#this is the prod that made me go 'well okay i can translate cats'. an inspiration. a little out of spite. i mean. рам там таггер......

[cillyscribbles]

ahh moscovite cats <3 it felt to me like they were both just a little more serious than usual. or maybe munkustrap was just on a perpetual 2 hours of sleep and tugger (in the name of self preservation) adjusted his behaviour accordingly.

[prehistoricalcats]

I'm really interested in your Cats universe! It seems like you have them living like humans but humans also exist? Can you describe your universe a bit more, if you'd like to? :)

I'd love to!

I must warn you though, this is a very in-depth universe, and even focusing on specific points and trying to simplify things as much as I could, I still managed to make to this about a mile long. Damn I wish Tumblr mobile let me do a read more cut

First of all, yes the Cats are anthropomorphic, and yes humans also exist in this universe. Anthro Dogs, Rats, and Mice all definitely also exist, and I'm considering a few other anthro races like Hyenas and maybe like Rabbits and some others, but haven't put too much thought to that yet.

Just for reference, if it's capitalized (Dog, Cat, etc) it's the anthro race, if it's lower case (dog, cat, etc) it's the fourlegger

Some Basic Terminology:

Non-human beings/non-human people - collective term for all anthro races

NHP - non-human person(s)

Furfolk - common English slang for non-human beings, not politically correct but still pretty widely used. There is also a version of this word for each specific race, Catfolk, Ratfolk, etc. (Note: Mice and Rats often are collectively refered to as Rodents or Rodentfolk)

Fourlegger - regular dogs, cats, etc. Used mostly by NHPs to differentiate between them and NHPs

Bald-bodies - humans. Used by NHPs, considered derogatory by most (nearly everyone uses it anyway)

Kit - kid, child, teenager (for Cats). Short for kitten

Tom - you know this one, an adult or teenage male Cat

Mot - an adult or teenage female Cat, an alternative word for "queen"

License Name - once called the "family name" back when it was still quite common for Cats to work for a human family in a residential household. Essentially this is the name that humans assign to Cats because Particular Names are often "too hard" for humans to remember/pronounce. It's their "official" name that appears on most legal documents, including their "license" which is essentially a registration card and number that all Cats are required to have. Most Cats have a license, and a license name, by age three, some get theirs as infants. Sometimes the parents have a say in what the license name will be, sometimes not. Sometimes a Cat will prefer their license name, some prefer their Particular Name, others don't care and will respond to either.

The Junkyard - a slum, mostly populated by Cats, on the outskirts of the metropolitan area of an unnamed imaginary British city, comprised partly of makeshift shelters scattered throughout an actual dump/landfill/junkyard, and partly of several large shantytowns built on the unused land surrounding the dump

Some biology stuff:

Okay brief anatomy lesson before we begin

(For real though, please at least glance over that link before continuing, it is fairly brief and it makes what I'm about to try to explain a lot less complicated)

I've had to do some fantasy science to work out how Cats can have retractable claws without becoming less dextrous than humans (because I need them to be able to play instruments made for human hands). What I've essentially gone with so far is that Cats have extra bones in their hands/feet, which would make them unlike any other known tetrapod either living or in the fossil record, so the science side of me rebels at this, but the art side of me says it's a story about bipedal talking felines with mystical powers it's already science fiction they could have duckbills if I wanted them to (I don't), and so I think this is a decent compromise. I can go into further detail about the way the claws work later on if you like, but this post is already going to be pretty long so for now I'll just say that you can describe the claw as an extra joint attached to the end of the distal phalange.

Cats are super bendy, for the same reason that (fourlegger) cats are bendy. They have extra bones/joints in their spines. Cats have 7 cervical, 13 thoracic, 7 lumbar, 5 sacral, and 19-23 caudal. They have more sacral bones than fourleggers because they're bipedal.

Cats are habitual bipeds, like humans. But unlike humans, they are perfectly comfortable wandering around on their hands and knees. Though the bipedal stance is more comfortable and usually perfered by adults especially, most non-elderly Cats are still perfectly fine crawling on the ground on their hands and knees. You're generally more likely to see kits and young adults doing this, but older adults do it to. If they want to move fast or run, they use a bipedal stance. Beyond that it's just whatever feels right for the situation.

Some culture stuff

Cats and other NHPs (except Rats) don't need clothing to cover their privates. I'm not going to go into the anatomy of how that works. For now let's just imagine it's the fur that's hiding it. They do wear clothes, especially in winter, but it's not so much for modesty as it is for functionality and fashion. Basically clothes for Cats are for three purposes: to protect from the elements (cold, rain, sun, etc), to shut the outraged humans up, and to look good. It's pretty common in the summer to see Cats wearing nothing but some arm/leg warmers or other fashion accessory, and a belt/rope around their waist to store things on in the absence of pockets,(even if they also have a bag)

If you've ever owned or seen or been around a male rat you probably know why I say "except Rats" and I'm not going to get into it here, just know Rat men always where pants/trousers

Cats exist globally and have a variety of different cultures, often greatly influenced by the human culture of that region, but one of the most universal elements of Cat culture is the idea that "It's considerably dishonorable for a Cat to use anything but their own claws (and teeth in many cultures) in combat against another unarmed Cat." Translation: Cats generally frown on using weapons, though many recognize the need to know how to use them, because humans use weapons, and a claws against a machete or a cattle prod or a gun isn't fair. By the same line many modern Cats consider it okay to use weapons against a (dishonorable) Cat that pulled a weapon on you first, though many elders still frown upon this.

The relationship between Cats (and other NHPs) and humans isn't very good, and the relationship between different types of NHPs isn't much better. There's a social hierarchy that puts humans (especially white straight cis male humans) at the top. The hierarchy goes humans > Dogs > Cats > Rodents

About the Jellicles

The Jellicles are the name of a specific tribe that once was primarily a religious tribe. Back a really fuck long time ago when Deuteronomy was still a kitten, the Jellicles lived off the land and practiced their religion (still working out the details of that sorry but I do have a few things)

The Jellicle Choice is a real thing, though I haven't decided if it started with Deuteronomy or if he was the next in a line sorta kinda but not exactly like the Avatar. The Jellicle Ball is held every year and people used to come from all over hoping to be picked. The humans didn't like this mass gathering, and the space they had in their own territory couldn't quite handle it anyway, so the Jellicles had to start keeping the Ball's location a secret until the day of, to keep the attendance numbers down somewhat. A Choice isn't made every year, though there's always a chance one will be made, and they've had a dry spell for the past 20 or 30 or so years before Grizabella. They don't have to keep the locale a secret anymore, most people don't bother coming and some even think the Jellicle Choice is just a myth. Few people remember when the Jellicles were primarily religious

Deut was trained as a shaman from early childhood, and groomed to be the next leader since he was ten, but he's always been a performer at heart. At some point after taking over as lead, he met (a very very young) Gus and invited him into the tribe. With Gus's help he organized plays and small musical performances, slowly and gradually getting other members in on it as well, until putting on plays every now and then was just a part of Jellicle life. And it was a good thing too, because by this point the tribe had been forced to give up their land and had to move to an industrial slum in the nearest city. No longer able to live off the land, they turned to performance to make a living. This was all well before Skimble/Jenny/Jelly/Spara (Jr)/Griz were born. These days the Jellicles are known primarily as a tribe of performers. Every current member that was born into the tribe except Deut was brought up as a performer

The play we see is an actual play being put on by the Jellicles as a dramatization of the events of That One Particular Jellice Ball™ which happened three years prior to the current timeline.

I think that covers the basic rundown. You can also see this jumbled mess for my first attempt at explaining all this crap lol.

Oh yeah and before I forget, I haven't decided yet if "Peke" and especially "Pollicle" refer to a certain culture of Dog, a certain body type, or two specific gangs ("packs") that just happen to be mostly comprised of a certain culture and/or body type of Dog. But they do exist in this universe. At the very least they are fictional gangs made up for the Rumpus Cat comics (yeah he's a comic book hero in this), or else real gangs or cultures/types of Dog written into Munk's Rumpus Cat fanwork play.

There's also a very important event that I really need to go over at some point but it's a really heavy topic and this isn't the best time like politically to post it right now, or even for me emotionally to write it out. But I do need to get this out at some point...

[mor-beck-more-problems]

Without You || Morgan & Deirdre

Deirdre swallowed, lifting her gaze to meet Morgan’s. There was no excuse, and so, she said it plainly: “I killed someone. A young girl. Out of boredom, I suspect. But I killed her.”

“Deirdre--” Morgan reached for her as she stood, trying to pull her back, but Deirdre was stolid and would not move from her path. Morgan pushed herself up from the couch, ready to insist, to soothe her distress away and then-- I killed someone. A young girl. I killed her. Morgan froze. “I don’t understand,” she said, brow knotted with confusion. “That’s...not something you do. It’s just…not.” 

@deathduty

There had to be something said for the encompassing nature of remorse. Or else, Deirdre wouldn’t have felt so weighted by it. And how strange, how foreign, the feeling was, and how worse it was made knowing just six months earlier she wouldn’t have felt it. But nonetheless, she moved slugged by it to her door, unlocking and turning it open as she had down countless times before. This house used to be empty, she remembered. She dreaded its silence. She dreaded opening her door to find it waiting at the other end for her, cruel, and patient. She would move straight to her bed, with no sense in lingering inside the ghost of payment for her duty. Perhaps her mother had been right, in that regard, that they were creatures unmade for love simply because they didn’t deserve it.

The home no longer greeted her with silence. She opened her door to find the mewling of cats, the promise of the woman she loved further inside or on her way. Love she found herself unmade for was suddenly overflowing. And for a moment, in this new un-silence, she had convinced herself she could be worthy of it. What a fool she was.

Deirdre held her flowers closer to her chest, the perfect bird skull laid above the bouquet. She stepped over the mewling Moira, desperate for her greeting and lingered awkwardly at the door, wondering if she could call for Morgan or if that was a privilege she needed to learn how to give up now before it would be rightfully taken from her. But there was so much to apologize for, and so little time. There were benefits to being alone, these deliberations were never her concern before. But Moira would not let her move, where she stepped, the kitten went, screaming. “M-morgan?” She called out, her hand forced by the kitten, “Moira isn’t letting me walk.”

Morgan read Deirdre’s letter as soon as she noticed it coming out of the bathroom. She pressed it to her chest, her skin crawling with nerves and relief, and read it again. Again as she nibbled on brains from the fridge, again as she paced the rooms of the house. As soon as she heard the door open she was on her feet and running. “Deirdre!” She could tell by the sound of her voice it was the real her, no mushrooms or magic frying her brain with weird stupid names or schemes to burn off their clothes or fill things with jello. “Deirdre, oh thank the stars--” She didn’t move Moira out of the way so much as she launched herself over her, landing with her arms draped around Deirdre’s neck, legs slipping clumsily for purchase around her hips. She looked heavy and worn out, as if all the nonsense of the past few days had hit her all at once. Maybe Morgan should’ve been more mindful of her fatigue, of her look, more sorrowful than usual, but her only thought was that her love was back. “It’s really you,” she said. “I mean, I knew, I read your letter, but now you’re here and it’s really you and--” Her rush of excitement was cut short by another needy wail by Moira. “I guess I’m not the only one who missed the real you around here.” She pulled back enough to give Deirdre a sheepish smile, but she was too relieved, too overcome to really mind looking foolish.

Deirdre’s lament on whether she deserved this love at all right now was lost in the relief of simply being near Morgan. For a moment, she relaxed, laughing as Morgan’s hug stumbled her backwards until her back thumped harmlessly against a wall. “You’re going to crush my apology gift,” she said softly, pulling the bouquet and bird skull away to preserve its life for a moment longer. And as Morgan pulled away, spurred by Moira’s shouts, Deirdre met her lips in a rough kiss to reel her back in. “Moira can wait.” The kitten mewled again, communicating that she couldn’t. Deirdre carefully leaned down, to pet her, quickly snapping back up to loop her free arm around Morgan’s waist and hold her close. “I’m sorry, usually the rings are not so---” well, normally no one cared if they got the real her or not. “---they’re tempting, let’s just say that.” She grimaced as guilt crept back through her. One last good moment, she begged selfishly, just one. And then she could suffer, but just once she would like to pretend she could keep something she loved. “I missed you,” she mumbled, “I didn’t give you too hard of a time, did I?”

Morgan sniffled, blinking back a tear as she saw the flowers and the bird skull, carefully preserved and complete. It was just the kind of thing Deirdre would get her, romantic and thoughtful, holding a little bit of each of them. “You missed me?” She said, laughing lightly. She pulled Deirdre into another kiss, heedless and hard. “I’m not the one who went away with Mushroom Sally.” She kissed her again and settled into the crook of her neck, squeezing their bodies tight together. “Oh, Earth, Deirdre, I missed you too. It wasn’t too bad, it wasn’t. You were pretty cute some of the time, although, well, trying to keep you from filling the pool with Jello was kind of hard, but it wasn’t awful it just...you just weren’t you.” Moira cried again, louder, rising on her haunches to paw at them both. “Okay, we get it!” she groaned, nudging her away with her foot.

