start for a few weeks yet, but someone has to man the coffee machines while the undergrads are away and, well. Soren could use the extra cash.

It's a lot less glamorous than what he used to do. Going back to school had sounded like a good idea when he was working shit hours and too much overtime as a hospital physiotherapist, but now he's poor again, and he's still working shit hours and too much overtime. Now he serves coffee to stressed college students and exhausted academics while he fills his spare time with books about business and money and legal stuff that makes his brain hurt, and for what? The idea of his own clinic is so distant. So small. Some days it feels good to study, to start fresh. On others...

The smell of dark roast is clingy but Soren breathes it in sometimes just to stay awake.

The kitchen is warm today, stuffy and humid in spite of the January chill. Callum is making eyes at Rayla from the till while she busses tables in the dining area, and it's as disgusting as it is sweet because neither of them seem to understand that the obsession goes both ways. Ezran is humming to whatever hipster song is playing over the work speaker while he stacks the dishwasher, and Soren is dusting chocolate powder over someone's almond milk mocha when it begins.

"Opeli! We haven't seen you in ages! How've you been?"

Soren glances up and thinks his heart stutters a little. There's a woman at the counter. She looks tired, but her eyes are bright and kind and striking in a way that he knows he'll be up tonight thinking about their exact shade of blue. The hood of her coat is bunched up around her ears like she's only just now pushed it back, and there's still flakes of snow on her shoulders and in the caramel of her hair.

She is, in a word, beautiful, but a really old-world kind of beautiful; the regal, fairy-tale kind that might have had him wearing her favour into battle if she let him in a other life.

"Well enough," she's saying, adjusting the strap of her handbag. "Your father tells me you and Ezran are enjoying your time on campus."

Callum shrugs, but he grins as he answers. "There are good days and bad days. I think Rayla's signed up for your class next semester."

"Has she?" The woman—Opeli—chuckles. "I'll go easy on her, shall I?"

"Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

"You took my class last semester," she laughs. "You tell me."

Callum has the decency to flush a little. "Not if you declare it, right?"

"So you were paying attention," she teases. "Don't worry. I won't quiz you any further. Just a latte with an extra shot of coffee please."

"Coming right up," says Callum. "Soren, did you get that?"

Too late, Soren realises he's been staring the whole time, and that the cup of coffee he's putting the final touches on has a whole extra layer of chocolate powder over the top. "Uh." He swears and dusts his hands. "Yup. One latte with an extra shot. Got it. Won't be a minute."

The woman gives him a look that definitely doesn't wither under and jerks her head at a table by the window. "I'll just be over there," she says. "Say hi to Ezran for me," she adds to Callum, who nods and slides her order receipt across the bench to Soren.

It's not that Soren believes in that kind of attraction at first sight. It's that he's had a bit of a dry spell since Corvus and this is the first time in ages that anyone's caught his eye. Opeli is—

Well. She's older than him, he's sure of that, but by how much, he can't be sure. There's just something about the pull of her smile and the lilt in her voice and the impish little light in her eyes that makes Soren want to talk to her, just to bear witness to all those things over and over again.

He finishes off the last order and then starts hers with a flourish, topping it off with his best latte art (a swan, as graceful and pretty as she) and when Rayla comes to take it, he shoos her away.

"Isn't your turn for a break?"

Rayla raises an eyebrow at him. "I've been here an hour."

"Oh," says Soren. "It's just that Callum's about to go on his and you usually go together—"

She flushes. "What are you implying, exactly?" she snaps, just a tad defensively. "I don't time my breaks with his. Why would I do that? Just because we go together downtimes—"

"Oh, my God, Rayla. I don't care. Do you wanna join him or not?"

Rayla presses her lips together, then scowls at him, red-faced, and slams the tray on the counter before she stalks away to find Callum anyway. Soren tries not to snort and sets the latte on it, pleased for the opportunity for a little privacy.

Opeli is tapping away on her laptop when he gets to her, and he sets the mug and the tarts on her table with a smile.

"One double shot latte for the lovely lady by the window," he says, throwing in a bow for good measure.

Opeli raises an eyebrow at him, amused. "Thank you," she says primly. "Is this how you bring over everyone's orders or am I simply lucky?"

"I'm the lucky one for making your acquaintance," he says, winking.

Opeli laughs and shakes her head, sardonic but charmed all the same. "Very smooth," she comments drily. "If a lot a cheesy."

"These are the jokes, take them or leave them." He grins, smarmy and stupid, and even if she's not interested, he likes the way she smiles, so he takes the win. "You know Callum and Ez?"

"I'm a family friend," she says. "And you are?"

"Soren, your friendly neighbourhood barista, at your service." He draws the chair across from her, and when she doesn't object, takes a seat. "You teach here?"

"A little," says Opeli. "Feels like I do admin more than I teach these days but haggling with the university about what is and isn't part of your job is part and parcel, I'm afraid."

"Oh, that's so cool," says Soren—and he means it. "Well. Not the haggling part. Although, I totally get that. Before I came back, everything was a fight."

"Back?" she asks.

Soren shrugs. "Yeah, just doing some extra stuff, trying to stay relevant and develop professionally and all that." He waves her off. He shrinks a little when he spots Barius behind the counter, craning his head over the line and obviously trying to find his staff. "Listen, I uh—I gotta get back over there but um. I'd love to like. Have a proper talk. Sometime I'm not the one making the coffee. Would that—can I see you again sometime?"

She chuckles. "I'll be around," she says cryptically. "Thank you for the tarts. How much do I owe?"

"Oh." Soren twitches his lips. "It's on the house."

She blinks, then smiles, then sips her coffee. "Thank you," she says. "It was nice to meet you, Soren."

"Same to you. I'll um. See you around?"

Opeli hides her chuckle behind the rim of her mug. "Perhaps you will."

It's not the most straightforward answer, but it certainly doesn't feel like a rejection either. Soren grins to himself and slips the tray under his arm as he heads back to the counter.

Some days it feels good to start fresh. He thinks this might be one of them.

[asimperingswannsong]

Request: fluff with Larissa where Rissie is having sad girl minutes and Reader cheers her up, please

🤗 Thank you for the ask! I can certainly try! This was my first attempt at a Reader insert. It was a fun challenge. Hope you like it! 🙃

Another Dismal Dance

Larissa Weems x Reader

Notes/Summary/Warnings: Just fluffy stuff. Larissa has another disappointing Rave'N and reader tries to make it better.

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

You were standing with Ms. Ingram, the other rookie teacher, by the punch bowl at the Rave'N chaperoning the students as they arrived. She was busy mindlessly speculating on who might be dating who and whether any of the speculative couples would be making an appearance together as official items, but your attention was elsewhere. You were trying to be subtle about it, but it was difficult because the object of your affection was positively radiant this evening.

From the moment you'd interviewed with her and bonded over your shared interest in Outcast History, her former subject, you'd been enamoured by Principal Weems. This was your first teaching job and she had been an amazing mentor, always ready with words of encouragement or offering an ear for you to vent. And when she'd begun to confide in you during your fireside chats in her office, you couldn't have been happier. She'd been having a tough time this year with the monster attacks and Wednesday's constant need to solve the mystery surrounding them. You'd become increasingly worried about her as you could see from the windows of your rooms how many evenings, she'd been working late into the night doing damage control for Wednesday's latest antics.

But you'd been able to cheer her up anytime she expressed frustration with things just by mentioning the Rave'N. She was so excited about the preparations. She wanted everything just right for her students to have a memorable experience and her enthusiasm was one more thing about her that you found so endearing. You'd been having little cautionary chats with yourself lately just to check in and remind yourself to respect boundaries since this was your boss and making an unwanted advance toward her could be a huge mistake but it was hard to keep your resolve everytime you saw her flitting through the halls. She was so beautiful and so elegantly put together. And her personality matched her appearance, charming and perfect. It was a struggle not to be a complete simp.

Especially right now, she was stunning in her knee length silver dress, and she looked so happy seeing all of her hard work come to fruition. She had done an incredible job on the themed decor. It was nice to see her have this perfect evening after all the stress she'd dealt with recently. Now, if only you could work up the courage to go over and tell her as much. "Right?" Your eyes widened as your realized you'd become so engrossed in Principal Weems that you'd completely checked out of the conversation with Ms. Ingram.

"Sorry?" "Coach Vlad." She was met with a look of confusion. "I said he thinks his track suit is formal wear apparently. Crazy huh? Are you alright, Y/N?" "Huh? Oh yeah, sorry. I was just thinking about Monday's lesson plan and whether to include a pop quiz," you lied trying to cover for the actual reason behind your inattentiveness. Ms. Ingram rolled her eyes dramatically and grabbed you by the arm shaking it, "We're off work. It's a dance. Loosen up and have a little fun, Y/N." "Yeah, I'll try…"

You managed to excuse yourself from Ms. Ingram's gossip train and finally made your way to Larissa. "Ms. L/N! You look lovely this evening darling. That dress is so pretty!" she greeted you happily. You blushed noticeably at her compliment. "This is amazing Principal Weems. You should be so proud. And you are a vision. Perfection." "Really?" her turn to blush noticeably. "I love it. And the gloves, the jewelry, and the hair, they're all absolutely beautiful." She smiled still blushing, "Flatterer." "Just facts." "Ms. L/N?" You heard Ms. Ranier, the other history teacher, call from behind you.