Deirdre set aside the flowers on the small table beside them, picking the skull out from the center of the bouquet to lay delicately on top of the white plastic. She needed both hands to hold Morgan better, tighter, of that she was sure. “I missed you,” she repeated into the next kiss, “it’s like a fog over my mind and I couldn’t see you, not properly. I didn’t like it.” She flinched again at the mention of it, bordering on some excuse she didn’t want for a crime she had yet to admit to. In time, she assured her unsteady mind, she would get to it in time. “I missed you,” she said again, pulling Morgan back enough just so she could kiss her again, urgent and firm. But Moira wanted attention, and Deirdre could see no other options but relenting. “Come on,” she broke away to bend down and pick up the kitten, cradling her. “Why don’t we move away from the door and get comfortable somewhere better, hm?” She directed the question to Morgan and the cat, reaching for her girlfriend’s hand as they moved. “Now, jello in the pool isn’t such a bad idea. I must have really been on to something. I vote that we revisit that,” she grinned, trying to mask the sharp pain that grew inside of her with each sentence she didn’t confess. “But I didn’t...hurt you or anything, did I? I can’t remember everything, exactly. But I…” she trailed off. Fairy rings could make even the gentlest fae malicious, it was the simple nature of the magic. She liked to think she was better than that, but there was a dead girl that said otherwise. “Some fae lose themselves more than others. It’s...hard to tell. But you were okay?”

“You didn’t like it?” Morgan prodded curiously. She brought up a hand to brush back Deirdre’s hair and trace the soft lines of her face, already growing pinker and more freckled with the brightness of June. It was stupid to suppose that she felt any different, but this Deirdre, at least, knew all the little messages of care her touches translated into, when her tenderness was meant to be adoring, when her firm presses and hard grips were full of longing or urgency. And this Deirdre had the stillness and the presence of mind to hold her and touch her in turn the way she needed in order to feel. She held her gaze in that way they now had, silently speaking of the loneliness of their strange separation and how desperately glad she was to have her back. “That can wait until we’re--yeah. And we are not revisiting Jello. I bought so many packets, just to indulge you, and you hated the way they came out in the pan. I told you it wasn’t meant to be made in big batches. Besides, skinny dipping is so much better in good old fashioned swimming pool water.” She pressed in close to Deirdre as they walked into the great room and started the process of making themselves comfortable on the couch. Morgan took the kitten into her arms, scratching her around the collar the way she liked as she moved the throw pillows around. Moira, satisfied, wriggled and jumped back to the floor to supervise the proceedings, leaving Morgan free to crawl into Deirdre’s arms, legs draped over her lap. “You didn’t hurt me,” she murmured with a sigh, kissing down her face. “Not that you could, with your promise, I don’t think, but you didn’t even try.” She squeezed their bodies as tightly together as she could get them, almost getting heady with the pressure around her body, her Deirdre sober and here and loving her the way she wanted to be and not a hair different. “Actually, it was pretty easy to keep you from going back to the mushrooms for more,” she said, pulling away so she could look at her, the fantastically sober calm in her expression, the relief, even the weariness. Morgan wanted to take all of it in at once if only because it was real. “All I had to do was keep telling you I didn’t like it. And you listened. Even high out of your mind you cared about me.”

Having Morgan back in her arms, where she could feel her consciously and comprehend her words, was the greatest relief to a nightmarish week. Deirdre wanted nothing else, and the moments she spent with Morgan, high on the fairy ring, were a haze in her mind. She could remember her only in a blur, the words that she shared and the actions that she took. And of course she didn’t like it, when she treasured these moments so dearly, and wanted to hold as many memories of Morgan as she could, hold as much knowledge of her. To be denied that was worse than she ever could have imagined. “I’ll put ‘skinny dipping’ on the spreadsheet then,” she smiled softly, then couldn’t help the wince that came after. The spreadsheet was for the future, a future that wasn’t certain, and certainly wasn’t deserved. “I didn’t like it,” she repeated in a groan instead. Could she keep this moment for a while longer? She leaned into Morgan’s touches, pulling her closer, urging with her own that she wanted more--as many as Morgan wanted to give, as many as she could have. “Good,” she rasped, catching Morgan’s own relief in her eyes, and meeting her lips in another solid kiss, and then another, pressed to her jaw as she worked down to the collar of her shirt, where no more bare skin could be met. “Because I do. Care about you. And I’m glad I could remember that while...you know. I told you it’s...hard to know what’ll happen. And it’s not always what’s true to one’s character but I suppose...it’s still me. It’s still my actions.” She sighed, reluctantly shifting their bodies to pull them just far enough apart than she could ask this question before her resolve gave way to how much she desired to be close to Morgan. “I have something I need to tell you. It’s not--” she swallowed thickly, “it’s not good. Do you want---Do you want to hear that now, or should we keep..” she pressed her palm firmly against Morgan’s thigh, “doing this? Do you want to stay here for now or….?” It felt kinder, somehow, to offer the option.

Morgan followed Deirdre’s cues, working her hands through her hair, running them down to grasp at her back and sides by the handful. She answered each kiss with one of her own, growing hungrier as it settled in that they were really together again and all the awfulness, however minor, was over. She whined in the back of her throat as Deirdre pushed them apart. All she wanted was to be close again, to be known and recognized again in a way only the real Deirdre could give her. But--stars, Deirdre had been trying to tell her about ‘something bad’ since Morgan had first brought her home from the woods. It was bad enough in Deirdre’s mind for it to press through her reckless euphoria and in the clarity of coming back to herself it lingered. Morgan frowned, stomach twisting with guilt as she weighed the options. “I know you won’t feel better until you tell me,” she sighed, a tear rolling down her cheek. “That’s just how you are, and I love you for it. But can I just--give me a minute, okay? Because I didn’t like it either. I hated you being gone for so long--” And she was kissing her again, hard and desperate. “It felt like so long,” she mumbled. She cupped her face, rubbing her thumbs roughly against her cheek as she kissed her harder. At some point she had the good sense to move a hand down, pressing in hard enough to sense Deirdre’s pulse and pulled away when she felt it spike with a growing need for air. “I love you,” she said, lips tingling. “And it’s gonna be okay.” She tugged on one of Deirdre’s hands and pressed it to her lips, cradling it around her cheek for a blessed moment before letting go. “Go ahead and tell me, babe.”

“Hey,” Deirdre cooed instantly, reaching up to thumb away Morgan’s tear, pressing her hand into her cheek, just the way she knew Morgan could feel it too. “As much time as you want, my love.” She whispered against her skin, easing into another kiss. “It was long for me too,” she rasped. Even in her haze, the part of her that still had sense clawed to be freed, just enough, to love and care for Morgan in the ways she knew best. But she had to wait for the fairy ring to wear off naturally, and she hated each moment of it. They were sacred to the fae, but nothing was more sacred to Deirdre than her time with Morgan, and Morgan herself. Maybe Lydia was on to something, and it was strange of her to wish that she could be with Morgan instead of doing what fae did but-- “I love you too. So much. So very much.” So much so that she thought about pushing her down against the couch, filling in their lost time with the intimacy they were both due. Deirdre tried to catch her breath quickly, eager for another kiss, fighting every desire and pull that begged her to close the distance between them again. But she had something to confess, and at Morgan’s attempt at comfort, she laughed bitterly with the reminder of it. She didn’t imagine she would share this news while still tangled up in Morgan, and she found that she couldn’t summon the words while so close to her--she was too muddied with blood now, too evil to deserve such care. With great reluctance, with more anguish than she anticipated, she tore herself from Morgan and up away from the couch to stand and admonish herself.

“I’m sorry,” she began. “I know you say that I’m a good person and I do--I’ve tried to believe that. I want to. You make me feel like I can, and I want to try, for you. Because it’s good, because it makes me feel like I’m better, like I’m the best person I can be---when I’m with you. You give me that...strength to change. To do that. To be that person. And I’m sorry, for betraying that trust you had in me and I…” she gulped. This was too much beating around the bush. She wanted no excuses, no escapes or forgivenesses from her actions. She bared the responsibility alone for all her actions, for each murder and torture and life ruined. For Emma, and for all those before her. “I cannot confess to a--” she hung her head, clutching her chest in pain. “--any--” she spoke through gritted teeth, “things I may have done in the name of my duty. I’ve sworn not to. So when I say this, understand it was senseless and unkind and unfair and so---” Deirdre swallowed, lifting her gaze to meet Morgan’s. There was no excuse, and so, she said it plainly: “I killed someone. A young girl. Out of boredom, I suspect. But I killed her.”

“Deirdre--” Morgan reached for her as she stood, trying to pull her back, but Deirdre was stolid and would not move from her path. Morgan bit on the inside of her cheek as she spoke, trying not to interrupt. Whatever her crime, it was tearing at her insides. Morgan pushed herself up from the couch, ready to insist, to soothe her distress away and then-- I killed someone. A young girl. I killed her. “I don’t understand,” she said, brow knotted with confusion. “That’s...not something you do. It’s just…not.” Deirdre wasn’t cruel. At her worst, when she wanted to hurt, she could be viscous. That day in the woods would always be a reminder of that. But there was nothing casual about it, nothing pleasurable. It wasn’t who she was since coming to White Crest, if it ever had been at all. “I--I need to know what happened. You can’t expect me to go along with the bare bones of something like that, I need to know everything. Who was she, what were you doing, what did she--why aren’t you even sure why you--” She took Deirdre’s arm. “You need to come back and tell me everything,” she said firmly.

“It sounds like an excuse if I explain it. I don’t want---I killed her. That is a fact. There is no excusing or justifying it.” Deirdre sighed, hanging her head low. She tried to be as objective in her explanation as she could, keeping her voice the apathetic way her mother taught her to. “As fairy ring customs go, you pick a human and bring them in. A fae is never completely in control of what they do inside, some might be malicious, some might simply be a higher-intensity version of themselves. I can’t remember all of the details well, and the motivation is completely lost on me but--” shit, Lydia had been there, right? Deirdre sighed again, groaning as she tried to think of a way to admit this without acknowledging her friend’s involvement. It had been her, in the end. Not Lydia. And she would gladly take any and all blame for her; for all that Lydia had done for Deirdre, she was owed that much. “I threw a knife at her. I truly don’t remember why. I knew it was bad, it felt bad even before we entered the ring. But I didn’t stop it. And it is my fault she died. Mine alone. Those actions were mine and I made them.” Humans didn’t always die in rings, but it mattered so little to the fae what their outcome was. Deirdre had never personally killed a human in a ring, as a toy, but what did it matter if she was just as involved? Or if she watched without comment? If she was too desperate to be among them that she knew better than to voice her concerns, even back then. “And it’s not exactly the first senseless death by my hand. I’ve ruined lives. I am not a good person, by any standard.” She paused, turning her head away. “Emma Mushrow. Did you know her?”

Emma. Morgan’s eyes turned wide and stung with recognition. She went still, Deirdre’s arm still in her grasp, mid tug. Emma was one of her students. Painfully lonely, closeted, and smart. She came in for so many office hours, fumbling with three different questions before finding her way to the one she really wanted to ask. She’d done the extra credit work for fun. Because it was all creative, and it made her happy, not that she ever said so, but Morgan could tell from the way she brightened with hope as she handed it in. The last time she talked, Morgan had promised to look at her first draft if she ever got the nerve to write this time-travel novel she wanted to. And Morgan had heard about what had happened to her on the University forums and the paper. Or at least, as much as any of the humans could suppose. It had just seemed like another nameless White Crest tragedy, but now… “Emma,” she said, voice thick. “Yes. You...Emma? But she’s...she’s Blanche’s age, Deirdre. Did you know that? She’s...harmless. Emma could barely raise her hand in class much less work up the nerve to ever hurt anyone. She would never have hurt any fae. She was afraid she was betraying humanity by wanting to drop out of a pre-med program!” Morgan let go of Deirdre and braced her hands on her hips. Her mind was racing too fast, she needed to focus. She breathed slowly, counting in her head, but her body was cut off from her sense of her lungs. It stayed tense. She looked around the room counting senses: she could see her bare feet, she could see the carpet, she could see the clock, the sunlight coming through the windows, and Moira under the coffee table; she could feel tension in her fingers, a pinch in her hip as she dug her nails in, a fuzzy haze under her feet, an ache in her jaw; the ticking of the clock, birds chirping, Moira pawing the carpet… “First of all, you are not going to hide behind your banshee dead-tone while we have this discussion,” she said at last. “You are going to look me in the eyes and you are going to tell me the whole truth, every detail you remember, and everything that just feels like a lucky guess and you are going to feel it. If it hurts that you--” Killed Emma. Killed Emma and didn’t know why. Morgan clenched her jaw and forced the words out stiffly, “That you don’t even know why you hurt a practical child, you have to feel it. And second of all--” She had to pause and gather herself, to remind herself that this was important and she meant it. For the first time she felt her heart struggle to accommodate its feelings for Deirdre, her anger pushing against her love pushing against her confusion being crushed against some growing principle of understanding, it was so much and nothing wanted to give. But Morgan dug her fingers harder into her side and insisted, “Second of all this is not about anything you did in Ireland. I don’t care. You can make me hear about it later, but I don’t care. I don’t care what you did before we met. This is about a girl, and whatever the hell happened, whatever in the Earth’s name possessed you and your senses to do this instead of coming home to me. Has this happened before, since we met, Deirdre?”