You reluctantly started to turn away from Larissa to acknowledge Ms. Ranier, but she reached out gently and took your hand to draw your attention back to her for a moment. "Ms. L/N?" You turned back with a look of inquiry. "Before you go…" "Yes?" "I just wanted to ask if you'd like to stop by my office later? Maybe for a celebratory drink? I'm so happy with how everything came together." "I would love to. That sounds fun," you said beaming at her. She smiled in return and winked at you, "See you then, Y/N." The wink has caused your stomach to abruptly relocate within your body. You turned and floated away.

Everything was going so well…until it wasn't.

You were standing against the wall with two other teachers deeply engaged in a terrible dance battle with each of you showcasing your cringest of moves when you felt a droplet land on your shoulder.As you looked around trying to find the source of the leak you noticed the droplet was red. "What the hell?" And then there was two, three, four. "What's going…" And then the sprinklers opened fully and rained down red.

People started to scream as their formal attire they'd spent weeks choosing became stained all over. Then they started to try to get away and began slipping in the mess. You immediately started trying to help students up and direct them to the exit, but it was chaos. And then you heard a loud scream and you turned to see Larissa having a full-blown meltdown in the center of the room and your heart broke in two.

She'd wanted this to be perfect so badly and she'd already dealt with so much this year and now she and her beautiful dress were stained from top to bottom. She was breathing deeply and shaking. She seemed to be having a panic attack or hyperventilating. You tried to make your way toward her, but you kept getting caught up in the on rush of the exiting crowd. Over and over again you were thwarted from getting to her. Eventually you were pulled along by your fellow teachers who all just wanted out.

In the aftermath you stood and looked frantically around for Larissa. You just wanted to make sure she was okay. Unable to find her, you hugged and comforted crying students encouraging them gently to return to their rooms and get cleaned up and apologizing for their dance being ruined. Finally you spotted her, but she rushed by on her phone and you heard her addressing Sheriff Galpin. She'd recovered from her earlier panic and now she sounded furious.

Realizing this was not an ideal time to try and speak to her you returned to your own rooms and cleaned yourself up. You paced your room using baby wipes to clean the stains from your face and out of your hair as much as possible before changing out of your ruined dress. You could see Larissa pacing furiously in her office and gesticulating wildly at the other occupants.

You determined when you had a chance you would try to intervene and do what you could to comfort her in some way. You grabbed a large basket and began filling it with items, baby wipes, cloths, a blanket, a candle, a bottle of red wine you'd bought after trying it in Larissa's office one evening, and finally a small bouquet from your pink hellebores. You made your way over to the main building and saw Sheriff Galpin and Mayor Walker leaving as you entered. You made your way upstairs.

As you entered while knocking you saw Larissa hastily try to wipe the tears from the corners of her eyes as she stood from her desk. "Y/N? Are you alright? I'm so sorry for what happened?" You came in and placed the basket on the couch. "Am I alright? I came to check on you. I know how much you were looking forward to this. I'm the one who's sorry for the way it turned out." She'd been making a valiant effort not to cry but she lost the battle and started to weep openly. You rushed over and hugged her tightly. "Oh no sweetheart. Don't cry. I'm so sorry."

She clung tightly to you and sobbed loudly. You held her tightly in return and rubbed soothingly on her back trying to bring her some comfort. As her sobs lessened slightly you placed your arm around her lower back. "Come here, sweetheart," you said gently leading her toward the couch in front of the fire, "let's sit down together for a minute." You brought her around to the couch but she hesitated. "I don't want to stain it," she sniffled still wearing her ruined dress. You moved quickly over to your basket and removed the blanket, unfolding it and holding it open like a towel. She continued to hesitate.

You wiggled it at her invitingly, "Come on. I brought it just for you. Feel free to stain it all you like." Larissa smiled through her next sniffle and moved closer to you. You wrapped her up into a red burrito and hugged her once more before encouraging her to sit. She did and you removed the candle and flowers placing them on the table and lighting the wick. Larissa smiled and wiped a strand of stained loose hair from her eyes. "What are you doing?" she asked curiously.

"Me? I'm currently in the middle of an impromptu and somewhat desperate attempt to provide some small modicum of comfort to you after what was an unmitigated disaster perpetrated on the most undeserving of creatures." Finishing your quick mood setting decor, you reached over producing the bottle of wine and holding it out to her. "May I interest the madam in a glass of the house's finest Beaujolais Nouveau?" you said in your corniest French waitress impression. Mercifully she chuckled as you poured her a glass.

Darling, you didn't have to do any of this." "I wanted to. I felt terrible seeing you crushed like that." You held up a baby wipe. "May I?" "Please." You placed a knee on the couch beside her and bent forward over her wiping the stains from her face gently. She gazed up into your eyes with a look of gratitude that made you weak. "Thank you," she whispered as you continued to wipe away the red. "Of course, sweetheart."

When you finished cleaning as many of the streaks from her face as you could, you sat down next to her on the sofa and poured yourself a glass. She held hers out for a refill and you both sat and stared into the fire for a while. You felt her hand lay over the top of yours and you turned yours over. She entwined your fingers together and you continued to watch the flames. "Are you going to be alright?" you whispered. "Yes, darling, don't worry about me." "But I do," you said after a pause. She caressed your hand gently and smiled.

[maxybabyy]

It’s almost half past eight when the door opens and breaks Max’s focus.

Usually, people don’t come into this room. It’s too noisy, too hot when it isn’t completely freezing outside.

Lewis comes by occasionally, uses the nanodrop for his DNA samples. But his project is on the tail-end, and he’s too deep in the writing phase to even be on the lab cleaning rota. Max knows he was meant to stay, that Toto wanted to build a part of the group around him and his expertise. But funding runs out quickly; what was hot five years ago, may as well be old news today.

But it’s Daniel who pokes his head in, smile wide as he spots Max in the corner.

“There you are, Maxy.” He says, pushes the chair closer to Max before sitting down. “Alex said you’d left, but your stuff was still in the office, so.”

He doesn’t have a lab coat on, but always he doesn’t wear it. Max doesn’t know still if it’s an Australian thing, or because he is a pharmacist maybe, but also Oscar does it.

“But I have my gloves on today, Maxy.” Daniel said yesterday when Max had commented on it, trying not to stare at the lovely white tee shirt Daniel had been wearing. He wiggled his fingers as a tease, the bright pink gloves Seb had brought as a joke. He would have to at least be a large to escape the bright blue nitrile hell Max and the other mediums were saddled with. “Don’t get used to it though, just Oscar’s apparently shit at aliquoting piss I’ve learnt.”

“So what are we doing tonight, Max?” Daniel asks now. He is sitting on the chair the wrong way; elbows on the back of it with his chin in his hand. He couldn’t sit like that, Max thinks, at least not for very long. Not like Daniel can, like he does in their shared meetings when Christian and Zak remember they have a grant together.

“The university said the power would be out for a while tomorrow, so I of course have to shut down the MS,” Max says, huffs when he has to turn back to the computer.

The email had come Wednesday night, barely any information except for the notice of a power outage within eighty hours. Max had used the reply-all function to tell them to go suck an egg, turned off his phone and gone for a run.

Checo should of course be the one to do this, senior to Max in every way but one. But last time Sergio had been in charge of shutting down the systems, Max had come in the next day unable to complete calibration, and they had to replace two different parts.

It’s a new instrument too, and always he can be – the mass spectrometer can be a bit fussy when you have to shut it down. But Max has been working with mass spec since undergrad, was the second author on GP’s Nature Communications paper. Had come to Christian’s lab for this very instrument, so he of course knows it best.

“Always they say we are a part of a core facility, and still, they do this,” Max says. He’s already discussed it with GP and Jonathan how it isn’t okay, with the facility manager who hasn’t touched probably a mass spectrometer in his life. 

Daniel also hasn’t worked with MS by himself before, but he would of course understand, would know it isn’t okay to do this.

“Was the Friday bar alright?” Max asks. He had gone too for a bit, shared the last dregs of gin with Charles, pouring the tonic directly into the bottle to get the most of it. “George said he made a quiz, but to me it sounded very boring. There was a part, I think, where you had to spell out chemicals’ names.”

Daniel laughs, and it sounds so loud in their tiny room for two. Daniel has of course always had a very lovely laugh, but it sounds even better like this. The two of them only. Max likes it like that the best.

“Yeah ah, George kinda went to town on the goon sack instead,” he says. “I reckon Alex had to carry him home.”

“George drank the wine?” Max asks. “No! But that is so old, it’s been in the fridge since Liam graduated.”

“He went for the sangria too, it wasn’t even good fresh.”

“Always George should not be in charge of this, of drinking and parties,” Max says, remembers the nightmare his grad party had been. “You are of course very good at it, how to make it a good night.”

“You think so?” Daniel says, soft, hesitant. Max looks up from the instrument with a frown, touches Daniel’s hand where it’s been hovering in the air, like he didn’t know if he could touch him. Always he can. Max should tell him this, maybe.

“Yes, Daniel.”

“Then, would you go somewhere with me tonight?” He asks, closes his hand around Max’s. It’s different to work like this, one-handed and typing slow. But Max doesn’t want to pull away, keeps his hand in the warmth of Daniel’s.

“I think I am too tired for the club, Daniel.” Max says softly. He has gone before, after the Friday bar. But he cannot do it tonight, his body is too tired. He doesn’t think he would survive if he did, considers already if he should take the bus home and leave his bike behind.

But to his surprise, Daniel laughs, squeezes their hands together. “Nah, I was thinking we could maybe go get some food? You said you’ve been craving like, tacos, and I’ve found a place down by one of the bridges that I thought we could try. If you wanna, of course.” 

Daniel has only been in the city for five months, but already he has made friends in high places, in the low ones too. 

“I would love to, but always I don’t know how -“

“Hey, we’ll just leave whenever you’re done, no rush, Maxy.” Daniel says. 

Max nods, “Then it of course sounds very lovely. It will not be that much longer, I think.” 

“I’ll be here,” Daniel says softly. 

He pulls his hand from Max’s, the loss of touch, of warmth is sudden, but Max knew it would happen. But Daniel doesn’t leave. 

He doesn’t go back to the office to work on the paper Max knows has to be sent back with major revisions, doesn’t go over the postdoc application Zak isn’t supposed to know about. He pulls out his phone instead, plays one of those indie rock albums that Max has come to like. 

It’s very nice, Max thinks, his own earphones still dead in his ears. 

The MS does finally shut down, leaves the room almost quiet except for the music.  

They’re in the basement to get their bikes, Daniel will go in front because he knows where they’re going. He wears a helmet now too, one of those fancy Hövding airbags that will inflate if he crashes. 

“So I won’t mess up my hair, baby,” he had said, the collar loose around his neck when he came into the office to show it off. Max doesn’t care, thinks he looked cute in Max’s borrowed helmet, but this is good also. 

“Hey Maxy,” Daniel says now, one leg swung over the bike. “Would it be cool with you if this was a date instead?” 

Max almost stumbles over the pedals, but he doesn’t, corrects himself so he’s upright and staring at Daniel, who watches him back almost shyly. 

“It would of course be very lovely, I think, if this was a date,” he says, faint. 

Daniel's lips stretch into a wide grin, and Max cannot help but return it. 

“Cool, let’s do that then.”

[tanith-rhea]

hii, I love your writing! I was wondering if you could do some fake dating for either Larissa, Miranda or Lucifer and female reader? :D You know the one where for some reason they decide it's good to pretend they're dating, but oh nooo they accidentally fall in love for real? 😱😏

Only Pretending

Hey, anon! Thank you so much for the request! I'm afraid it turned out bigger than I expected, I don't know what you envisioned but this will definitely be a multiple chapter one... Sorry!!!

Word count: 3k

"That's all for today, guys. I won't give you homework, so enjoy the break and prepare for the quiz when we get back. Remember, the winning team gets a homework-free week!" you waved the excited teenagers out of class. It was the last period of the day and autumn break was officially started. Many wished you good rest and some a fun Halloween, but there were always the ones who bolted right after you said they could.

However, some stayed behind, too entertained gossiping to pay attention at the hour or — which was the apparent case — complaining about their mother coming to get them for "Family Halloween Traditions". Wednesday and Enid were still sitting at their shared desk, Enid trying to convince her roommate that "it" could be fun if she let herself enjoy the festive spirit and Wednesday complaining she would only have fun when Enid arrived.

You thought they were the cutest pair. So different and at the same time sparking out the most unexpectedly similar sides of each other; Wednesday encouraged Enid's feistier side through bickering and teasing and Enid made Wednesday smile begrudgingly with her cuteness.

"I think it'll be less horrendous than it's been before at least," Wednesday conceded, "Some different faces of people I actually don't loathe being around."

"Exactly, honey bun!" Enid chirped, getting up from their class and offering her arm for Wednesday to take, "I'll arrive early to rescue you from your mom and I'm sure Principal Weems will bicker with her enough to make you smile."

Wait, Larissa would visit the Addams? For Halloween? You could swear she barely tolerated Wednesday's mother from what you've heard of their history at Nevermore. Morticia seemed all right to you and according to other teachers and old acquaintances, quite fun to be around, but the poorly concealed disdain that overtook your boss' face every time the woman was mentioned fostered a small uneasiness and dislike to grow on you towards Wednesday's (un)beloved mother.

"Hello, girls!" you approached the pair with the pile of essays you had to grade and everything you needed to not return to class for the entire week in your hands, "Everything all right? Do you have any questions?"

"No, Professor! No worries," Enid hushes to say, and Wednesday got up as well, linking her arm to Enid's, "We were just about to go. Happy Halloween!"

You were about to wish them happy Halloween as well when Wednesday cut in, "Do you have plans for Halloween, professor?"

Curious of her to ask. You liked to think you had a good teacher-student relationship, but the girl rarely seemed to care for pleasantries or chit-chat for that matter.

"Actually, I'll just stay at the academy and rest a bit. I love teaching you guys but if dealing with ordinary teenagers is already taxing, teaching extraordinary ones is a whole other level." It was true, the amount of trouble your last students could get into was only exponentiated when added to the supernatural abilities students at Nevermore possessed. It was also much more entertaining. Yes, you had to keep them safe and punish troublemakers accordingly, but you loved the thrill to discover just what mischief they had got up to again. The best one so far was when a vampire kid turned into a mist to sneak out at night and changed into their solid state while floating atop the lake.

“Mother is hosting a Halloween party. I believe she’ll only pester Principal Weems to go but you are invited,” she said in her trademark monotone. Why you didn’t entirely know.

“I think that would be a matter for your mother to decide, dear. Although I am honoured you’d like my presence, I don’t think I can simply show unexpectedly.”

“The more sane, competent women there the direr it will be for mother, I only figured you could help me avenge the inconvenience of her smothering motherly love.”

Wednesday was quite the interesting girl. You thought it did make sense she’d want some friends around to endure the celebration, and while you understood and quite shared her respect and admiration for the principal, you were touched to find she regarded you similarly.

“If I cross paths with your mother, I’ll be sure to ask her, can we leave it at that?” at the youngling’s curt nod, you saw the pair leave the room and followed behind, closing the door when you left.

You took three or four steps before listening to the click of very well-known heels. Your shoulders sank and you quickly prayed to any god that might be listening for patience.

“Hello, there, beautiful lady!” Razvan, the vampire transformation teacher stalked at you to accompany your steps.

“Good evening, teacher,” your voice was calculatedly calm. You learned your lesson on being nice to overly adorable and excitable kittens as well as their human-like form.

“I was hoping to catch you alone to ask about that coffee date I suggested last week,” he was smiling like a child on Christmas morning, waiting to open their presents, “You said you were too busy planning the homework you’d give the students for the break but now we’re all free.”

It was cute how he seemed to like you, but he just wasn’t your type. When you saw the tiny black cat at the quad a few months back you thought it was only that, a cat, which you petted and played with and fed because its appreciative meows were cute. When it turned out to be the very not-cat, very impressionable vampire transformation teacher, you wanted to smash your head into the nearest flat surface, so what if it was a stone wall?

“You see… I haven’t got around to grading their essays yet, so I’ll be busy these first few days. Maybe later this week? I’ll see if I can make time and get back to you, ok?” it was really difficult to just say no. You weren’t the most proficient at negating people even in normal circumstances; the fact that he was so clearly infatuated with you made saying no seem like kicking a puppy.

“Oh… that’s fine… I guess. What about tomorrow? Right after lunch? You can check your agenda tonight and I’ll look for you for the verdict!” with that he puffed into a bat and flew down the corridor like a drunk butterfly. Was he making little loops? You had to end this and soon, it was too cruel to keep it up and even if it’d hurt him, it was best than leading him on.

Later that day, you and Vlad sat together eating dinner. He was telling you about an interesting countermove a second year made to get a point on their opponent and you were only half-listening and humming when you thought it appropriate.

Larissa was at the other end of the table, rather uncharacteristically talking to no one and wearing a tight face as if her food tasted like lemons and green limes squished together.

“Something on your mind?” Vlad inquired, following your gaze to the headmistress, “Oh, wow, someone’s not looking forward to rest and relaxation.”

“Hm?” you looked at him and noticed he was also studying Larissa’s sour complexion “Ah, yes. She does seems really angry, doesn’t she? If I hadn’t seen it before I would almost say she’s pissed.”

“That is because she is.” He explained, taking a sip of blood before continuing, “Morticia Addams visited earlier, and by what I hear she quite smugly questioned if Larissa would ‘finally’ bring a plus one to the Halloween Ball they host every year.”

Oh, so that was it. You’d seen Morticia’s verbal sparring with the principal before; you attributed it to their past roommate status and the complications that may arise with sharing a bedroom for three years. You had also seen the bickering and teasing on parents’ weekend, the elongated looks in yearly student reviews and all the times Wednesday’s parents had to be called in because their daughter got herself into trouble.

You knew the story of Larissa’s fancy for Gomez when they were young, but you didn’t think Morticia would still be gloating twenty years later that she got the cake.

“And is she?” you asked, looking back at her, something in your chest making you feel cold all of a sudden.

“What?”

“Is she bringing a plus one to the ball?”

Vlad examined you with those piercing dead eyes of his, knowing all too well why you asked, but respecting your wishes not to mention it.

“I don’t know. Haven’t heard anything yet. The closest person she had recently turned out to be a fanatic serial killer who tried to murder her.”

“Laurel, right? The one before me?” you were the second attempt at a normie teacher in Nevermore. You liked to think you were doing well, but few things could be worse than trying to destroy the school and everyone in it, so you couldn’t be always sure.

Vlad only nodded and went back to his drink while you lingered on Larissa’s face, then her hands, barely moving to pick at something on her plate.

The first day of break came as a welcomed cup of hot chocolate on a winter morning. It was chilly outside; some yellowed and orange leaves were stuck on your window with the early humidity. The corridor outside was so silent it felt almost eerie and gut-clenching. But you knew it could only mean one thing: freedom. Freedom from classes and teenager angst, freedom from having to get up and face the world. You could just get back to sleep if you so wished and boy that was quite something.