So Morgan did know her. Deirdre figured it was the case, she’d heard enough about Emma’s life from her mother, who sobbed unrelentingly and foolishly thanked her daughter’s own murderer for paid funeral expenses and then some. “I’m not---” she swallowed thickly, “I’m not speaking like this to---If I talk normally I’ll---” her voice cracked and in waves her body was overcome with the anguish she was fighting for the sake of getting the story out in one piece. But not asked to speak plainly, she had no means of subduing her pain. Deirdre stumbled backwards, collapsing into a seat on their coffee table. She had cried in her car too, after meeting Emma’s family, using what she’d learned from her mother to keep from breaking down with guilt in front of them. But here it was again, raw and open for Morgan to see. “I know,” she sobbed, staring at her hands. “I know she---I know.” They were shaking. For all of her mother’s teachings and torture to get them to be steady, they were shaking. And she kept staring at them, kept expecting the blood of everyone she’d killed to spill out of every pore and for their screams and pleas to play out loud for Morgan to witness too. All the promises for what their lives could have been had never ceased to weigh on her, and they weighed heavier since trying to be better. But Morgan was angry, and she could feel it, and the sensation twisted terribly inside of her--worse than how any of the guilt she carried ever did. “That is the truth,” she glanced up, forcing herself to accommodate Morgan’s assertion that she look at her. “That’s it. I felt so terrible about her being there, and then I threw a knife to prove I didn’t. It wasn’t to kill her, but she died because of it so I’m not sure if it matters if---” Taken by another bout of sobbing, she couldn’t finish her sentence and took to staring at her hands again. She had touched Morgan with them, just as she had murdered Emma, murdered Regan’s father, murdered countless others that might have been spared. She curled into herself, lost to her pain. “I killed her. I didn’t mean to but I did. And it--I-I’m sorry. I know you---I’m so---” She cried, the glass shaking around them as her control on her voice wavered. With none of her mother’s teachings left to hide behind, there was nothing stopping the wave of anguish and torment that she had tried so hard to keep for her own private repentance. At Morgan’s question, she thought of Regan’s father, and tried to confess to his death as well. But her promises would not let her, and so she heaved and stuttered and tried to be strong enough to sit and accept the anger and resentment she was due. “Not any---not anyone so young but---but---” bile worked its way up, stopping just short of her mouth, leaving a burning path down her in its wake. “I’m sorry. I know it means nothing but---” She really had tried to be good. She really had wanted to be. She just wasn’t; she never could be.

“Stop,” Morgan said, voice quiet but still firm. “I know what a promise looks like, so stop. It doesn’t count.” What did count, contrary to Deirdre’s insistence, was her remorse. Morgan did her best to be still and impassive as Deirdre fell apart in front of her, as she struggled under the weight of her shame to look her in the face. It couldn’t bring back Emma, it couldn’t re-balance the loss and anguish of grief, but it paid for something in Morgan’s heart. She moved slowly to the coffee table, trying to fit all the pieces she had been given in her head. She had been warned that the fae were unkind, she had been asked and told if she really wanted to know that world. She had assumed, foolishly, that any world that could bring Deirdre into existence had to have a heart in it somewhere. But this--this fairy ring, this, what, some pheromone magic?--this thing was cruel. What world made it a practice to cleave its people’s souls from them, to make them into giddy creatures, into the kinds of beings that could hurt a child for no reason at all. Where was the sense in that? The balance in that? No wonder old guard fae convinced themselves they were better. How else could they live with themselves? But Deirdre knew. Deirdre wept. Deirdre wanted more for herself than this lie and the cold isolation that came with it. Slowly, she put a hand on Deirdre’s head and ran her fingers down her hair. She could not bear to give her full, encompassing comfort in this moment, but she could not bear to stand by while Deirdre cried and grieved either. “It does mean something, that you’re this sorry,” she said. “It’s what makes you different.” She swallowed thickly. “Tell me how you know about her. Did you know her, before you brought her into that...that place,” she could not hide her hatred of the fairy ring itself and she didn’t bother trying. “Did you find out who she was after? How do you know who she was?”

“Stop what? Stop crying? I’ll try--I’ll stop. Do you want me to---I’ll stop if---” Deirdre raised her hands to her face, trying to stop tears that would not quell for her, even as she tried to tell herself that Morgan wanted her to stop. She could not hear the rest of Morgan’s sentence under her concentration to stop crying, convinced this was what Morgan wanted. But she couldn’t, and in her failure, she wept harder, finding each free breath to mumble her apologies. She should have been better, but she wasn’t. Morgan raised her hand and Deirdre flinched in anticipation of the hit she imagined would come, the retribution as it was due. As her mother had, just when she would sob too much. Instead, she felt her working through her hair, gentle, and in the act of kindness she was not deserving of, she quelled her tears just enough to respond. “I knew her name was Emma,” she said, “I-I could tell she was lonely, it was the only reason she came with us. But its---” the way fairy rings work. And it’s harmless, they juggle or dance or play music and then go home. It was the way the fairy rings worked. They begged for humans to be dragged into them, even the thought of them--though she could not explain it--thrummed in her head. They called, they asked for their giddy fun, they demanded their human entertainment. The desire could not be helped. It was as natural to the fae as anything else. It was them. It was their culture. And Deirdre had done nothing wrong in their terms, and yet, even then, she felt guilt course so horribly through her. “I knew she liked to read. I knew she didn’t really like her friends. I could tell she must have had a passion she was hiding but the rest I---” Her body trembled with another sob. “I went to---I--W-what does it matter? It doesn’t. I’m not different. I’m not---I’m a fae. It’s---I killed her. That’s it. I did.” And there was nothing to make that fair. And she shook, horrified by the way trying to be good intersected with the fae life she knew. She had been so lost, for so long, and when a path seemed clear...it was lost again. Where did she go? Where was there a place for her now?

“So you did,” Morgan whispered, her voice hinging. She stopped petting Deirdre’s hair, almost mid-stroke and let her hand fall to her side. “You saw her. You saw who she was and you...when all that shit was in your head, you…” Killed her. Murdered her...sort of. It hadn’t been a lethal wound, that was what made the whole story so weird. And Deirdre, as lethally trained by her mother as she had been, surely couldn’t have missed the heart or a major artery on accident. There was something there, something to think on as Morgan braced her hands on her hips again. “You weren’t you,” she muttered, more to herself than to Deirdre. “You weren’t in your right mind, you were surrounded by fae, and these...fucking mushrooms…” And she hadn’t meant to kill her, even then. And yet Deirdre had brought her in the first place, had seen her, her youth, her hurt. Because it was what fae were supposed to do. Because she thought it was expected of her, or the brain-melting magic asked her to. Morgan counted her way through the room again, breathed slowly through her teeth, but she was running out of objects, losing places to plant her focus on besides Emma and the bewildering double-edged trick that hadn’t just destroyed her life but had wrecked a piece of her and Deirdre too. “And you are different. You are so different from the people you were raised with, even from Lydia and Tasmyn. You have become different since I’ve known you, at the very least. You see people as people, and you are kind and your soul, the part of you that knows better than the things you were taught, is good and that is why this hurts for you. That’s why it feels wrong. And that counts. That weight means something. But that is also why I am so---” floored. Disappointed. Hurt. “Yeah, I’m going to need a minute,” she said stiffly. “I’m leaving the keys. I need you to still be here when I get back. I need to trust you not to hurt yourself while I’m out.” She was already heading for the door but she stopped, aching deep in her dead silent body for them all. “Is any of that going to be a problem?”

She didn't mean to. Emma was just supposed to dance and juggle but not be harmed, she didn't want that. Deirdre could barely remember her motivations or thoughts but she could remember hating the idea. Being opposed to it. But she hadn't done enough, she hadn't stopped it. She hadn't been strong enough under the fairy ring to care. She relented to the first sign of disappointment from Lydia, some need for approval being stronger than the goodness supposedly inside of her. For this, she was unimaginably sorry. But she did not explain herself further, there was no point. She killed Emma, that was that. Lydia's involvement was unimportant, and all blame was hers alone. "It was my fault. I did it," she croaked again, worsened by hearing Morgan try to explain it. To her, she had already condemned herself to the highest crime, and as she burned for some punishment to be delivered, she could accept nothing else. Yes, she was not herself. Yes, she was as far removed from her actions as she ever had been, but they were still hers, and she still accepted all responsibility for them. "But I don't—" want to be different from them. She never did. She wanted to be just like Lydia, just like she was supposed to. But if she couldn't be good like Morgan said, and if she couldn't be like the fae, then what was she? Her world slowly cracked and she rose her knees to her chest, crying into them. But one part remained at least, one last shred of—"Leaving?" She lifted her head just far enough up to catch sight of Morgan walking away. And with it, the last of the world she thought she might keep, might belong in. It shattered, and unable to respond to Morgan's question, she dropped her head and cried, shattering the glass around her. Her wails of anguish were unrestrained, muffled only as she curled into herself. "Take care of yourself," she managed, the last intelligent sentence as she dissolved into tears and sobs. The house she had watched form itself into a home, the silence she had dreaded, all of it returned to her. In some strange way to heed Morgan's words, she did not rise to harm herself as her mind begged, instead she remained curled up on the cracked coffee table, unmoving. Trying her hardest not to think of the emptiness, but unable to focus on anything else. She was alone again.

All Morgan had wanted was a simple answer. Lacking even that, something inside her burned, familiar in ways she didn’t want to welcome. “Yep, sounds great,” she muttered under her breath. She shoved her feet into her shoes, bearing down against the tangle of feeling flooding through her insides. This wasn’t how she wanted to be and she needed to get something out before she could be any different.

[luckyfirerabbit]

Jaune Doe Pt 3

(It’s a little janky, but meh)

It will be a few days before Blake gets back to her with anything in regards to the photo, and in the mean time Pyrrha will keep up with Jaune Doe’s slow but steady recovery. Sahv brings her somewhat regular reports - “I think he’s a musician, his fingers move to my music when he’s sleeping”-, and though Billy lets her know that he’s been conscious and responsive the last day or so, she has yet to visit his room again. She doesn’t feel like it’s her place just yet, never mind that she’s in charge of patient advocacy; surely the poor man wants time to himself to process his situation without a stranger bothering him. He’s likely had enough of that just with doctors and nurses and security guards.

Ren and Nora haven’t been able to get an official statement from him either, not until he’s deemed healthy enough for it.

So Pyrrha makes ample time to study his file at length and run it across Blake -when she’s available- as to what it all could mean. Being a psychologist, Blake had incredible insight, and her experience with trauma survivors is just icing on the cake. At least, it certainly would be if Blake hadn’t looked so dour when the she and Pyrrha met in Pyrrha’s office.

“Everything okay?” Pyrrha asks gently, standing up on some unnamed reflex.

“Sit, this probably won’t be long.” Blake gestures with her hand, putting the other woman back in her chair while she closes the door behind her. She’ll cross the floor with no real hurry to prop on the edge of Pyrrha’s desk, appearing comfortably perched. “I checked with the folks at the parlor, they didn’t have anything. Turns out, this particular brand of body modification is illegal in Argus, so none of my guys knew a guy who knew a guy.” she chuckles lightly.

“Oh. Okay…but,” Pyrrha hesitates, “what’s the matter?”

Blake’s ears flip back. “…Yang might know Jaune Doe.”

Pyrrha’s brows rise and her eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah, but don’t get too excited, she kind of hit a depressive spiral after seeing the photos. It’s going to be a while before she’ll be okay to talk to him.” It’ll be a while before he can talk at all, so it’s fine. “I’m sorry, Blake, is there anything I can do?”

“She wanted to help, don’t beat yourself up about it. But,” she tips her chin and her ears slant forward, “this brings to mind what I said before, that thing about you maybe not liking what you find.”

Pyrrha’s brow knits in the middle. “I’d be worried if I did like it. Gods have mercy,”

“Sorry I couldn’t find more for you, though.”

“But it’s still a lot, Blake, thank you so much. And tell Yang I owe her big time. If you two need anything,”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Blake smiles softly, her ears up and neutral. “Anything else I can do?”

“Just take care of Yang, I know she needs it.”

Blake nods, sliding to her feet. “So have you talked to your guy yet?”

“Not yet, soon maybe. I mean, he’ll be here a while.” Pyrrha tries not to laugh, but a little giggle slinks through. “And what’s this my guy talk?”

“I mean, he’s a patient, you’re his advocate, and he’s your only case right now. He’s your guy.”

“But the way you say it,” she giggles again, a little louder, “so suggestive.”

“Now, Pyrrha, I’m a professional,” Blake bats her eyes and throws the most innocent look she can at the lawyer, “and I know nothing can come between you and your cat.”

“Pfft, I’m a divorcee, not an old woman.” Pyrrha rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Later, wonder woman. I’ll keep in touch.”

–

Everything hurts, at least, that’s how his addled brain translates the buzzing in his nerves. Sure enough it is pain, but it’s being filtered through a screen of morphine. He still feels the sharp prodding of his broken ribs when he takes a breath too deep, or when he shifts just right to aggravate the lump near the base of his skull, but the drugs keep them mostly quiet, enough for him to sleep when the doctors let him. He hates that they still wake him up in accordance to some kind of schedule, but he’s too scared to say anything about it. He’s too scared about a lot of things, been too scared for too long to believe he’s safe here. That he could be safe anywhere. It’s why his pulse shoots up whenever anyone enters his room, doesn’t matter who it is. Even the custodian, the littlest old lady he’s sure he’s ever seen, made him jump.

Every time someone wakes him they have questions -How are you feeling? Do you know what day it is? What year is it? What’s your name?- and he answers them as best he can. They keep asking, he keeps answering, and he would probably be annoyed by it by now if he could keep track of the ones he had answered and which ones he had forgotten. Even without the blow to the head he feels more than remembers, he knows he wouldn’t have most of the answers. His life had felt like a hectic blur for a while now, and while he remembers most of that fever dream, he’s forgotten so much of himself.

His dreams are full of music and faces and places that don’t make his heart race, but he has no explanation as to why they’re there -what they mean to him. So he focuses on the music to help him sleep, it quiets his mind enough to let the exhaustion through to drag him under and keep him there. He has yet to meet the person who owns the scroll emitting the sounds, but he thinks he should thank them. He will, so long as their mere presence doesn’t scare him silent; like it had with those cops this morning.

The next time he remembers waking up, the music has stopped, the abrupt stillness in the air making him blink into awareness.

“Evening, sir, sorry if I woke you.”