But you didn’t. In truth, the fact you knew most teachers would do exactly that, spurt you on to get out of bed and enjoy the entire campus at your disposal.

The kitchen was first. You made coffee with just this side of too much cream and stole waffles someone had made and left at the table. Then you went to the library and spent some hours in the lounge, readying cheesy romance and enjoying the sunlight coming through the big arched windows.

It was bliss, although short-lived. From the corner of your eye, you saw a small black cat silently but confidently making its way to you. The man shifted with a practised puff, almost like a magician popping into the stage from a cloud of smoke.

“Good morning, professor. I see you decided to venture around the school instead of having extra hours of beauty sleep. Not that you would need, of course,” he shifted excitedly beside you. You couldn’t mask the regretfulness on your face upon looking at him, and he realized it, mistaking your meaning and quickly adding, “Don’t worry! I’m not here to talk about our date. I said after lunch, and I’ll stand by my word. I just wanted to pop in and say good morning.”

“Oh... No problem Razvan, I’ll have my response by then, and good morning to you too. Have you been enjoying the time off so far?”

He seemed to brighten at your question, and although you were happy you could converse on something else than the blessed date, you were also fretful he would think too much of it.

In the end, he had something to do in Jericho and had to leave just a few minutes later, which you were grateful for. He was perfectly pleasant and even fun to be around but his lovesick eyes made your head pound in second-hand embarrassment.

At lunch, you and Vlad got together again at the gazebo in the woods. He slept through the morning, enjoying having the excuse to shift back onto his nightly routines, but not willing to fully shift or else he’d suffer to go back when classes started again.

“You will not believe what I’ve agreed to yesterday,” he told you in a voice that very much spelt migraine alert.

“Oh, Vladdy, break just started and you’ve already got yourself in trouble?” you teased, biting on your sandwich.

“I’ve got myself in trouble?” he asked, in an undignified tone “I’ll have you know that the person that got me ‘into trouble’ is your beloved Larissa Weems!” he pointed at your chest with an arched brow.

You looked around for anyone that might have heard him, no one was there.

“Hey, Vlad you know you can’t say that! What if someone tells her? I’d be out the door in no time, you know she’s especially strict with me!”

He just tsked and shook his head, “You are such an oblivious young girl, she couldn’t care less about you breaking rules. Besides, fancying your boss is not against any and Larissa’s just looking out for you because the parents pressure her into being careful after what happened.”

You knew Vlad had good intentions telling you this, but he wasn’t called every week, sometimes two times per week, to justify a comment or action some student or staff thought deserved attention.

Of course, she was always patient and never inquired too deeply into every situation but her cold demeanour told you everything you needed to know: she didn’t like you either, she just needed someone to show off when outreach between normies and outcasts was mentioned and you happened to be an overqualified and very capable chemist.

“But anyway, this is about me,” he continued, “and what I’ve agreed to is to pretend to be Larissa’s boyfriend at the Addams' Halloween Party.”

You were sure your jaw was on the floor. How had that happened? You knew Vlad and Larissa were friends for quite some time and very close for that matter, but pretending to date was just... another thing entirely.

“How are you going to do that?” you packed the rest of your sandwich, suddenly not hungry anymore, “Won’t they know you aren’t an item? I mean you know Morticia, and she knows you’re very good friends... To just start dating out of nowhere isn’t a bit suspicious?”

“She just really needs to give it to Morticia,” Vlad shrugs, a sorry half-smile in his mouth, “She asked me to her office yesterday night to drink. She was very upset by Morticia’s appearance and mean suggestion that Riss didn’t have a partner-“

“Of course she wouldn’t,” you interrupted, “She’s too busy being a badass successful woman at the head of a god-blessed academy!”

“Yes, yes, keep it in your pants,” he rolled his eyes fondly at you, “But she was breaking my dead heart and I suggested accompanying her. And first, she said it wouldn’t be the same, because we would go as friends and only confirm it to Morticia that Larissa was still alone. So I proposed we pretend to be a pair,” he seemed equal parts rather proud of himself and loathing his genius idea.

“I think it’s sweet of you. But I don’t think it’s going to work,” you said, not wanting to make him feel even worse, but enable to shake the feeling this was doomed to fail.

“Yes, I think you’re-“

“Professor!” a voice interrupted your friend’s comment and Razvan ran towards you, “I finally found you! I was looking for you to ask when we’re getting that coffee. I trust now you have my answer, correct?”

You were so full of this situation. Full of uncomfortable awkwardness, guilt and shame for playing with your colleague’s feelings, even if your intentions were benign. You had to tell him no, to say you didn’t like him that way. That he was too adorable and nice and you could never see him in that light.

“Oh, yes... about that, Raz...” you started, no idea of what you’d say next, “I’m sorry if I gave you the impression we could be more than colleagues and friends... but I’m-“

“In a relationship,” Vlad supplied.

“What?!” you and Razvan yelled in unison.

“C’mon, darling, it was bound to get out one time or another,” he kept going, the madman, “I know you’re worried about what people may think of her for it, but I swear Larissa is dying to go public.”

His maniac grin at your shell-shocked expression made you want to squeeze his neck until you heard it pop. It wouldn’t do much for him, but it would certainly be satisfying to you.

“Y-you and Principal Weems are together?!” the teacher was turning beet read and you had to give it to Vlad that it was a funny situation at least, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t know! And of course, I understand why you wouldn’t want to tell me you were taken, that’s completely not my business... Oh my, I’m so sorry!” and with that he rapidly walked away, just shy of outright running.

“You little shit!” you exclaimed as soon as the other vampire was out of earshot, “What in the absolute heavens were you thinking?”

He was shaking with laughter while you punched his shoulder, which only made him go on a bit more before finally calming enough to talk, “You’re right,” he said, as if it explained everything, “I and Larissa aren’t a believable couple. But you and she are a pair one could easily sell.”

“What are you talking about?” you ran your hand through your face in exasperation. He was out of his mind, and now you were screwed if Razvan said anything to anyone.

“You’re here only a year. Morticia doesn’t know you and Larissa is comfortable enough around you to pretend to be with you. It might be even easier than with me because kissing someone after twenty years of friendship is admittedly awkward,” he reasons.

“Kissing some-? What are you even on about? I can’t pretend to be in love with her, you know I can’t! I’ll just make a fool of myself and let something slip.”

“Nonsense, girl. Let’s go, we need to tell Larissa about the change of plans,” he got up and held out his hand to you “And if she says no, we already told someone, so she’ll have to go with it.”

Chapter Two

[hardyshoe]

Sonnenblumen.

Chapter One - Carnations, for fascination.

Hello! Thank you so much for stopping by! Welcome to my first long fic, it centres heavily on Aegon and his perception of himself, a character study of sorts through the lens of somebody uninfected by the wills of his family. I aim to portray him in a way that aligns with his canon self had he been through different circumstances and I really hope you love him as much as I do.

Updates will be every Friday and I would love to hear any and all thoughts you have and if you want to be tagged! All my love, SlaginSecret xxx

⚘⚘⚘

The first time he comes in, you almost laugh at him. It’s a Wednesday, the pub as busy as it always is and there is a quiz half underway. After living your entire life here, there is a comfort to the noise, the grime on some of the working men who come in from the mines, the orders of the same drinks for the same people night after night. Behind the bar, you can look into the crowd and assess, see that Joseph Blackburn’s wife wanted to go home an hour ago, her coat is firmly buttoned, and she refuses another half pint of ale every time her husband staggers back to the bar. Bill and Brian are on the darts again, half-finished pints of Guinness dripping condensation onto the old wooden table next to them in anaemic rings, Bill is losing, Brian is gloating, nothing is new.  

You like watching the young women from the village playing the quiz the most, they all drink variants of vodka tonics and discuss their answers with each other, some prim and precise in their opinions, others vibrating in their seats when they are sure of an answer. You know some of these women from school, your companions until you all left school at sixteen. You note the missing Mary Crillen, how Barbara and Joan still leave an almost chair sized gap between each other for her absence, it had caused quite a stir among the group when she had taken her place at St. Andrews to read chemistry at the start of the school year. By the time the October chill has people shivering into the pub with their winter coats on, it is recognised that she won’t be changing her mind. She was always the brightest of their lot anyway.  

“’Nother of the same please, Darlin’” you’re snapped from your snooping by Joseph Blackburn putting down his empty glass a little too hard, his wife staring daggers at his back as he learns over the counter at you.  

“Does your wife not want anything?” You lead. He is perhaps too drunk to take your point,but you’ll try anyway, Helen always lets you keep the change, and you feel duty bound to try and help her. 

He turns around and raises his glass at her in question, she firmly shakes her head, arms crossed over her chest. He sighs heavily and fumbles some coins from his pocket, enough for a half. The ale drips down the side of the glass and onto your fingers, you shake your hand under the bar while Joseph drinks his half in short order. He makes his way back to Helen muttering about how “it’s only sodding nine”, but takes her arm when he reaches her, nonetheless.  

That’s when he comes in, bounding through the swinging door left open by the couple, no coat, and a wide-eyed overwhelmed look at the din of the small pub. He does not fit in at all, the creases in his slacks do not hide their quality and the shocking white of his shoulder-length hair would have him standing out anywhere but Scandinavia. He is, perhaps, the most interesting looking person you have ever seen. 

He takes the most convoluted route through the tables to the bar, peeking over shoulders at the quiz and staring at the pictures on the walls. You watch him, bemused, as he comes to stop in front of you. He smiles brightly when he meets your gaze. His are lavender somehow, verging on blue at the edges.  You didn't know that was possible, maybe it isn't really, only for  him. 

“Hello!” he greets brightly. Glancing around the bar at the coloured bottles of the liquor and the high stems of the ale pumps. 

“Hello,” you return, waiting for him to come back to you and order something. You aren’t pushing though; there is something enjoyable about watching him, an unpredictability drawing you along. 

“What would you recommend?” he asks, dropping his chin into his hands, propping his elbows on the bar. 

You laugh incredulously. No one has ever asked you that before, people don’t often ask at all, their usual orders as known as their names. “You’re going to make me question your age if you ask things like that.”

He grins, the smile on his face seems ceaseless, even when he had been bowled over by his surroundings on his entrance there had been a visage of it lingering in the lines by his mouth. “Maybe I wanted to know so I could buy you one.” 

You shake your head, turning to wipe the counters behind you. He tumbles along the bar as you walk down, you watch him follow in the mirrors in front of you. You’re amused by him, his excitability and the energy he exudes. “Fine, fine, I will have a pint of this middle one, please.”

He is pointing at the golden top of the ale pump and you truly don’t know what to make of him. He is your age, or there about, you’ll take him for eighteen. His accent adds to your curiosity, a rich southern something or other, much more proper than you’re used to this far north. What he is doing here you have no idea. 

“Is this your first drink?” you ask, tinging your tone with a pretend patronising lilt. 

He smacks a hand to his chest and drops his mouth open in shock, feigning offence. “What do you take me for?”

“Well, forgive me for assuming, but when a gentleman chooses his drink by jabbing at random, I don’t exactly take him for an expert.” 

He hardly seems to listen, his eyes flicking between the pub floor and you every time someone shouts something about an answer to the ongoing quiz. “You think I’m a gentleman?”

You don’t respond to his fishing, and he gets distracted craning his neck to watch you pull his drink. He realises you’re not going to reply when you place the drink in front of him.“Besides,” he says, taking a sip, “I didn’t choose at random; this one had the nicest picture on the label.” 

 He swizzles the label around in your favour and you raise an eyebrow between him and the forest scene depicted. He shrugs, pretending not to be pleased with himself.

The pub has quietened down slightly, the quiz keeping people from coming up for more drinks. You’ll have a quiet half an hour at least. It’s the intrigue of him that makes you ask, you tell yourself, nothing to do with the way he looks at you. “Who are you?”

He is amused by the question; he must be aware of what a foreign figure he seems amongst the regulars here. It’s your father’s pub, opened by his father in the late eighteen hundreds, most of the people come here because their parents did. He offers vaguely, “Aegon.”

“That is not your name,” you tell him, sure he must be messing with you. 

“It is!” He insists, voice high with indignation, “My name is Aegon Targaryen.”

You laugh at him properly then, the absurdity of everything about him. “Okay Aegon Targaryen, if that’s your real name,” he repeats his previous plea, even higher, and you hold your hands up in surrender, “What are you doing here and why have I never seen you before.”  

“I snuck out,” he whispers this dramatically, looking either side of him before speaking. 

“From where?” you ask, this strange boy becoming ever more interesting by the minute. 

“School of course.”

 It all clicks into place then, his too nice clothes, clean nails and posh boy accent. “You mean the big one two miles away?”

He gives you a sheepish look, “I may have temporarily relieved a friend of his bicycle.”

“Nice of your friend to lend it to you,” you say, knowing this friend has no idea of the location of his bike. 

Aegon confirms this with his wince, you chuckle. “He won’t notice I shouldn’t think, no one is allowed at this time.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“Yes well, I got a bit bored, didn’t I? " He explains, like it makes all the sense in the world. For him, with what little you have deduced of his character so far, perhaps it does. You stare at one another for a moment before a tapping of glass alerts you away.

Bill and Brian are waiting at the other end of the counter, and you begin refilling their drinks, watching Aegon survey the room from the corner of your eye. You expect him to go and take a seat somewhere, but he doesn’t, secretly you hope he won’t at all.  

“You missed the start of the quiz,” you tell him, he jolts from staring at the players on the floor tables. “You’ll have to sneak out earlier next time.”

“Oh, that’s okay, I’m shit at this sort of thing anyway. I don’t know anything,” he shrugs. “But it's nice to know you want me back.”

“Maybe I just like how quickly you finish your drinks,” you say, taking his empty glass and refilling it. 

“I’m not really used to this sort of thing,” he says gesturing around the room while his other hand digs for coins in the pocket of his rumpled trousers.

“What are you used to then?”

He gives you a wry look then, evasive and self-deprecating at the same time. “Nothing as nice as you”

You’re not sure how to respond to that, nor quite what he means so you just look at him until someone else comes looking for a drink. It continues similarly for the rest of the night, you taking brief interludes to serve people while he waits for you to return, steadily making his way through an impressive number of drinks. You begin to think he is more used to the bottle than you had assumed when he first got in.  

He begins giving you answers to the questions as they are read out, all wrong but he is having so much fun that you let him. Enjoying the deep ruddiness of his cheeks and the way he exaggerates disappointment each and every time he is wrong. 

“Who even writes these stupid questions, how is anyone supposed to know who hosted the 1952 Olympics?” he slumps his head on the bar, and you discreetly push the ends of his hair away from the puddle of condensation at the base of his drink.

“It was Finland,” you tell him consolingly, “my dad writes most of the questions, that’s why there’s so many on sports.”

“Hmm,” he puts his chin directly on the bar and looks at you through tired eyes. “What about you?”

“I do the arts and culture ones,” you smile to yourself, you’re only ever allowed ten and they can’t be too obscure, but you enjoy writing them, nonetheless. They often centre on the books and magazines you read, foreign authors and artistic journals. Most of the older quizzers groan when your section comes up, but your father entertains you every fortnight anyway. 

“When do they come up?” he asks, dragging himself back to a standing position.

You check your copy of this week’s questions below the counter, he leans over the bar to try and see too. “Two more questions of world sports then I’m up.” 

“You read them out?” He is paying more attention now, coming back to himself a little more.  

You nod, “My dad can’t pronounce the names, so I get to do them.” You head over to the end of the bar, unlatching the gate to the floor and heading over to take the place of your father on the raised stage. 

Aegon strays from the bar, coming to sit on the empty table closest to you. He doesn’t look anywhere else as you steady yourself and begin. “Good evening, everyone, I hope you’re all having fun.”

A whoop erupts from beside you; you turn to see Aegon clapping. He pays no mind to the confused looks from everyone else and you can’t help but smile back at him.

You rattle through your prepared questions, the focus this time being on modern art and French philosophers. The quiz girls are conferring wildly, the old geezers looking resigned. Aegon keeps adding comments as you go, he’s thoroughly pissed but it's quite endearing hearing him to your left. 

“Good one!” he adds to a question about Camus, clapping and nodding like he has any idea about the answer. You’re sure he doesn’t. Nancy from the girls table is looking at him appraisingly, she does the maths questions and is sitting this round out. You hope to yourself that Aegon won’t notice, shake yourself out of that thought a moment later. 

“Who painted the 1907 work entitled ‘the demoiselles d’Avignon’? First displayed in Paris in 1916” it’s your penultimate question, just as Barbara and Joan are just bowing their heads together when Aegon leaps from his chair.

“I know this one!” he looks beyond pleased with himself, rocking back and forth on his feet with excitement. 

You walk over to him as everyone confers, some shooting him dirty looks for his outburst but he is oblivious to them. “You aren’t even playing, Aegon.”

He grins, still bouncing, “It's Picasso though, isn’t it?”

He looks so proud of himself. It's infectious, his joy. You nod at him and he spins in a clumsy, jubilant circle. “What’s my prize? What’s my prize? ” he demands.

“You have to be playing the game to win the prize.” He pouts and this and you feel yourself being won over by his charm once again. He is a magnet of a human; you keep falling to his gravity.

“What would you have as a reward for getting precisely one question out of fifty correct?” 

He ponders this, hands on his hips and eyes drifting into space, there is an electric drama in the way he moves. Such an exaggeration to every movement and expression, you find it funny in a way that scrapes at your bones. Has he ever just been neutral about something? 

“Your name, and perhaps a promise to see you again.” It’s so simple an ask, almost nothing at all, but the innocence in how he asks has you blushing.

“Get on with it!” Someone shouts and you dash back to the podium, it’s one of the miners, impatient to get to the final ten general knowledge questions. 

“Settle down George, just because you don’t know the answer doesn’t mean no one does.” He looks chastised, tucking his chin in while his mates laugh at him. 

You conclude your bit and Aegon follows you back to the bar, leaning across to you with his hair falling into his eyes. You want to brush it back for him, it feels wrong for his beautiful eyes to be covered. 

“I might like to collect my due I think,” he declares, tracing over the ghosts of drinks past stained into the wood below his hands. 

“I work here five times a week, I also live here. If you come back, you’re likely to see me,” you point out and he nods, filing that away in his busy mind. 

“And?” you almost act clueless to what else he wants.

You sigh and tell him your name; he repeats it back to himself and looks you up and down. “It suits you,” he decides finally. “I like it.”

“Thank you, Aegon,” he smiles beatifically at you. Your father rings the final drinks bell and an inpouring of customers pile the bar. You flit from end to end, fixing a dozen people with their final plying of the night before you make it back to your spot in front of him again. He nurses his last pint, drawing shapes in the condensation and watching them drip into nothing. 

“How come you knew the answer?” he perks when you speak again, there is something of an excitable dog about him. Something equally untamed. “You told me you didn’t know anything.”