Only his eyes move, sliding to one side to follow the sound and focus on the incredible form occupying the once empty space beside his bed. Already panic is knotting in his chest and he feels trapped in his bed. His hands that were once resting flat against his stomach have curled into fists.

“I’m Sahv Starborough,” she hasn’t missed the change in him, turning on the softest voice she can, “I just came by for my scroll, I kind of need it now. But I got you a little something.”

He just watches her, his gaze jumping quickly from her huge hands to her tusks and back again. She’s unplugging the scroll and replacing the device with a smaller one.

“This just plays music, but it has all the Caravaan tunes just like my scroll. You can even take it with you when you’re discharged if you want.”

“…Th-thank you.” it’s raspy and broken, but comprehensible.

Sahv lights up a little, smiling at him, but not too much. “You’re very welcome.” She finishes setting up the device, lingering just long enough to set the volume to where it had been on her scroll. “I’m here all night if you need anything else.”

He just nods and watches her leave, finally letting himself relax again once her shadow slips out through the door after her. He tries to focus on the music again, doing so with such ease that he doesn’t notice when he falls asleep.

When he wakes this time it’s morning, at least he assumes by the pale light coming through the space between the curtains. There’s someone else in the room again, but just as the knot in his chest starts to wind up, it releases. Somehow he recognizes those eyes, soft green ones that he would have sworn he dreamed up.

Pyrrha smiles reflexively when she realizes he’s awake and looking at her, pausing just inside the room. “Hello again.”

His brow furrows, puzzled. Again? Maybe it really hadn’t been a dream.

That smile falters when he doesn’t answer. “I’m sorry, do you want me to go?”

He swallows, shutting his eyes for a second. “Do you know me?” he croaks.

“Hm?”

“You said my name before.”

“Oh, well, no, I’m sorry. I’ve only read your file.”

“Oh.” The idea of being on file is discomforting, but he ignores it for now. “Do you have questions for me too?”

“Not really, not at the moment. I just thought I would come and introduce myself, maybe talk a little if you were feeling up to it.”

“Talk about what?”

“Whatever, I suppose.” Pyrrha is mentally berating herself for her apparent lack of professional air. For all intents and purposes, this was her client, you don’t just talk about “whatever” with clients.

“So who are you? You work here?”

“I do.” She chances to take a few steps closer. “I’m Pyrrha Nikos and I’m the legal adviser for the hospital. I’m also head of the patient advocacy department and in charge of your case.”

He swallows again, the corner of his mouth kinking upward just a little. Almost missable. “Didn’t think a druggie warranted that much.”

“Well, seeing as you really don’t…have any one else to represent you at the moment, at least until your memory recovers, I’ll be acting in that capacity between you and the hospital. I’ll handle all the legal matters of your case -working with the police and whatnot- as well as seeing to it your best interests and personal rights are upheld while you’re being treated.”

“…I hope you don’t expect me to pay you.” Because he just remembered all he owned was a pair of pants.

“Don’t worry about that.” Pyrrha laughs. “I’m just here to help.”

What a nice sound. What a nice smile. “Gods know I need all I can get.”

She didn’t want to agree with him too readily, no matter how right he was, so she just nods with inching shoulders. “Do you have any other questions for me? Otherwise I’ll stop bothering you and let you rest.”

He tries to think for a moment, his thoughts breaking up like he’s trying to grab at threads of smoke. “Not now, thank you.”

“Of course. If you should change your mind, you can have someone page me. My office is just downstairs.”

“Okay.” he tries a nod of his own, a stiff dip of his chin. “Nice meeting you, Mrs. Nikos.”

“Oh no, miss, and it’s just Pyrrha, if that’s okay with you.”

“Okay, just Pyrrha.” he likes hearing her laugh again.

“And is it all right if I call you Jaune?”

“It’s the only name I have right now, so yeah.”

Her cheeks redden a little embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t… It was nice meeting you too. Could I come by later, or maybe tomorrow would be better?”

“Tomorrow. Yeah, probably.”

“Alright, see you tomorrow.”

Billy is at the nurse’s station down the hall from Jaune Doe’s room, can see down either end of the corridor from there. But they also have leave to watch the monitor feeds for each of the rooms, see the cardiotach for all of the patients. They had noticed the pattern of spikes in Jaune’s heart rate whenever someone went into his room and he happened to be awake, and as observant as they are, there was no way even Pyrrha could slip in or out of there without them knowing.

“Hey, Velv, check this out.”

Rabbit ears flit upright from over the counter, Velvet having just straightened from picking up a dropped file form the floor. She quickly rounds the desk and props up on her fellow Faunus’ stout shoulder, taking a look at the numbers on the screen in front of them.

“What is it?”

“Look at Doe’s read-out.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“It hasn’t changed in the last five minutes or so.”

“So?”

“Pyrrha was in there just now.”

“So?”

“And he was awake, camera showed the two of them talking.”

“…Oh. Well isn’t that something?” Velvet straightens and stretches with a little chuckle. “But it’s Pyrrha; she’s so sweet she could fill our diabetic ward to capacity overnight.”

Billy laughs.

“Makes you wonder how she ended up with that shitty ex of hers.”

“At least he’s an ex now, though, right?”

“Right.” Velvet nods once, decisive. “I’m hopping across the street for coffee, want some?”

“Says the Rabbit.”

“Oh eat me.” Velvet’s ears snap back, but she’s smiling.

“But I would love some, just make sure it’s decaff, please, this ticker can’t do high octane anymore.”

“You got it.”

Billy goes back to the monitors after passing Velvet a few Lien for her trouble. They watch Doe’s numbers a little longer, thinking and smirking to themselves. It’s good, they think; if that poor kid was going to be easy around anyone, it might as well be Pyrrha.

[strawberriestyles]

Part 3: Candles

(BANNER MADE BY MY TALENTED SWEETIE PIE @adashofniallandasprinkleoflunacy)

Harry X Reader (AU)

In which you’re persuaded to help a young witch named Harry.

Read previous parts here.

Word count: 4.5k+

Author’s note: ONCE AGAIN SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT. I really hope y’all like this one. It took me months and short bouts of motivation to write. PLEASE do not forget to reblog and leave a little bit of feedback. It helps us writers out TREMENDOUSLY.

Magic. That seems the be-all and end-all. It’s what your translations are helping Harry to work, and what the two of you have decided his payment will be. Magic. In exchange for your help with his Latin, he will teach you how to harness magic. At least, as far as your mortal self can harness it.

“All beings have a li’l bit o’ magic in them,” he explained to you. “Some more than others. Witches an’ creatures have the most—more than yeh can probably imagine. But I think you have a li’l bit more than the average mortal. Maybe there was a witch somewhere in your ancestry, way back down the line.”

“Really?”

“Way down the line,” he emphasized.

But the idea was still there. You might have witch blood in you. And you had thought you couldn’t be any more enthusiastic about what you were doing.

Now, the inside of Harry’s car smells of his usual spice, but also of damp leaves and dirt. The windows have been cracked open. It’s one of the nicest days that you’ve seen since fall began, and even though the sun is descending, there’s still a subtle warmth in the air. It beats the biting chill that you’ve become accustomed to. With the soft sounds of the car’s engine and the outdoors, the even softer hum of an acoustic guitar from the stereo, you’re at risk of being lulled to sleep.

Harry puts the vehicle in park when you reach his house. The little cottage has come to offer a sort of comfort to you. Perhaps it’s the fascination that Harry and his knowledge have to offer you, or perhaps it’s only the tea that he serves you.

“C’mon,” Harry murmurs, rolling up the windows.

With a bit of effort, you unbuckle and lift yourself from the car, following Harry inside. The windows of the house have been cracked open as well. Nicks sits on the sill of an open window in the living room, peering at the little insects that float by. It smells fresh inside. Not so much clean, with the scent of dirt wafting through the air, but less shut in, less stifling. You take a deep breath and let out a yawn.

Harry glances at you as he sheds his jacket, slinging it over the arm of the couch.

"You tired?"

You shake your head, covering your mouth to hide the end of your yawn. "No, no, I'm fine."

"Y/N, no offense, but yeh look like yeh haven' slept in days." Harry cocks his head and raises an accusatory brow. "Yeh almost fell asleep in the car."

"I'm sorry," you say. It's punctuated by another louder yawn, and you lean against the wall where you're standing. "I had some pretty important exams the past couple days."

"'S fine. Yeh can take a nap upstairs an' we'll just do some work when yeh're better rested."

"Harry, I don't need—"

"Yes, yeh do." Harry wanders over to the windows and scratches at Nicks's head. You can hear her purring from across the room. "Don' need yeh mistranslating a word and makin' me blow up the whole house. Go ahead. We're not in a rush."

Despite your protests, you're relieved by the offer. You don't say another word before you slip off your own jacket and shoes, and make your way up the narrow staircase behind the couch. It's the first time you've been in Harry's bedroom, and it's just as simple as the rest of the house. A bed, a side table with a candle atop it, and a wardrobe. You wonder briefly whether the wardrobe might take you to Narnia, and then laugh to yourself as you climb into the bed. The window in here is open as well. The air temperature has begun to drop with the sun. You pull the blankets around yourself and yank them up to your chin. The bed smells like Harry. Your head has barely touched the pillow before you feel sleep pulling at you, dragging at your heavy eyelids.

You almost think you're already asleep and dreaming when you hear the stairs creak beneath someone's weight. You crack your eyes open to find Harry hovering in the doorway. He hesitates for only a short moment before making his way to the other side of the bed. He doesn't pull back the covers, only lays down beside you.

"Yeh mind?" he whispers.

You hum in response. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your body back against him. You lean into his touch and that's all you remember before sleep finally closes in.

***

Harry wakes you accidentally as his body jostles yours. You peel your eyes open and find the room dark, no light but that of the moon. Harry lifts his head beside you and hushes you when you begin to ask a question.

“Think I heard somethin’,” he whispers. His arm tightens around you in the silence and you strain your own ears.

There’s a distant sound from downstairs. Something like a cough before it becomes clearer. Retching.

“Fuck,” Harry grumbles, and then he pushes away from you, lighting the candle on the bedside table with a press of fingertips.

“What is it?” you ask, throwing back the covers. The air has chilled significantly and you shiver at the first brush of it over your skin.

“Nicks.”

Harry waits for you to climb out of bed and then tromps down the stairs with you in his wake. The candlelight is dim and you stumble into the back of the couch at the bottom of the stairs, gasping when Harry waves his hand and the small flames along the walls blaze into glowing fires which light the room. Harry takes a quick glance around and drops his head.

"No," he murmurs, raking an agitated hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "No, no, no."

Harry whips around the corner toward the kitchen and you're hot on his heels. You hear the sound of retching again when you reach the doorway and find Nicks atop the wooden table, spilling the contents of her little stomach over its surface. Flower petals and herbs litter the rest of the wood. Harry swears under his breath.

"Yeh stupid fuckin' cat," he chastises, leaning his forehead against the frame of the entry.

"I'm guessing those were important ingredients," you observe softly, hoping not to upset him any more than he already is.

"Fuckin' rare," Harry replies. He turns back to the table and his eyes glow that intimidating, fascinating blue.

"Harry," you warn, "be gentle with her."

"Took me hours to find those plants out in the woods!" he shouts, but the glow diminishes and you feel the tense muscles in your shoulders slacken. Nicks looks up from her place at the table, just long enough to catch the anger brimming around the edges of Harry's face, and has the sense to hop down and scamper out of the room.

"An' that was a week ago," Harry continues. "The closer to winter we get, the harder they get to find. Who knows if there's even anythin' left—Christ, I could just kill her." Harry spins into the hall, looking as if he might do just that.

"Harry," you say again, catching him by the elbow. "It's okay, that's what cats do. I'll help you find more, okay?"

He glances at you, struggling to relax his clenched jaw, but eventually nods. "Lucky they weren' fuckin' poisonous," he mutters under his breath as he turns once again and makes for the door on the other side of the kitchen. "Could ring her li'l neck. S'posed to be smarter than the average cat."

As he pushes into the outdoors, you have the sense to turn back into the house and collect your jackets. The kitchen smells sickly sweet and florally when you enter it again. The muddied mess that Nicks made has spread across the tabletop, seeping through the cracks where planks of wood meet, dripping mutely over the floor.

Outside, the air is brisk, and you immediately wrap yourself up before navigating into the trees after Harry. He’s still fuming, fists tense at his sides and shoulders squared. His eyes scan the forest floor for signs of the plants he needs to gather.

“Harry,” you mutter, draping his jacket over his shoulders before he can move away from you, “can you please chill out? Like, just a little?”

“I’ll ‘chill out’ once we’ve got the fuckin’ ingredients,” he snaps, “all right?” But he takes the jacket with a murmured thanks and slips his arms into it. You ignore his attitude and follow him deeper into the trees.

"What should I be looking for?"

"Most important is the bloodflower," Harry says, scanning the ground with every step he takes. "'S a really dark red. Almost black in the center an' kinda scarlet at the edges o' the petals. The rest I'll probably be able t'find close to the house. The bloodflower only shows up at night and it thrives on moonlight, but it prefers warmer weather. Tha's why I collected it weeks ago."

Harry's voice begins to rise in irritation again and you don't say anything else for fear of upsetting him further. The two of you fall into silence as you trek farther and farther from the cottage and Nicks and the ruined flowers and herbs. It feels like nearly an hour before Harry stops abruptly, staring up into the sky with a blank expression on his face. You come to stand beside him, hands stuffed into your coat pockets and chin buried in your collar to shield your skin from the cold breeze that has picked up.

"Don' have time for this bullshit," Harry whispers, closing his eyes and letting out a deeply frustrated sigh as the moon appears from the cover of a dark cloud.