“Well I might know a few things, just nothing of any use to me,” he is slightly grim when he says this, like he cannot do anything about it. “Anyway, my mother has one of the sketches for it in her sitting room. I used to think it was scary when I was little, the eyes are just so…”

He mimes funny, spiking shapes in front of his own, and shudders. The memory is still disturbing him somehow. You can hardly focus on him, though, not with the revelation he has just given. 

“Your mother owns a Picasso?” You can barely believe what you are asking.

“None of the good ones, just sketches and a few very brown things that don’t look like anything at all.” It's normal to him, you realise. The disparity between you two drops across the front of your mind like a veil. None of the boys from the boarding school come to the pub, they are not allowed off the grounds unaccompanied and the very few times one has come, they have been pulled out by their ear shortly after. It is a world unfamiliar to you and you struggle to fathom the calibre of person who attends the imposing institution. In the face of Aegon’s boredom for the shatteringly important art he apparently has in his home, you find yourself less surprised at his wonder at the pub. How quaint it must be, to have more money than God and to watch a group of bright young women scrabble their knowledge for a voucher to the bookshop down the road.

He catches you lost in thought and grimaces. “Sorry, I don’t want you to think I’m something I’m not for that. My mother has no care for the art itself, she views them more as investments than anything else.” You don’t speak, still to stunned. He begins to talk without direction, “it is a funny feeling to be cared for less than a frame on the wall, simply for being of less use.”

His eyebrows draw together when he speaks of her, you can sense a hurt he won’t speak more of. One you cannot ask about when you have only just met, even if you feel as if you have known him for years after just a few hours. 

“I cannot judge you for something that is out of your control,” he doesn’t seem to understand that, so you continue. “It’s not your fault, is what I’m saying.”

How odd you think, to be comforting him over his wealth. However, there is a darkness in the past of the vivacious boy that has consumed your evening, one that speaks of fear and shame and unbearable pressure. You can see it in the drop of his shoulders, how he looks as though he has the weight of a hundred worlds on them.

“Everything is always my fault,” he says, a sad little ghost of a smile crossing his face. “Always has been and always will be.”

He is vague and aimless in his tipsy state, the alcohol turning him melancholic and reducing him to a visage of a small boy before you. You are struck by the desire to hug him.  

You realise he is the last person left, your father glancing at you and him as he wipes down the tables across the room. You are loath to make him go, the idea of him biking the two miles back to his castle of a school filling you with dread. Reluctantly, you speak, taking his hand between yours and mustering a small uptick of your lips despite your concern. “I don’t believe that.”

He looks almost wounded when he looks up to you. “You’ll see, soon enough.”

 He turns his hand over between yours and squeezes you briefly but tightly, a fleeting feeling of his holding on lingering after he has withdrawn. The feel of it tingles across your skin, the wines of his palms and the gentle, accidental scratch of his short nail on the inside of the right pinky as he stumbled to his feet. You hold your hands to your chest, leaving enough of a gap for the memory of his.

He ambles towards the door; you watch him go. “Will you come back again?” You call after him, a shred of fear simmering in you at never seeing him again. 

He swings around to you and flashes you his teeth, “unfortunately for you, I don’t think I could stay away.” 

The October air swallows him, and you study the doors in his wake. You lose yourself to a reverie in your solitude, feeling a coldness lick at your shoulders in his absence. 

 “Who was that then?” your father asks, making you jump violently where you stand. He laughs at you, not unkindly. 

 “His name is Aegon.” you offer, not sure how to pull apart your myriad feelings on him just yet, let alone explain him to someone else.

 He snorts, “No it isn't.”

 “That's what I said!” you exclaim, picking up your rag and skirting it over the bar. 

 “He’s sweet on you,” your dad says, you don't look up from your work, feeling your cheeks glow. You hear him chuckle across the room at your staunch silence. 

  The two of you clean together in the familiar way, leaving the pub in a state of eerie quietness once the bolts on the doors have been smacked into place. Weariness hangs on your shoulders once the lights go out and you head towards the staircase next to the bar that leads up to the flat. 

 You fumble down the corridor, hands skirting the wallpaper and tracing the door frame of your parents room, your dad dad following and ducking in behind. “Goodnight, my girl.”

 “Night, Dad.” 

 In the solitude of your room, you think of him again. There is an impatient giddiness under your nails at the idea of him coming back, perhaps it is testament to the monotony of your life but you think it may be more telling of the brightness of his being. 

 Intrigue burns through your veins, a need to know more of him. Of the school he lives in, his society mother and his filthily rich family. You need to know where he fits in among it all, you cannot imagine him in a uniform, nor a pristine family portrait like the ones you see on the front pages of the magazines in the window of the newsagents. You can't quite imagine a place he would fit, wonder where he has that he can go without standing out. It must be tiresome being so constantly an outlier, there is something in that you can empathise with. 

 You shake your head and put him from your mind. You do not know him, you tell yourself sternly, what a daft idea to assume anything about him. Still, the look in his eyes when he had spoken of his mother dances in front of your mind before you are taken by sleep. 

[sailing-on-a-puddle]

The Pyrophone

@thalassastra and @janetm74 said on a post ages ago that they would like to see Virgil play a pyrophone. I can't make that happen because I can't draw, but here's a fic about it instead :-)

I posted this a couple of weeks ago as a WIP Wednesday and lots of you were very nice about it, so I hope you enjoy the ending. It's written in the TAG universe but there's a TOS reference in it.

Very minor warning that a pyrophone works on small controlled explosions in glass tubes. Otherwise no warnings at all.

_______________________

“Good evening Mr Tracy. I'm Sophie and I'm going to be your guide this evening.”

“Hi Sophie. Please call me Scott. And this is my brother Virgil.”

Scott gestured towards Virgil, who was admiring a large model train set for sale in the museum shop area near where they were standing. 

“Hi Sophie” Virgil replied, suddenly paying attention. “Perhaps you could show us our dad’s space section first?”

“Yes of course” Sophie nodded at Virgil, turned round and started walking towards the entrance to the museum galleries. Scott and Virgil followed her. She was a petite woman, about their age with a bright red bob.

Scott was so pleased the museum had created an exhibition for Dad’s collection from his space missions. They had so many artefacts from the missions stored on Tracy Island, and Scott was keen to display them to inspire a new generation of space enthusiasts. The museum’s offer had been excellent, to display the items alongside interactive exhibits in a large space. Now they’d invited Scott to check he was happy with it before it opened.

Scott had no particular idea why Virgil had wanted to come along too, especially since it would have usually been Alan and John with the particular space interest. Virgil usually left these things to Scott but he seemed interested and Scott wasn’t about to quiz his adult brother on his reasons.

Sophie showed them the exhibit and both brothers were really pleased. Scott said as much to Sophie, who replied that was what the museum did best, bringing objects to life and explaining their current and historic relevance whilst displaying the originals.

Scott noticed that although Sophie was polite, she clearly wasn't a space enthusiast or had a particular interest in speed. He wondered why she’d been allocated this job in particular, since clearly somebody with more energy for the topic had set up the exhibition. 

He thought about saying that to Virgil, but then he knew what Virgil would say, you think she’s unenthusiastic because she’s not flirting with you.

The in-his-head Virgil was probably right.

After about an hour Scott and Virgil both agreed that they'd seen everything they needed. “Thank you so much for giving up your time this evening Sophie. Virgil and I have seen all we need to see. The exhibition is fantastic and I hope Alan can join you for opening day next week.”

 “Oh” Sophie looked confused. “Have you changed your mind?”

Scott looked at her with a blank look, and Sophie's face changed to crestfallen. “I just … I was told Mr Tracy would like to play the pyrophone and I …” Sophie trailed off and looked at the floor as Virgil walked over.

“There's more than one Mr Tracy” Virgil said with a knowing smile.

Sophie paused for a moment, then processed the meaning and her face lit up. “Oh fantastic. I just need to turn the valve on the gas pipe and run the checks. I've put in colour salts for the notes, I hope you don't mind. I rather like the colours in the tubes” she said with a slight blush.

“Even better” Virgil replied. 

Scott was still confused, but one question stood out. ‘Gas pipe?’

“Yes” Sophie said, as if the need for this was obvious. “It’s a pyrophone, your brother can’t play it without the gas to make the notes. Come on through and you can read about how it works before we hear it. I’m so excited for this, I’m learning to play but I’m struggling with the bass clef.”

Scott found himself following Virgil and Sophie through a hallway to a different room. Sophie was now talking extremely quickly in an animated fashion about shaping glass and Virgil seemed fascinated. 

There were two musical instruments in the room which resembled church organs. Both had keyboards, but the pipes were made of glass. One was stored in a huge glass case and was obviously very old. The other looked fairly new and had a stool in front of the keyboard ready to play.

Scott scanned the information board between the two instruments. It said they were both pyrophones, which made musical sounds by having small explosions within the glass tubes. The shape of the tubes and exact position of the tiny explosion made the musical sound. 

Scott looked over at Virgil, who had produced some sheet music from somewhere and was grinning with excitement. Sophie had disappeared.

“Virgil!” Scott whispered.

“Yes?”

“Is this safe?”

“Very safe. I’ve checked all the designs and it works perfectly. Automatic cut off switches are on the instrument and the gas supply. There's fire suppressors in the room.”

“And you really want to play this thing?”

“Yes! It’s magnificent. Look at the precision involved in the engineering of the glass. The tubes will light up with colour. The sound is unique …”

“Of course it’s unique! Nobody is going to put a fire breathing musical instrument in their house are they?”

Virgil used the full force of his eyebrows to scowl at Scott and folded his arms. “We have a rocket under ours.”

No further replies were given because Sophie reappeared. The professional instinct to never argue in front of a rescuee kicked in, even though nobody needed rescuing. Scott hoped they all didn’t need rescuing soon from an instrument invented by the 1860’s incarnation of Langstrom Fischler. 

“Everything is ready” Sophie announced, beaming. 

“Thank you Sophie.” Virgil turned and sat at the instrument without looking at Scott again.  

Scott wondered how long it would take him to fly One here remotely. Then again, he could sit and catch up with his admin. He was so behind with so many things recently, so many people needed rescuing. He’d been so hopeful about the GDF’s rescue robots giving them a break but it hadn’t happened. 

Virgil was always telling him he should take a break anyway, so he sat in a comfy chair in the corner of the room, found his phone from his pocket and resolved to sort through the endless messages staff at Tracy Industries hadn’t been able to deal with.

He didn’t read them. Not that night anyway.

Virgil began to play the pyrophone and Scott admitted Virgil had been right. The Pyrophone did sound like nothing he’d heard before. It was a soft sound despite how it was being made, and when Scott looked up rainbows were being created in the tubes with the colour salts Sophie mentioned earlier. 

He put his phone down and watched and listened. Virgil was playing his own version of ‘Dangerous Game’ a song Kayo and Gordon particularly liked and played endlessly. Scott had no idea who the artist was, for which Gordon constantly reminded him that he was old and not cool. 

Virgil’s version was better. If that was not cool so be it.

Another thing Virgil had been right about was his need to have a rest. A rest didn’t mean doing paperwork. He couldn’t remember the last time he sat and listened to his brother play, or managed to watch a whole film with his family without feeling that he should be doing something else. 

A notification popped up on his phone, which he resolutely ignored. If anybody needed rescuing a holographic John would appear, so whatever it was could wait.

Virgil had moved onto a jazz tune that Scott didn’t know by name but he knew he’d heard Virgil play on the piano. 

Scott pulled up the low table near the chair, put his feet up on it, slouched down in his chair, shut his eyes and listened to the music with a warm feeling inside. Yes, Grandma would have killed him for doing that in public, but the museum was only open for him and his pyrophone-playing brother.

A scraping suddenly made him jump. Sophie had pulled up another chair, put her own feet on the table and was holding out a bucket of popcorn for him. He smiled and took a handful.

Not quite popcorn with an action movie, but wow he needed this. 

[rockingrobin69]

Insistently, Stickily Sweet

It started raining outside, a constant patter hitting the window, tap-tap-tapping away merrily. Inside, cocooned under a thick blanket, only a smattering of blond hair and the tip of a nose visible: “Is it finished,” a husk of a voice. He’d fallen asleep sometime during the second episode. Harry didn’t have the heart to wake him.

“Yes, sweetheart. Shall we call it a night?”

“No,” grumbling, fighting tooth and nail to free an arm, then another: emerging from the fuzzy material all mussed-up and bright, and lovely. “No, we said we’d watch them all.”

“Darling,” laughing, “you can’t even keep your eyes open.”

Draco stuck his nose up, the gesture slightly ruined for the pink of his cheeks. “I don’t need to see it to follow. Quiz me, on any part. I’ll tell you exactly what happened.”

“Oh no, I believe you,” Harry said quickly, half an excuse to wrap his arms around him, to press a mollifying kiss to his cheek. Pulling closer: “Come on, baby. This is stupid, and it’s getting late. Let’s go to bed.”

“No,” Draco still insisted, although he burrowed into him, leaned his head back. “Come on, press the button-thing. I have to know what, ah, Monica said to—Jerome.”

“Not even close,” Harry chuckled. “Did you catch any of it?”

“Of course. I caught it all. Come on, Harry, we’re not getting any younger, and I will not be the one to let our friends know we haven’t—argh!” when Harry grabbed him, “stop, stop, you goon, ah, the—fuck, Harry, with the tickling, have you no shame, a man comes to you vulnerable in half-sleep and you torture him, ah, ha, stop, stop!”

The words becoming shriekier and shriekier, delivered directly in his ear, and Draco was squirming in his arms, was too—an exhale, slightly shaky on how much, on how terribly much… buried his head in Draco’s neck, in the tacky warmth and the smell of the blanket and Draco’s shampoo.

“You’re impossible,” Harry said, muffled into his skin.

“I know,” with a smile so thick in his voice it was honey, it was gold. “So, what do you say. Another episode, no? Come on. Be a good boy for me, we both know you want to.”

“God, shut up,” just as it occurred to him: I’m going to spend the rest of my life with this man. The rest of his life. It felt bigger than a Wednesday-night, past eleven, Chinese takeout still sitting on dirty plates and re-runs of a silly 90’s comedy series on the telly. This, his Draco, with fluff from the blanket in his wild hair: it was so much bigger than anything he could have imagined.

“Fine,” helplessly, “one more. But just the one, Draco, I mean it. And then we go to bed.”

“Deal,” he smiled easily. Too easily: they’ll have the exact same argument when the episode’s over. Draco was a menace and Harry couldn’t wait.

Smugly, “Pansy will not be able to say she’s more well-versed in Muggle culture than I am.” Draco tucked himself under his arm, grumbled until he had the other one wrapped around him. Then the blanket, to cover them both, then his feet on the table, right in front of Harry’s face, obscuring half the screen. “All right?”

Breathing in deep: “Yeah, all right.” Pressed the remote control, and the sound of canned-laughter filled the living room.

Outside, the rain was still pouring, a continuous happy song Harry’s heart echoed. Inside, it was Wednesday, they both were so tired, and over-warmed, and massively, stickly, stupidly happy.

(Flufftober day 2. Find the soft AO3 collection here).

[streamdotpng]

Enid’s been having a pretty shitty day. She overslept, which lead to her getting chewed out in her first class…again. She bombed a pop quiz in a different class, which in her defense was unfair considering it was about next week’s chapter. Her gothic solace personified was unfortunately absent, something to do with her brother, so Enid was without her primary source of comfort as she trudged her way through their broken education system.

To top it all off, Enid now finds herself in a sewer system she doesn’t wish to be in, wearing broken web shooters that she just fixed, and fighting her dad in a battle she wants to be over. Enid is tired.

“Dad,” Enid says with such resigned energy, one would think she’s about to give up, “please, I need you to stop.”

She dodges yet another attack from her dad’s scaly tail, but gets clipped by his claws, leading to the spider knocking her head against the sewer wall. She rubs her head, only to look at her hand to find new blood. Through her damaged mask, her left eye is exposed, and compared to the more animated remaining “eye” of her mask, her real eye is a melancholy blue, tired, and in need of sleep.

“You told me you had this figured out. You promised me it wouldn’t happen again. How many more times are we going to have to do this?” The Lizard simply growls in response, the outburst echoing into oblivion. “Please Dad, I’m-“

Enid finds herself in her dad’s clutches, claws slowly digging into her sides. The spider pries open his fingers, but just as she jumps out of his reach, he whips his tail around and slams her against the wall with a booming thud.

Enid’s head rings as she struggles to get her bearing. She looks up to see the giant reptile barreling towards her. “Alright Dad, I’ve had ENOUGH!” At the last second, the spider dodges the attack, landing one right hook to the Lizard’s head, without holding back her strength like usual. The punch instantly knocks the reptile to the ground; he’s down for the count.

As her father slowly but surely begins to shed his scales and morph back to his normal self, Enid stands over him, with tears fighting to fall from her eyes. “We’re going home.” Once he’s small enough, Enid throws her dad over her shoulder and begins her trek out of the sewers.

As she shuffles on, the spider takes out her phone, chooses a contact, before putting it to her ear. After a few rings, the person on the other end picks up.

“Yes?”

“Wednesday? Are you busy?” The spider tries once again to keep the tears at bay, at least for a little longer. “I’ve had a bad day.”

Enid tries to breath, heavy and controlled even with the ache pressing against her side. "and like I totally get if your busy but-"

"I can talk," Wednesday cuts in and Enid allows herself a break because if she goes out there, she knows that she'll keep running and running and she doesn't know how much more she can handle. So she lays her dad down with shaky hands and slides next to him.

Enid watches him, eyes the way his chest still moves and it hurts to see him this way, covered in dried scabs and blood but he's alive.

That's what matters in the end, right?

"thank you," she whispers and presses her face deeper into the phone because she really wants a hug right now. "can you talk about something? Just about your day?"

When no reply comes, Enid accepts it. Wednesday was never the type to ramble on her day especially to a phone.

But then her voice trails through, soft and Wednesday. It's all Enid needed to allow herself to rest.

[ravenkings]

The news business is in upheaval. A presidential election is barreling down the pike. Facing financial challenges and political division, several of America’s largest news organizations have turned over the reins to editors who prize relentless reporting on a budget. And they all happen to be British. Will Lewis, a veteran of London’s Daily Telegraph and News UK, is now the chief executive of The Washington Post, where reporters have raised questions about his Fleet Street ethics. He recently ousted the paper’s American editor and replaced her with a former colleague from The Telegraph, dumbfounding American reporters who had never heard of him. Emma Tucker (formerly of The Sunday Times) took over The Wall Street Journal last year, shortly after Mark Thompson (formerly of the BBC) became chairman of CNN, where he has ordered an American remake of the long-running BBC comedy quiz show “Have I Got News for You.”