You nod absently, though he's not looking at you. Your cheeks began to ache a while ago, and you've been quietly hoping that he would give up for some time. But as you turn your gaze toward the ground again, your eyes widen.

"Harry," you prod, pulling at the elbow of his jacket, "are those what you're looking for?"

At the base of a tall, bare-branched oak off to your right lays a bed of dark flowers, their edges glimmering ruby in the patches of moonlight that filter through the treetops. You move the few paces to reach them and kneel down in the dirt.

"Don' touch 'em!" Harry shouts as you stretch out a hand. His own fingers curl around the back of your coat and tug you backward rather roughly. You scramble out of his reach, startled.

"What the hell, Harry?" you gasp.

"'M sorry, 'm sorry," he mutters, holding his hands out to help you up. "Yeh can' touch 'em with your bare skin. Suck the life right outta yeh. Yeh'd be dead in ten seconds flat."

You take another glance at the flowers before reaching for Harry's offered hands and letting him pull you to your feet. "Nicks ate them though, didn't she?"

Harry nods and wipes the dirt from his palms. "She's a Familiar, though. No one's really sure what they're descended from, but they have immunity to bloodflowers. Maybe they have some Nymph or Dryad ancestry somewhere. Do yeh have some gloves?"

With a deep frown, you reach into your pockets again and pull out your gloves, handing them over. Harry slips them on despite the tight fit and squats down where you were kneeling, carefully tearing up a handful of bloodflowers by the stems. When he rises beside you, you find that the stems are spotted with sharp thorns like roses. Another cloud passes in front of the moon and you watch, entranced, as the leftover flowers on the forest floor curl in on themselves, retreating from the darkness. The plucked flowers in Harry's gloved hand, however, remain open and beautiful.

"Weird," you whisper. Harry cracks a smile, his mood visibly lifted since he's found his most elusive ingredient.

"Let's get back, then."

***

The fragrances of varied flora fill the kitchen, sharp, putrid, and unexpectedly bitter. Nicks’s mess has been cleaned. Harry grinds a mixture of herbs and flowers by hand, pulverizing them with a mortar and pestle that appear ancient and foreign. You’re almost afraid to ask him about them—they could be made from human bones for all you know—so you refrain.

Nicks, hoping to be back in Harry’s good graces, paces back and forth in the doorway, flicking her tail behind her. She lets out a soft meow every once in a while, but Harry pays her no mind.

“So what really is a Familiar?” you wonder aloud. “What do they do?”

“They’re like all-around sidekicks,” Harry answers with a chuckle. “Lot o’ witches end up pretty lonely. Familiars are companions, assistants, protectors. Help to gather ingredients and things like that, ward off hexes and harmful spells.”

“And how does a witch end up with one?”

“‘S kind of weird.” Harry chuckles again. “But I’ll tell yeh if yeh really wanna know.”

You nod encouragingly, and Harry pauses to add yet another sprinkle of a new plant to the mix. He begins to grind the ingredients together once more.

“Well, ‘s a toss up whether you’ll get a male or female. But the cool thing about relationships between witches is tha’ there’s always a female Familiar involved. Could both be females, or one could be male, but yeh know yeh’re not with the right person yet if there are two males.”

“So, like soulmates,” you suggest. “If you’re soulmates there has to be a female Familiar in the mix.”

“If yeh wanna think of it that way, sure,” Harry agrees with a smirk. “When the woman gets pregnant, the Familiar does too.”

“But you said there could be two female Familiars.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at you and sets the mortar and pestle down for the first time in what feels like a half hour. “Know what I said.”

“So what, the cat’s just pregnant?” You scoff. “Like the Virgin Mary or something?”

“‘M not very familiar with Christianity, but if that’s how it happens, yeah.”

Your mouth drops open. “I was joking.”

Harry grins at you and tries to smooth a stray chunk of hair from his face with the back of his flower-stained hand.

You frown and turn to look at Nicks, who sits staring at you, her tail flicking as it usually does when she’s in your presence.

“What about gays?”

Harry turns to the sink to rinse off his hands, but you see his brow furrow. “What about ‘em?”

“How do the kids of gay witches get Familiars? They can’t have them. Does it work for adoption, too?”

“No.”

“What, so magic is homophobic?”

Harry chuckles beneath his breath. “D’yeh hear yourself?”

“You just said they don’t get Familiars.”

“They’re adopted,” Harry says. “Chances are they’re not witches, an’ if they are, they’ll already have a Familiar.”

“Oh,” you mumble, pressing your lips together, “right.”

“Familiars aren’ always cats, though,” Harry continues, as though you haven’t been dumbstruck. “Can be any animal, really. M’ dad’s is an iguana.”

“You’re telling me that an iguana gave birth to that cat?” You point almost accusatorially toward Nicks.

Harry lets out a bark of laughter as he turns to leave the room. “Was m’ mum’s Familiar that had Nicks,” he corrects as he exits into the hall and rounds the corner.

You stick in the kitchen, leaning against the back of a chair. Nicks follows Harry into the living room, where you can hear him turning the thick pages of a book—probably the book. You tilt your head back to stare up at the textured ceiling.

“So, what about mortals?” you ask. At first, you think he doesn’t hear you, but then he grunts and snaps the book shut. His footsteps sound as he returns to the kitchen.

“Mortals?” he prompts, staring down at a paper in his hand.

“Yeah, say a witch ends up with a mortal. They don’t have Familiars. What happens then?”

Harry lifts his eyes to yours and leans against the frame of the entryway, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Doesn’ happen very often,” he answers. “I don’ know a single couple like that. But I would assume, if they were supposed t’ end up together, the witch would have a female Familiar and it would work pretty much the same way."

"But if I have witch blood in my ancestry like you think, shouldn't I have a Familiar too, then?"

Harry licks his lips. "Not if the witch in your ancestry had a male Familiar."

"So, what you're saying," you begin, "is that whoever it was had a kid outside of their 'soulmate' sort of relationship? Like, not with the person that magic said they were supposed to end up with?"

"Smart girl. Now—" Harry moves into the kitchen again and lays out his piece of paper on the table. Nicks, in her nosy way, has followed him, and twines herself between his legs. "Think I've gotten all the ingredients for this one, but I could be wrong. There was just a paragraph a' the end there that I couldn' really make out."

You settle your palms on the tabletop and take a quick glance over the sheet of paper. With each passing translation, the Latin has seemed to grow more difficult, more complex and intricate. Harry's scribbles have transformed from short words and chopped sentences to a full paragraph of text.

"I'm confused," you mutter after a minute or so.

Harry, nosy yet patient, has positioned himself at your shoulder, watching your fingers trail over his handwriting. He raises his eyebrows.

"Are yeh stumped?" he asks. "Hmm. Maybe I need t'start lookin' for a new translator. If yeh can'—"

"Shut up." You cut him off with a huff of breath and the amused quirk to his lips only serves to infuriate you. Perhaps it's the lack of sleep still gnawing at you. "I can read it just fine, thank you. I'm just confused about what it means."

"Well, how 'bout we start with what it actually says," Harry suggests. You have to make an effort to keep your tone even.

“Blood drawn with love,” you reveal. "It says you need blood drawn with love. What the fuck does that even mean?"

Harry grins at your agitation and turns to the stove, lighting a burner in his usual flashy manner and placing a closed pot on top of the flame.

"We'll worry about tha' when we get to it," he says, and the mystery of everything grates on your already sensitive nerves.

"What's in the pot?" you ask, ready to snap if he refuses to answer this question too.

"Tallow."

“Tallow?”

“Yeah. Animal fat.”

You wrinkle up your nose. You're surprised at the straightforwardness of his answer, but also confused.

"What are we doing with tallow?"

"Makin' candles."

"Candles?"

"Candles."

Harry smiles at you again and when you don't smile back he sighs. "D'yeh want me t'make yeh some tea again? Seem upset. Tense."

"No, I don't want any of your weird tea. I wanna know why we're making candles."

"Makin' candles for the spell," he says calmly.

Despite your protest, he's digging through the cupboard above the sink, lighting another burner, pulling out the familiar ingredients for his soothing tea. You cross your arms across your chest.

"Relax," coaxes Harry. "Please. 'M not actin' any different than usual, you're just tired. Still can' tell yeh everything about the spell, okay? But you'll figure everythin' out once it's put together next week."

"Next week?"

"Halloween. Tha's when the full spell goes into effect. Now, please drink this."

Harry hands you a steaming mug of tea. You're amazed at how quickly he's come to make it, without much thought at all, it seems. You take the drink from him and just the warmth of the cup on your fingers seems to help your muscles settle.

"Okay," Harry says once you've taken a few cautious sips and he's watched the frustration in your face smooth out. He opens up his pot of tallow and stirs it with a wooden spoon. "Can yeh hand me tha' bowl? Don' touch the bloodflowers."

You set your tea down and grab the mortar full of its ground up plants, passing it to Harry, who dumps the contents into his melted tallow and stirs everything together. Steam rises from the pot, filling the room with a sort of aromatic haze that makes you even more tired than you already were.

Harry looks silently down at Nicks for the first time since you've returned to the house. With a flick of her tail and a short mew, she hops up onto the table, biting the head off of a bloodflower and jumping over to the counter beside the stove. You've never seen this type of interaction between the two of them. It's almost as though he's spoken to her the same way he asked you for the herbs. She drops the full flower into the pot and then sits back on her haunches, purring elatedly when Harry finally pays her some attention and scratches at her cheek.

As you watch from the other side of him, Harry stirs the tallow. The bloodflower dissolves right into the concoction and the liquid wax transforms from a pale yellow to a red that's so bright and vibrant, you're unconvinced that it's not actual blood.

"Yeh feel better now?" Harry asks, resting the spoon against the side of the pot. He turns his attention away from the stove and faces you. When you look back up at him, you're suddenly very aware of the close proximity, of the blue that still rings his irises, thought it's not currently glowing. "Yeh had enough tea?"

You give him a soft nod.

"'S good," he says, placing a hand on your hip. The fingers of his other hand cup the side of your jaw, and though you can feel it coming, you still gasp as he presses his mouth strongly, confidently to yours.

Your surprise doesn't keep you from gripping at his arms and returning his kiss. You're sure that somewhere in the room the candle mixture is bubbling and Nicks is pointedly annoyed, but your eyes have crept shut and you can't hear anything but your own blood pumping in your ears, the soft parting of Harry's lips from yours before they return with a vengeance. He backs you into the wall beside the counter, wrapping his arm around your waist to tug your hips against him. His other hand slips to the back of your neck, holding you steady as he sighs and tilts his head to kiss you deeper.

Your fingers tighten on Harry's arms as you try to keep up. It's like he's spent his entire life perfecting the way to make you melt, and you just can't seem to catch your breath. His tongue teases at the corner of your mouth. Your lips part and he fits his own between them, pulling on your lower lip. Your breath shakes.

And then his teeth clamp down sharply.

You shove Harry forcefully away from you as your tingling lip bursts with sudden pain. When you open your eyes, he's looking at you blankly. The daze of your kiss doesn't keep you from feeling the constant sting in your mouth. You lift your fingers to the source and when you pull them away, blood is spreading over the skin. You swipe your tongue across your lips and taste copper.

"What the fuck, Harry?" you whisper, lifting your other hand to your face as a drop of blood trails down your chin.

Harry doesn't say anything as he approaches the stove again and spits into the bubbling pot. A mess of black smoke rises up into the air, but you're too preoccupied to wonder.

"C'mere," Harry says quietly, and when you look up he's standing in front of you again, his hand reaching for your face. You turn away from him, swiping at his hand. He catches your wrist and his other hand takes hold of your chin, his thumb cleaning away a line of blood. Before you can do anything more to protest, his lips are back on yours, gently this time, just barely grazing the skin. Your eyes don't close. Harry raises a brow at you and presses one more slow, gentle kiss to your mouth. When he pulls back the pain has dulled, the blood stopped. His fingers brush against the side of your neck and somehow you find yourself relaxing.

"'Blood drawn with love,'" Harry quotes when he realizes that you won't be speaking first.

You shake your head quickly, face screwing up. "I don't love you," you tell him with conviction. "I've known you for three weeks."

Harry chuckles and nods. You shiver despite yourself as his fingers lower to trace your collarbone, struggling to keep your eyes open and steady on him.

“Lots o’ spells are pretty straightforward. Some of ‘em are more vague. The vague ones are usually pretty lenient with their requirements,” he informs you. "And for the record, I don' love you either."

Your frown deepens.“Well, couldn’t I have made you bleed?”

“Doesn’ work like that." Harry takes a careful step closer to you dipping his head into your shoulder. His lips follow his fingers along your collarbone. You shiver again. It's frustrating, but you have to tilt your head back against the wall and clench your hands into fists to keep from pulling on him again. "Can’ harvest ingredients from the speller," he utters against the base of your throat, "unless it specifically tells yeh to.”

When Harry finally releases you and takes a step back to lean against the table, you're glaring at him.

“Wha’? Yeh still mad abou' the bite? Listen, I—”

“Don’t say ‘harvest,’" you tell him with a shake of your head. You're sort of embarrassed by how easily you've folded and forgiven him. But your lip feels unmarred already, the taste of coppery blood replaced by the taste of Harry. You take a deep breath. "Makes me feel like a field of fucking corn. Or the dove that they kill in witch movies.”

"Dove?" Harry smiles smugly. "I like tha'. But I won' kill yeh, my dove." He takes your hand and brings it to his lips, spreading wet kisses over the back.

Your own teeth settle into your lower lip. You're charmed. And irritated. You don't want to be this easily molded, like wet clay, putty in his adept fingers.