They joined a slew of Brits already ensconced in the American media establishment. Michael Bloomberg, a noted Anglophile, hired John Micklethwait (former editor of the London-based Economist) in 2015 to run Bloomberg News. Rupert Murdoch tapped Keith Poole (The Sun and The Daily Mail) to edit The New York Post in 2021, the same year that The Associated Press named an Englishwoman, Daisy Veerasingham, as its chief executive. “We are the ultimate trophies for American billionaires,” joked Joanna Coles, the English-born editor who in April became head of The Daily Beast, the online news outlet itself named after a newspaper in an Evelyn Waugh novel. Ms. Coles has not hesitated to recruit more of her compatriots, installing a Scot as editor in chief and a Guardian reporter as Washington bureau chief. “We are loading up on Brits,” she said in an interview. [...] But while British journalists are used to intense competition, their journalistic rule book is not always in line with American standards. At The Washington Post, the home of Woodward and Bernstein, some of Mr. Lewis’s behavior has unsettled the newsroom. The New York Times reported on Wednesday that Mr. Lewis had urged The Post’s former editor, Sally Buzbee, to not cover a court decision concerning his involvement in Rupert Murdoch’s phone-hacking scandal in Britain. (A spokeswoman for Mr. Lewis has said that account of the conversation was inaccurate.) An NPR reporter then disclosed that Mr. Lewis had offered an exclusive interview if the reporter agreed to drop an article about the scandal. (The spokeswoman said that Mr. Lewis had spoken with NPR before joining The Post, and that after he joined The Post interview requests were “through the normal corporate communication channels.”) This kind of behavior may be acceptable at some London papers, where proprietors are less hesitant to fiddle with coverage. In American newsrooms, it’s verboten — as is the practice of paying for information. At The Telegraph, Mr. Lewis spent 110,000 pounds for documents that fueled a damaging exposé of parliamentary corruption. (His rivals at The Sun and The Times of London balked at a similar deal.) The Telegraph reporter who secured the documents, Robert Winnett, is set to become The Post’s editor later this year. As for the view across the pond? “We are all greeting this with a mix of amusement and indignation,” said one Fleet Street editor, who requested anonymity to avoid the ire of any overly sensitive superiors. (In keeping with the spirit of British tabloids, the request was granted.) “Amusement that these fancy high priests of American journalism are being monstered by good old-fashioned, tough-guy British editors; indignation that they find it so extraordinary that they might have something to learn from across the pond,” the editor said. “Yes, our standards are a bit lower, but we’re extremely competitive and intense and no-nonsense, and that’s probably helpful given how the industry is going.”

the fact that a lot of american billionaires seem to be spearheading this makes me wonder how much of it has to do with these journalists coming from a country where they have to work with notoriously wack libel laws and an extremely rigid class structure (and a monarchy which they kiss the ass of tbh) thus presumably making them more willing to kowtow to authority.............🤔🧐

[frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe]

wiggly Wiggog Y'wrath wednesday! 🧠🪱

i was tagged by @just-my-latest-hyperfixation again this week and i think it's time to let the worms wiggle about this previous post i made about npmd

it's still only vibes but i'm thinking about Mayor's son Steve doing his damndest to get outcast Eddie to help him on a pop quiz in history, the only subject Eddie's always been good at even through his repeated years.

He wears Eddie down enough for him to help, but are immediately caught by the teacher and given detention.

On their way to the office, Eddie can hear Jason Carver and the rest of the jocks heading their way and would normally stand his ground, when two of his underclassmen friends round the corner (two of the CC guys? two of The Party™? idk) and Eddie shuffles them back out of the corridor before Jason can find them. He can handle Jason and his goons on his own, at least put on an off-putting enough show to get them to leave him alone, but if the other two are there, they're more vulnerable.

Steve, of course, isn't as attuned to listening for Carver wherever he goes and calls after Eddie like "Dude, who are you running from?"

I'm imagining Chrissy as Grace in this au but only kinda. Like, she knows Jason is into her and is constantly being a creep and hates that she's kinda into it, so when she hears Steve and Eddie talking about Jason while passing the boys' bathroom that day, she barges in with a plan of her own.

Their plan goes horribly wrong, Jason is killed at the old Creel House, comes back as a ghost and starts after the losers, they call upon The Lords in Black, entities that bear striking resemblance to the group of kids sometimes still babysits (who would each kid be??? My first thought was Wiggly = Mike for some reason lmao) who agree to get rid of Jason if one of them gives up the thing they treasure most.

Steve has to kill Eddie.. or Eddie has to kill Steve. neither one having the time to let the fact they're both super into the other sink in before Jason appears again.

i think it'd be funny if Chrissy/Grace still gets it on with Jason to fulfil the Lords' demands, maybe even though she's not as much of a zealot about her faith as Grace is, she still grew up religious and has had the importance of keeping her chastity drilled into her all her life, she starts to worship under them instead idk idk etc

anyhoo, all still basic worms, but i haven't been worming as much lately!

tagging: @spectrum-spectre, @kas-eddie-munson, and @whimsicalwadewinstonwilson!

[sparkles-rule-4eva]

(no I'm not waiting for the real morning-)

HAPPY WHOLESOME SONIC AND TAILS WEDNESDAY!!!!!

@skimmingmilk got me curious about AoStH so I started watching it, and yes Sonic & Tails in it are ADORABLE 🥹

I also loved the little "Sonic Sez/Says" at the end of every episode, and seeing Sonic correct Tails' faulty 4-year-old spelling gave me an idea so I drew it and then wrote a fic to go with it.

Enjoy!!

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

"Tails, that's not how you spell 'telephone.' It's 'p-h-o-n-e,' not 'f-o-n-e.'"

5-year-old Tails stared at his older brother in bewilderment as Sonic took the pencil from him and wrote out the proper spelling beside Tails' attempt. "What? That doesn't make sense."

"Nothing in English makes sense," Sonic replied without missing a beat, his eyes still fixed on the paper as he set the pencil down. "But it somehow works. I figure it's better not to question it."

Tails frowned at the words on the paper. Sonic's handwriting wasn't neat, but it was more legible than Tails' big, spaced-out letters.

"Sonic?"

"Yep?"

"Did you ever go to school?"

Sonic shifted his gaze to meet his little brother's. "For a little bit, yeah," he answered, turning to wander back over to the tree stump he'd been sitting on before Tails had asked him to read the list of words he'd written out.

"Is that where you learned to read and write?"

"That was the start." Sonic flashed him a little smirk. "I figured the rest out myself."

Tails blinked. "How?"

"I dunno how to explain it," his brother protested, waving his arms a little. "I said words. I saw words. I put two and two together. And now I can do it."

The fox glanced back at the paper, comparing his writing to Sonic's. "So how come 'p' sounds one way, and 'h' sounds another way, but when you put them together they sound like 'f'? Why don't people just use the letter that already does that sound?"

Sonic groaned and leaned backwards over the tree stump, sounding frustrated. "I dunno what to tell ya, kid. I didn't invent these stupid spelling rules."

Tails sighed. With all the amazing things he'd seen Sonic do, between destroying robots and beating a middle-aged mad genius over and over again, he kept having to remind himself that his older brother didn't know everything. Sonic was . . . 13. That seemed so much older to him, but . . . he supposed that wasn't that old, compared to how long Mobians normally lived.

Still lying backwards over the tree stump, Sonic stretched his arm up and held out his hand against the sky, like he was trying to touch the clouds. "'Kay, kiddo, pop quiz. Let's see how stupid English really is. What's the plural of goose?"

"That's easy. Geese."

Sonic turned his head away a little, but failed to hide a mischievous smile. "Good. What's the plural of moose?"

Tails hesitated. He hadn't actually thought of that before, and this felt like a trap.

". . . Meese?"

Sonic snickered. "Nope. It's just 'moose.'"

There was a moment of silence, then an exclaimed "What?!" from Tails. Sonic immediately rolled over and started laughing.

"I told you English is stupid!"

The little fox started grumbling quietly to himself, something about wishing he'd been alive when English had been invented, then buried his face into one of his tails and let out a muffled scream of frustration.

"Hey, hey, take a chill pill, lil bro." Sonic sat up and faced him, still grinning. "It's not a big deal. You'll figure this out."

"I can see it all perfect in my head," Tails complained, lifting his head a little. "Why can't I just make what's in my head be on paper and be real?"

Sonic gave him finger guns. "That'd be an awesome invention. Do it."

Tails shot him a look, but his brother continued to smile back unwaveringly.

He took a deep breath, risking another critical glance at the words on the paper. "You know what, you're right. I'll figure it out. Can I just take a break?"

"Sounds good to me!" Sonic flipped to his feet (because why would he get up the normal way?) and strolled over to him. "I coulda sworn I saw a chili dog stand in the last town we ran through. Let's go grab a few."

"I'm sure I would've noticed that. You were probably hallucinating." Tails jumped up and hovered in the air, ready for Sonic to take off at his trademark speed. "Do we even have enough rings for that?"

"Of course we do." Sonic blasted off running back down the highway, and Tails followed close behind.

"I thought you spent almost half of them on a picture frame at the other place."

"Please, that was just a hundred."

"Why do we even need a frame? It's not like we have a camera."

"Maybe I'll buy one of those next. Sentiments, Tails, sentiments."

"Since when were you a sentimental guy?"

"Shut up, Tails."

BONUS: the drawing I made of this (before writing it and remembering they were homeless and outside 🤣)

Also, both this and last week's fic are now posted on Wattpad! I'll leave the link to it here :) more fics and art to come!