“Will yeh help me pour this into molds?” Harry asks, lowering your hand but steering you back toward the stove. When you glance inside the pot, you find that the contents have turned an ominous, absorbing black.

You nod, taking the handful of wicks that he hands to you.

“These special wicks too?” you wonder aloud.

“I bought ‘em at the craft store.”

“I didn’t think you knew what a craft store was,” you inform him with a soft laugh.

“‘M a witch,” he says with a grin, “not a hermit. Now, let’s pour these candles so you can go back to bed.”

Part 4: Pentagram

[writer-and-artist27]

Miyako-bachan

The theme for this thing is Egao to Kimi ni, or, when translated, “To the Smiling You,” by Suzuko Mimori. The original version for Washio Sumi is A Hero or the shorter piano version done by YouTuber Hiumann works just fine. Because it’s such a nice song, and I couldn’t resist. -///- Even with the Yuki Yuna franchise being flawed like all heck with the ableism present in its magical girl system, the music and voice acting is still great.

Anywho.

The other song I’m going to mention here is actually My Neighbor Totoro’s Path of the Wind by Joe Hisashi, since Lang and Os both apparently see it as Tomoko’s theme. I’m surprised I totally missed that, but it works with all the classical orchestra cues! Hehe. ^_^

Copyright stuff. I don’t own anyone except Tomoko. Kei and Miyako belongs to @langwrites​ and Otoha to @owlsofstarlight​.

And to Os? This is my first time writing nonverbal cues and the like for Otoha, so feel free to correct me on anything.

Canonically takes place after How to Kill a Slimy Snake Man.

“To-To, you feeling better?”

Kuroha-san again. I was lucky. I really was. I wanted to hug them so much, if not for the fact that we had just finished what could be the biggest Group Hug out of all Group Hugs, and it was all out of thoughts of killing a Resident Snake.

What had the world come to. What had it come to, indeed.

Leo and Josh would probably be proud. I think.

Hisako simply shrugged when I leveled a questioning mental stare in her direction. Ninja world isn’t the best world, dear. Just take what you can get.

…Fair enough.

I wiped at my eyes as much as I could, trying not to sniffle. Crying for the entire day was not on my agenda. “Y-Yeah, better. A bit shaken, but better. You?”

A soft and reassuring dinosaur roar was my answer.

A giggle left my lips. How cute. At this point, I couldn’t think of a time where I would get tired of hearing replies like that. It was better than the ninja silence, so woo! “Of course, Osie. Of course.”

I didn’t have to look up to know Otoha was beaming and Kei was smirking. “‘Osie,’ huh?” Kei said softly, the smirk already seeping into her voice. “That was fast. Though, Tomo?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t you think you’re forgetting something?”

I wiped at my face a bit more with my hands to get rid of any remaining tear trails before trying to keep a level frown in Kei’s direction, because the warm fuzzies had already gone somewhere. “Forgetting what? We just talked about our latest Conspiracy Plot of killing a Creepy Slimy Snake Man, Kei, what else is there for us to do?”

“It’s not really something for us, but more you, Tomo,” Kei said with a small shrug of her shoulders, pointing at the hanging clock behind her with a thumb. “The Snake Man was way too distracting.”

“Um,” I said instead to fill in the silence, and over Otoha’s confused mumbling, I glanced at the clock. The seconds-hand was moving as usual, so what was the problem—

Wait.

Hisako nearly fell out of her chair and onto the library floor. You have training today, don’t you, Tomoko-chan? And it’s…

“It’s…after…1…in the afternoon…” was the slow response leaving my lips, and the hot coals were already flooding my face as butterflies started emerging from unseen chrysali in my stomach. “OH GOD!”

MIYAKO’S GOING TO KILL US!

It didn’t take long for the adrenaline to start coming in, and wearing a skirt was definitely not in this afternoon’s schedule. My cheeks were burning, but I needed to change, like now. Combat skirts were not a thing in Narutoverse, and I was not going to start making it a thing! Even if it was tempting! Mama would kill me first, all for ruining good clothes. “K-Kei, why didn’t you say it sooner?!”

Her only response was a quiet and perplexed, “I meant to say it earlier?” Emphasized with a raised pointer finger.

“THAT DOESN’T HELP!”

“T-To-To?” Otoha yelped. I couldn’t blame them for the reaction, since I ended up jumping to my feet before running over to my closet, narrowly avoiding accidentally kicking them. It took all I had to not slam the door open, instead putting in the least amount of force my emotions could allow while glancing over every single drawer and hanger I had in the area, because skirts could not become a thing in kenjutsu practice. Practice that I forgot about entirely. Frig.   

Aaaand without even being a sensor or looking behind me, my gut already knew that Kuroha-san was totally caught off guard. Aaaaaah, I needed to be better about this shit. Scheduling and sleeping late was one thing for Vy, a new life should’ve meant improvement! But nooooo, emotions had to be something else. Gosh darn it.

I probably could have worded it nicer, but what left my mouth instead was a rushed, “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, Kuroha-san, think you could look away with Kei while I change? I need to run over to meet Miyako-bachan for afternoon training with Hayate, and I still can’t believe I’m the doofus who got too emotional over an overpowered, useless snake and totally forgot about it in all that shit!” Because my closet was big and I still needed to find a good pair of sweatpants. I couldn’t even help letting out the loud and pitiful, “Baaaaah!”

Otoha’s only response was a yelp caught between a squeak and another dinosaur roar.

“And that’s why I meant to say it sooner if not for the Orochimaru issue…” Kei trailed off. Probably because I unintentionally let out a loud and mortified hiss. Cat-like, too. Aaaaah. Closet, closet, give me glass slippers and then I’d be off, so cooperate!

Tomoko-chan, breathe. Remember to breathe. Cinderella references aren’t going to help you calm down.

Aren’t you terrified too, Hisako? This is Miyako-bachan we’re talking about!

Who, last I checked, has never seen you late until now. And it’s only been… Hisako raised her left hand to count off fingers. Well, an hour, so it shouldn’t be too bad! First time’s for everything!

Welp.

Sure, the advice was nice, but bleh. The smile she was giving me didn’t help anything. It only made the butterflies in my stomach mutate into loud and angry vultures, hungry for my anxious entrails. I was lucky that Miyako-bachan wasn’t as hard on me like some other people, but still. Anxiety did not help anything.

Um, Hisako, it’s still an hour. And it’s MIYAKO-BACHAN.

…Point. Hope she won’t be angry?

In my haste, I ended up grabbing the nearest pair of pants I could find, being baggy blue shorts before pausing. Oooookay, this specific pair wasn’t in my best interest, considering the flecks of dirt covering the pockets from my last Gai-related training session, and considering my nearby…full laundry basket, um. So…

My gaze fell down to my bottom half, my hand tugging at the hem of my shirt. “Er, Kei? Silly question, but is Miyako-bachan okay with skirts? Because I forgot to do laundry.”

There was a pause as a hand made hard contact with a forehead behind me. It was obvious who it was. “Tomo, we have training gi. You could just go as you are right now.” She paused before adding, “Or I could just piggyback you back home?”

Uh. That was nice, but the stomach butterflies could beg to differ. Heavily. I did my best to swivel my head back to meet her questioning stare without rolling my eyes. “If not for the fact that I worry about throwing up over your shoulder, sure! Anyone have a magic cure for motion sickness?”

There was a soft crow caw as a response as a hand flapped in the air. Of course it was Otoha. “To-To, no. That’s not how chronic sickness works.”

“My point exactly, Kuroha-san. My point exactly.” I smoothed out my blouse, dusted off the back of my skirt, and glanced over my closet again before grabbing the nearest pair of clean exercise socks. Why, oh why, did I forget to do laundry today? Oh right. Snake man. Sucked ass. “Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate you two very much,” Kei and Otoha glanced at each other and shared a chuckle at that, “but I don’t want to get bile on you two! I set myself up for this, so I have to reap my mistake! Even if it means facing Miyako-bachan’s wrath!”

Maybe the fist pump was a bit much. Still, it was a good way of getting myself in the spirits to face the future, and once I grabbed a spare hair band for exercise, it was turning back and fully facing them. My best friends. There was one thing left. “So, uh. Well, you two can still follow me?”

Kei grinned widely before getting up from her seat cushion. “I still have to head back and look after Hayate, so that’s a given, Tomo.”

On the other hand, Kuroha-san blinked before letting out what sounded like a combo of her usual happy dinosaur trill and something more nervous. Huh? “I’m coming too!” The remark was said rather loudly too, so I couldn’t help but jump.

…What just happened? Hisako filled in for me.

Kei gave Otoha a confused glance. “Os? You okay?”

“Um. Yeah. Just fine!” Otoha gave us both a thumbs-up when it became obvious we were staring in her direction. It seemed alright, but Hisako’s quirked eyebrow was more than enough to express my concern. After the snake man, I had more than enough of an excuse to be fussy.

Staaaaaare.

“Uh.” Otoha waved their hands in the air vigorously, shaking their head all the while. “To-To, Kei-Kei, really, I’m fine. Promise!”

I closed my eyes, doing my best to not clench my jaw. Teasing and prodding wouldn’t get us anywhere, and the clock was ticking. Way too ominously. Gosh darn it. Miyako-bachan wouldn’t let me hear the end of it at this rate. “Well, the tables are turned now. But time is precious. Talk later, run now?”

Otoha nodded just as Kei snapped her fingers. “Yep. Still up for a piggyback, Tomo?”

Um. The answer was obvious. “Please, Kei. No.”

“It was an idea.”

“Again, no. Let me handle your mom’s anger, please?”

“You sure about this, Tomo?”

My hand was already resting on the doorknob when the question was posed. I took in a breath to steady myself. Running had become easier, considering I wasn’t sweating this time, buuuuuut. “...50% sure.”

Behind my right shoulder, Otoha interrupted with a quiet and vibrating, “Why 50%, To-To?”

Because she’s Izumi Curtis in a yukata and longer hair?

Instead of saying that, I blurted out a high-pitched squeak of, “Because Kei’s mom is a badass swordswoman and a wonderful teacher, but she’s still scary?”

Kei’s stare was already starting to burn holes into the back of my head. I couldn’t tell if it was worry or suspicion or both, considering how her stare was still unreadable sometimes. It almost felt like I could burst into flames alone from her stare. Aaaaah. “Tomo, I can handle Mom for you. You don’t have to worry.”

Sweet idea…buuuut.  

I turned back to shake my head, feeling the familiar heat flood my cheeks, this time of shame. “Kei, I’m an hour late. Even if I had emotional issues,” she gave me a raised eyebrow at this, but I continued, “that doesn’t change the fact that I’m late by more than an hour!” It took almost everything I had to not pace back and forth and keep my grip on the door handle. “I promised Miyako-bachan, and I missed it. I-I’m a bit scared, but I have to deal with it.”

Otoha and Kei’s stares in my head, from what I could see past my bangs anyways, spoke volumes of their disbelief. “To-To…” Another soft dinosaur trill graced my ears as soon as a hand reached over to squeeze my free left one, and I turned my head to meet Kuroha-san’s brown eyes. “It’s okay. Kei-Kei wouldn’t lie. We got your back.”

“Besides, Tomo,” Kei said softly, poking the back of my head with a finger, “Mom’s been fond of you for years. I don’t think she’s going to explode on you.”

“…I hope?”

Another poke to my head. Aaah. Kei was giving that same unimpressed look again. She wasn’t buying it. “Tomo. Just relax.”

I gulped, nodded, and turned back to the door. It didn’t take much to open it, but once the visage of a lavender yukata registered in the new space, I was already freezing.

She was standing right behind the door.

“Hello, Tomoko-chan,” Miyako-bachan said coolly, hands hidden away in her yukata sleeves. From what I could see of her face, she was completely stoic, giving away nothing as her gaze was level with mine. “I see Kei-chan is with you.”

Tomoko-chan, breathe. Breathe.

Of course my Nobody would notice that my lungs stopped taking in air first.

“Um,” I said instead, because a lump had surfaced in my throat and I could vaguely make out some shocked noises behind me that I knew wasn’t from Kei. Panic was already bubbling up in my gut like a volcano. Aaaaaaah. What was I supposed to say in the face of that? My mouth moved without thinking as I ducked my head.“Yeah. Um, Miyako-bachan, I’m sorry. I’m so, so, so sorry! I met up with Kei and another friend—”

“Tomoko-chan.”

“We were talking for a long while, andIkindagottooemotionalandlosttrackoftime, soI’msosososorry—”

“Tomoko-chan.” A hand landed on top of my head, stopping the ramble right in its tracks. I tried not to flinch, closing my mouth in time to look up. Miyako-bachan only smiled serenely. “I am not angry.”

“…Oh?” was the rather intelligent answer from me.

“Surprised, but not angry,” she added in the same quiet voice, brushing a stray strand of hair back before glancing past me. “From the situation, I am assuming you and Kei-chan have made a new friend in your unexpected absence?”

“Yep!” Kei answered for me, rather proudly too. She had wrapped an arm around the now apparently frozen Otoha in the time it took for me to ramble like a dolt. “This is Kuroki Otoha, Mom! Our friend, fellow ninja and bookworm. Otoha, Mom. Mom, Otoha!”

“A-Also known as Kuroha-san?” I added sheepishly. “To me, anyways…” My voice cracked again.

If Miyako-bachan was surprised, she didn’t give off the impression of it. Instead, she lifted her hand from my head to smile broadly in Otoha’s direction. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Otoha-kun. Would you like to come in?”

“A-Ah,” Kuroha-san said simply, jaw clenched before putting up what looked like a crooked smile and a shaky wave of her hand as acknowledgement. The vibrating nod was hard to miss, and from the looks of it, it seemed like Otoha had lost all sense of words. Her mouth was on the edge of saying something affirmative, but with the wind behind us, nothing came out of it.

I glanced at Kei in question, but she only shrugged and squeezed Kuroha-san’s shoulders all the while, almost as if to steady her. Kuroha-san was still staring in Miyako-bachan’s direction with wide eyes and that clenched jaw.

Meanwhile, Miyako-bachan glanced between the three of us with that same smile. She wasn’t fazed, I’m guessing? “How about the three of you come in? I can prepare tea and some snacks.” She turned back around with a dainty step into the Gekkō household, and paused. “Tomoko-chan, be sure to talk to Wataru about training gi, alright? We will start as soon as you are ready.”

Hisako let out a small sigh. Of course. …Yep, knew she wasn’t going to let us out of this.

I still couldn’t stop myself from smiling because Miyako-bachan wasn’t angry. Thank the gods. Or Buddha. Or whoever. Because good luck was good luck. “O-Okay!” Maybe it was the stress. Or the fading heat of my cheeks. Still. I don’t even know where the name came from before it was already coming out of my mouth. “Thank you, Miyako-shishō!”

I could already feel Kei and Otoha’s surprised stares boring into my back. Aaaaaah, what the fuck did I just say. Sure, Miyako-bachan was pretty, awesome, and really well-off for a woman in Konoha, and I just respect her, okay?! Aaaaah.

Miyako-bachan visibly paused her walking pace back in the house. “Shishō?” Without wasting a single second, she turned her head to face me again, long black ponytail brushing her neck all the while, a smaller smile on her face. “Tomoko-chan, you don’t have to call me shishō.”

Oh gosh. “B-But you teach me a lot of things, Miyako-bachan, so you’re shishō to me too!”

Miyako-bachan’s smile broadened. “Oh, Tomoko-chan, come in and take off your sandals already. You will catch a cold if you stand out in the wind all day.”

More embarrassed heat. Aaaaah. I was so cheesy. My feet were already sweating. “Okay! I-I’m coming!”

Kei simply chuckled softly behind me. Otoha was still silent.

“Strike-one! Block! Backstep! Tomoko-chan, you are faltering! Keep a steady breath!”

“Hah! Hah!” The snap of a shinai in the air. “R-Roger that, Miyako-shishō!”

“Block again!”

“Hah!”

“Backstep! Backstep! Backstep! Strike-two! I did not hear a snap of the shinai, Tomoko-chan! Swing harder!”

“H-Hai, Miyako-shishō!”

“You can do it, Tomo-nee!”

Otoha was still staring out towards Miyako with wide eyes as Kei drank some of her green tea. Tomo was doing fine based on chakra alone, even with her iffy endurance, so it was time to focus on the other person in the vicinity. Miyako could take care of Hayate. “Something the matter, Otoha?”

The enby startled before turning to her with a sheepish smile. She waved her hand in the air as discreetly as she could, shaking her head to the previous question. “Okay. Just really really really happy, Lang-Lang,” was the mouthed response, and Kei nodded. It was a nonverbal moment. Alright. “You have—” Otoha paused at this, glancing back at the training session still going on between Miyako and Tomoko for a moment.

A moment of silence, aside from the snapping of shinai, Hayate’s cheering, and Miyako’s barked instructions, passed between the two.

“Os?” Kei whispered.

Otoha turned back to her with a big, shaky grin, vibrating in place on her seat cushion. “You have a really awesome mom, Kei-Kei.”

Kei grinned back. “Mom is awesome. I’m glad you like her.”

Otoha nodded vigorously, opening her mouth again. “I-I wanna cry, just a bit,” they mouthed. “Could I come here more often?”

“No one is saying no, Otoha,” Kei replies, the grin already making her cheeks hurt from how big it was on her face. “It’s always nice to have company.”

Otoha’s shoulders tensed just as her smile broadened, nodding hard again. “Th-Thank you, Lang-Lang,” was the silent, mouthed reply. Accentuated with another wave of a hand in the air. “Thank you.”

“No problem, Otoha,” Kei turned back to the training session with that same smile, holding back a snicker at the latest event going on. “No problem.”

“Tomoko-chan, your stance is too loose! Tighten your muscles!”

“H-Hai, Miyako-shishō!”

“Strike again!”

“HAH!”

Even with the hard swipe of Tomoko’s shinai in the air, Kei didn’t miss the small and happy dinosaur trill nearby. It was peaceful. Just as it should be.  

[charlielabouff]

two can keep a secret → darlie

WHO: Dallas Dwarf ( @dallasdwarf ) & Charlie La Bouff

WHEN: Saturday, October 11th 

WHERE: 4533 Spindle Street

WHAT: After hearing about her “broken roommate”, Charlie decides to have a little chat with her.

Charlie had heard that there was some drama with the lower class, and she had been trying to stay out of everyone else’s drama and attempted to stay out of it. She promised that she would focus on herself and not everyone else. Put herself first. But she couldn’t help but feel her heart ache when Darcy — Darcy out of ALL people — told her that her roommate was broken. Part of her wanted to say that it wasn’t her business and she needed to just stay out of it, but the other part of her knew that she didn’t wanna see anyone miserable. Or broken. The blonde let out a soft breath of air, Stanley the cat in her arms as she moved toward the brunette’s door. She knocked on it, before peering her head inside. “Someone wants to see you,” she offered, giving her a slight smile and dropping the black cat and watching as he immediately began to move toward the brunette.

Dallas had kept to herself since Halloween. She'd taken a step back from interviewing people. She hadn't felt like it, she hadn't felt like a lot of things, and it confused her. She was supposed to be good at finding answers and right now she wasn't even sure what questions she should be asking. She went straight from school to her room nowadays, and as a result her room was a little messier than it'd been, a slow steady pile of dishes building on her side table as she watched hour upon hour of useless television, hoping maybe if it rotted her brain enough she wouldn't feel this random confusion. She slid off her headphones when she heard a knock on the door, pausing The Voice and watching curiously as her roommate and her cat entered. Dallas couldn't help letting out a small smile at the sight, and she shrugged the blanket off her shoulders to seem a little more presentable and not like some miserable sack of a person. "Hi, Stanley," she cooed under her breath, letting the animal approach before looking up at Charlie and giving her an appreciative smile. She felt a need to apologize for her room and before she could help herself, she blurted "I promise I'll wash my dishes soon", looking nervously back at her roommate. "But um, thank you very much. I'll try not to keep him from you too long."

Charlie smiled slightly when she saw the girl smile, clearing her throat and pushing her blonde locks behind her ear. She couldn’t help but glance around the slightly messy room. All creative brains worked better in a mess, right? That’s what she was told. She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes flicking back over to her cat when he meowed and hopped onto the bed. She tried not to get jealous. She tried really hard. It was obvious that there was something wrong with the girl. She hadn’t been — well, poking and prodding like she normally had. She looked back Dallas, shaking her head and waving her hand in front of her face. “Clean ‘me when you want, just don’t let ‘em sit there for too long otherwise they might get mold.” She cleared her throat, nodding at her words before shifting awkwardly between her feet before shoving her hands into her back jean pockets. “It’s no problem. I figured you could use the company,” she offered a smile. There was a pregnant pause as she tried to figure out what to do, wondering if she should just go and let her take comfort in her cat or if she should sit down and talk to her. She’d experienced first hand what it was like keeping things to herself — not talking about it and bruising her big toe because of all the pent up emotions she’d felt. She slowly moved toward her, sitting on the edge of her bed and she wiped her hands on her jeans. “Y’know, hiding in your room and not talking to someone about whatever’s going on — won’t fix it.” Wow. She really did have a mom voice.

Dallas scratched Stanley behind his ears, absent-mindedly. She hadn't really sought out the cat much lately either. That was something she should do more often, especially if she apparently had Charlie's blessing now. She nodded at the dishes talk, too lazy to take a mental note to wash dishes later but sure she wouldn't forget. There was a moment, a silence, where Dallas wasn't sure if Charlie was going to leave or if she was going to say something. Even though she saw the older girl sit down, she was still surprised by what came out of her mouth next. It made Dallas blink quickly. Charlie was right, but her usual go-to to talk to about things felt wrong for some reason. She shifted uncomfortably, wondering if this was how she made other people feel when she asked them invasive questions. "I'm not sure what can fix it, because I'm not...I'm not totally sure what's wrong," Dallas admitted. Her throat felt weirdly itchy like she was going to start crying, which didn't make any sense. She wasn't that upset, right? "I don't know how to talk through something that I'm not sure what's wrong in the first place, or, I mean, I have thoughts as to what could be wrong, but those thoughts don't make any sense and I don't know where to go from there and it's a lot." She laughed sadly, then cleared her throat. "I have theories but those theories scare me and, um..." she trailed off, feeling like she was talking too much and shaking her head. "I'm sorry, I'm sure I sound ridiculous right now."

Charlie listened to the younger girl, folding her legs under her and fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie. Her eyes never left her face, to show her that she was all ears — that she was listening to her despite not really knowing her that well. There had been signs that the girl wasn’t doing well, and she almost wanted to kick herself for not realizing it sooner. Charlie pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, reaching over and scratching the cat under his chin — just so she had something to do with her hands. Because she wasn’t sure if the girl felt comfortable enough with being hugged or with a comforting pat on the shoulder, or if that was something she would’ve wanted in the first place. “Okay,” she drew out the word, nodding before her eyes flicked up to her face, letting out a soft laugh, “No, you don’t sound ridiculous.” She shifted, turning so she was facing the girl and hesitantly resting her hand on her arm. “If you tell me what’s going on with you, I’ll tell you something that’s been going on with me,” she offered a slight smile, “I know I haven’t been the — ideal cottagemate but I’m all ears. Figuratively.”

Dallas could feel Charlie's eyes on her, and she met them once in a while as she was speaking, but it was still nerve-wracking. Asking people questions was one thing, but talking about yourself to someone was difficult; she realized she still wasn't versed or good at that when it was anyone but Tristan, but the idea of talking to Tristan right now about her feelings felt like fireworks erupting in her stomach. She held her breath waiting for Charlie to tell her that she was crazy or that she was right, to validate or to calm her, for something, and honestly, she said the best possible thing she could've said. Dallas let out a breath at the physical contact, grateful for it, but even more grateful for an information exchange. No matter how badly she was feeling, the option to learn something new always made her feel a little more alive. "Really?" she asked hopefully, then nodded. "Thank you, yes, I think I would like that very much, actually. Um, should I go first then?" She giggled a little, feeling nervous but ready to share.

Charlie honestly hadn’t thought that she’d agree to such a thing — because there hadn’t been anything that was bugging her. She and Wes were stronger than ever, she was — kinda doing an okay job as captain of the soccer team. They weren’t losing, and that was all that mattered. Though, she knew the one thing that would always bother her would be her father. Finding out who he was. Knowing that she’d told one of her — other siblings about it and knowing that he knew. But she wasn’t sure that telling Dallas, who was close to Tristan, was a good idea. She nodded, her eyebrows raising at the giggle that fell from her lips and she nodded. “Definitely. Since I asked you first,” she stated with a nod, giving her arm another gentle squeeze, “And I won’t judge, I promise.”

Dallas felt her resolve strengthen at the arm squeeze - it felt almost like Tristan's hand-squeezes that made her feel ready for anything, and just thinking about those squeezes made her feel nervous all over again! What was this madness? "Okay. I apologize in advance for how convoluted this may come out, because honestly, the thoughts in my head aren't straight so I doubt it'll translate to words well, but I'll try my best." She took a breath and considered that there was really only one place to start. "So Tristan got his first kiss on Halloween. And I didn't." She swallowed and put her hand atop of Charlie's. "And I know he didn't ask for it and I know Baby's said it didn't mean anything and Tristan is acting completely normally but I'm not. And I don't know why. At first I thought I was scared that he was growing up without me and leaving me behind, but a little introspection has told me that's not the case. He's not going to leave me behind, not ever, no matter what happens in our lives. We've been a force ever since we met at his dad's pub and he saved me from being lifted on those barge-sized shoulders," she chuckled, smiling at the memory before furrowing her brows again in the frustration of completely not understanding her own emotions. "But if I'm not scared he's leaving me behind, what am I scared of? Am I scared at all? Why is it such a big deal to me? Because honestly it doesn't even have anything to do with me, but I can't stop thinking about him!" Her voice raised a bit by the end and she cleared her throat, lowering her head. "Sorry. But that, I suppose, is what's getting me down. And there's nothing to fix and nothing to do about it but wonder why my brain is just stuck there like some useless broken machine." She let out a deep breath, wondering if she felt better or not saying it outloud. It certainly made her feel more irrational. "So that's my thing."

Charlie listened, her eyebrows raising slightly when her hand rested on top of her own before she smiled at the brunette — making sure she nodded every once in a while as she continued talking. She even took her hand in her own, setting their conjoined hands in her lap. The more the girl spoke, she couldn’t help but smile even more. This must’ve been how everyone felt when she’s talk about her confusion with how she felt about Wes. That there was something so obviously in front of her, but she just couldn’t see it until she figured it out herself. Out of habit, her thumb brushed along the side of her hand, comforting her because she knew how confusing things could be. She hummed, nodding as she finished and biting on the inside of her cheek before she pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose again. “You’re — an incredibly intelligent girl, Dallas. That’s a fact. But you’re thinking with your head,” she tapped her own temple before she gave her a gentle smile, “You’re not listening to everything else that your body is telling you. Trust me, I’ve been in a — kinda similar situation to yours. You’ve gotta stop thinking logically and just — feel.” It sounded so much cheesier than she ever expected it to. She reached over, curling one of her fingers under her chin and tipping her head back so she could lock eyes with the brunette. “Question for you, how do you think you’d feel if — hypothetically, you were Tristan’s first kiss? Do you think you’d still feel weird about him having his first kiss? And did you have that same reaction when you found out your friends had a grand ‘ol kissfest at Waltfest?”

Dallas smiled humbly at the compliment, but was promptly confused by what Charlie said afterwards. She wasn't dumb, she connected that Charlie was likely referring to her situation with Wes, best-friends-turned-lovers, but thinking with her head made suggestions like 'stop thinking logically and just feel' sound downright impossible. She didn't even know what to say to that, now that not one but two people had suggested that her feelings in this scenario were linked to a possibility of herself kissing Tristan. She was grateful for the eye contact, or else Dallas might have gotten too lost in her own head about how likely versus unlikely these scenarios were. Her stomach flipped again at the mention of kissing Tristan and she wasn't sure what her face was doing, and her feelings were like the inside of her necklace drawer, all tangled in a giant mass beyond the point of being useful. "Darcy said that too," she blurted. "That I should just kiss him. But I don't think that would have fixed anything. Just because seeing someone else kiss him made me want to kick a hole through a wall and just because I was the most relieved that he hadn't kissed someone during Waltfest without telling me doesn't mean that I want to kiss him. Because if I wanted to, that would mean.... I don't even know what that would mean! I don't know what it would mean to me, what it would mean to him - he was able to get over Baby kissing him so fast, and people like Darcy and Victory can kiss and not talk about it, but I don't think it'd be so easy for me to just shake it off and what if I forced him to talk about it and he didn't like it? I can't lose him, Charlie, I really can't, I feel and think and just am better when he's around, he's the best person I know." Her eyes had gotten somewhat teary the more panicky her voice got and it was surprising - Dallas was far too calculated to break down like this, talking about her feelings, and she took in several deep breaths before putting on some more composure. "Sorry," she apologized, letting out a sigh and calming down a little. "Was that a satisfactory answer?"

Charlie eyebrows rose when the girl began to ramble, her eyes stabbing her face and feeling her heart just ache when she saw the tears beginning to pool in her eyes. Ignoring her instinct to wrinkle her nose at the mention of Victory and Darcy, the blonde shifted toward her and she wrapped her arms around her — pulling the brunette into an embrace and beginning to shush her — her fingers smoothing down her dark locks. She rested her cheek on the top of her head, knocking the glasses on her face crooked but at that point it didn’t matter. She let out a soft breath of air, shrugging and resting her chin on the top of her head. “Hey, If you two are as close as you say you are, nothing is gonna come between the two of you. ‘Specially not some silly ‘ol kiss,” she drawled, her fingers brushing against her arm in a hopefully comforting manner, “I’m not sayin’ that you should go and plant one on him, but maybe take some time and figure out just how you’re feelin’ . And if you need someone to talk to, I literally sleep in the room next to yours.” She gave her a gentle squeeze and she lifted her head to look down at the small brunette, giving her a soft smile. “You’re young. You’ve got plenty of time to figure out all of the mumbo-jumbo type of stuff you’re feelin’ right now. It took me a whole month to figure out how I felt about Wes, at least you’re not dating someone else.” It was a joke, and she even let out a soft laugh. “Feelings are terrifying, especially if it involves someone you’re close to. But it could lead you to the most amazing experience of your life.” She offered her another smile. Charlie didn’t know if it was helping or if it was just making things worse. She by far wasn’t the love expert, but she hoped that it was kind of helping.

Dallas felt her eyes get even more watery at being hugged, but she appreciated it so much. Dallas had never had a mom, but when she was little and cried over people not liking her, sometimes her dad had held her just like this. She hadn't had to be held in a long time and she didn't completely understand why it was needed now, but it was absolutely necessary. "Thank you," she breathed quietly, squeezing her eyes shut to will away the last of the water. "Thank you, I'm so sorry, I don't know why I'm...like this. Figuring out how I'm feeling sounds impossible," she admitted with a little laugh, a little miffed at herself for contradicting what was probably really good advice. Her pulse quickened at the phrase 'most amazing experience of your life' - she'd known she wanted Tristan around for her entire life, but this new degree to that was overwhelming. "How did you know?" she asked quietly. "I mean, how did you know you didn't just loveWes, but that you were in love with him? How did you know that everything you were feeling wasn't just because everyone says friends are supposed to get together and that if you did it wrong you risked losing him and losing your best friend and - just, how did you know?" she finished lamely and curiously. "That it was worth it?"

Charlie‘s arms tightened around her, shaking her head and giving her a smile. “Hey! You’re talking to the biggest cryer here at Walt. You don’t gotta apologize,” she stated with a wide smile, shaking her head, “It’s better to let it out then to keep it all bottled in.” Something she so desperately needed to learn. “Don’t apolgize about being upset or feeling anything. It’s okay to feel stuff. You don’t have to be sorry. It’s okay.” She nodded, pushing her own glasses up the bridge of her nose once more. “You don’t have to figure it out now. You have time. Just don’t let how you’re feeling get in the way of spending time with your friend.” She paused at her question, her eyebrows pressing together as she thought about it because she never really thought about it. Hell, she wasn’t even the first one to say I love you, he was. She puffed out her cheeks and as she really thought about it, shifting slightly. “I’m not gonna lie — the way we got together wasn’t very,” she cleared her throat and felt her face heat up just slightly, “ wholesome, but the next morning when he left — I wanted him to still be around. And I want him to always be around. And I guess — part of me always kinda just knew. It just took the rest of my parts to catch up.” She looked at her and gave her a smile. “It’s scary. It’s absolutely terrifying, and I’m not gonna say that it’s easy, because it’s not. But taking that leap, risking our friendship, it’s completely worth it. I’m happier than I ever have been.” She gave her a gentle nudge, pushing her glasses up her nose once more. “You deserve to be happy, too. And not cooped up in your room watching television. So, how about you get dressed and I’ll take you out for some hot cocoa. Or if you wanna stay in, I’ll order us a pizza and we can hang out.”

Dallas had to smile at Charlie calling herself the biggest cryer in Walt. She resisted the urge to suggest that they'd probably have to run a few polls to find out if that was officially her position, choosing instead to try to listen to what she was saying. She felt almost embarrassed about apologizing for her feelings, but it was so instinctive and so normal to do so. Dallas wasn't big on feeling. She was a thinker, first and foremost - feelings were a wholly other beast. She nodded at the idea of not letting it keep her from Tristan, though; she'd already put him on the backburner too much, she needed to see him again. And maybe seeing him would help some feelings make sense, who knew? "I have so many questions about which part of you knew first," Dallas half-joked with a smile, "but that makes sense, almost. Sort of." She felt validated in the statement that this really wasn't that easy - people made her feel sometimes like she should just be better at knowing, but there was so much noise in her head and all throughout her body that figuring out what to listen to was a challenge sometime. She reached out and hugged Charlie hard at the suggestion for going out for cocoa. "That sounds so nice, thank you," she sighed before pulling back and looking at the blonde. "But do you want to tell me your thing before we go?" she asked, recalling a certain deal that had been made earlier.

Charlie couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh, shaking her head and wrinkling her nose. “That’s definitely something I’m not willing to discuss,” she muttered, wrinkling her nose slightly before she nodded, “As long as it kinda makes sense, that’s all that matters. And you know where I sleep, so if you need anything — just knock. Don’t just barge in like my sister likes to do.” Her eyebrows shot up when she was pulled in for another hug, smiling and hugging the other girl back. “Cocoa is the best remedy for anything,” she stated with a nod, before she puffed out her cheeks. She had hoped that she’d forgotten. That she wouldn’t have to confess anything to the other girl, and that they could’ve just gotten their cocoa and forgot about their little deal. She let out a soft breath of air, pushing her hair behind her ear and she leaned back against the wall, trying to figure out any way to weasel her way out of it. Finally, the blonde let out a sigh. “Only two people know about it, so feel lucky,” she shifted and she stared up at the ceiling, not believing she was actually going to say this, “I found out who my father is when Grease happened — eight or nine months ago.”

Dallas nodded, taking a mental note of the boundary. She didn't want to push past anything and ruin this rapport that actually did make her feel supported. "I would never," Dallas promised, having never been a barger; she wondered vaguely how Tia and Charlie were so different, and decided that her brain questioning random things for no reason was a good sign. Dallas bit her lip, fighting the urge to say that Charlie didn't have to tell her anything if she didn't want to. Her help had been more than enough for now, but the curiosity was too strong, especially when Charlie said that only two people knew. She found herself leaning in a little bit, waiting for Charlie to speak - and she never could've guessed what she'd say. "Your father? That's big news!" she congratulated, having the best relationship with her own father. But the way Charlie wasn't eager to share the news and the fact that it'd been almost nine months ago and only two people knew didn't add up. "Are you glad to know? Or...what happened?" she asked, sensing there was more to the story.

Charlie smiled and she nodded. “Thanks, that’s all I ask.” There had been too many close calls with Tia barging into her room. While she was changing, while she was with Wes. With her sister it was one thing, she’d made it her goal to disgust her at some point and it was her fault if she saw stuff she didn’t want to. But she hadn’t wanted to scar Dallas. Or anyone else for that matter. She puffed out her cheeks and she nodded, feeling her chest tighten and watching as he cat slowly moved so he was on her lap. She slowly shook her head, pushing some of her hair behind her ear. “My whole life — I’ve wanted to know who my dad was. My mom talked him up, big time. Maybe so I wouldn’t be disappointed or maybe because she seems to see the good in everyone. But I found out he’s — he’s a terrible man and everything I’d thought about him is completely gone,” she stated, scratching Stanley under his chin and feeling her own tears beginning to pool in her eyes. She inhaled sharply, reaching up at wiping at her eyes. “And now I’ve got four other siblings that — well, three of them don’t know. And I don’t know if I should tell them or just let it be.” Maybe being vague wouldn’t tell her who she was talking about.

Dallas watched Charlie closely, feeling like an inattentive roommate and observer for not having noticed Charlie was carrying this weight. Sure, they kept mainly to themselves and the other girl had seemed tense but Dallas assumed it was because she was shy or stressed or both. Not because she was sad. She reached out a free hand to take Charlie's hand as she spoke, knowing there was some real pain behind her words. "I'm sorry. I know that when things aren't the way you expected to be, or hoped that they'd be, its the worst. Especially something you've believed so long and that's so personal. Have you talked to him, maybe? Maybe talking would help, either with acceptance or closure or a change of heart or... I don't know, I'm sorry, I know it's a lot. And as for the sibling thing, I think you should tell them. You said one already knows? Its only a matter of time before the others find out too and I bet they'd rather hear it from you. And maybe meeting them and talking to them will make you feel better too. I'm sure you'll have stuff in common, for starters the fact that just because you have an apparently terrible father doesn't mean that any of you are terrible people. You'll find the good in each other, and in yourselves. Growing up with a ton of cousins was the best thing that ever happened to me. There's something special about family, Charlie. And maybe you'll find more people to put your hopes into, people that won't let you down."

Charlie sighed, looking over at the girl when she took her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. She listened to her, before she snorted immediately at her suggestion. “Talk to my sperm doner? That’d be the worst idea, because I’m sure I’d end up punching him in the face at some point. Everything I’ve heard about him is awful, and he deserves any ounce of pain he gets.” Charlie had never been the kind of person to talk things out — especially when it came to someone as shitty as Gaston was. He’d wanted nothing to do with her, and the kids he did have he treated like shit. If she tried to talk to him, she’d probably do things that she’d never had to do to someone — but sometimes really wanted to. She hadn’t realized how tight her grip on her hand had gotten, and she swallowed slightly, pushing her hair behind her ear and releasing her grip on the other girl’s hand. “How am I supposed to bring it up to them?” She asked, shaking her head before she pulled her fingers through her golden locks, letting out a soft breath of air. It had just kinda come out to Gus — because she’d been dealing with her boy drama and everything else that everything just came out as word vomit. She looked at her once more, letting her eyes skim along her face before she gave her a smile. “Okay, so, how about we make another deal?” she held out her pinky and gave her a smile, “If you talk to Tristan about how you’re feeling, then I’ll go tell my other siblings that they get to add another blonde to the pack?”

Dallas raised her brows at the hostility in Charlie's voice when it came to her biological father, but she supposed she shouldn't have been surprised. Some people weren't lucky enough to have a good father - her own best friend had a horrible one, after all, it wasn't a foreign concept. And judging by Charlie's tenseness in her hand and face, her dad must have been comparable. "I don't know. I've never had to tell someone I was their sibling before," Dallas smiled sadly. "But I think they deserve to know and that you deserve to have them. Maybe just....I don't know. I'd probably do research on the person, find out what they liked, and use that knowledge to plan time around them," she confessed, "but there has to be something more organic than that." She perked up at the mention of another deal, but her blood ran cold at the prospect of telling Tristan anything she'd just told Charlie. What if she weirded him out to the point where being around her was hard? Or what if - her brain started racing, but she swallowed and nodded, holding out her own pinky as a promise. "Okay. I'm in," she breathed, knowing that Charlie's conversation was more important than hers to be had but that neither would be easy. It was kind of nice, doing it as a tit for tat situation. "Now, hot cocoa?" she asked with a laugh, shaking pinkies and sealing the deal.

Charlie let out a soft laugh when the brunette answered her rhetorical question, nodding before she pushed her hair behind her ear. “It’s not easy.” She looked over at her and she chewed on the inside of her cheek, listening before another sigh fell past her lips. Research. Tristan would’ve been easy. She could just ask Dallas, but she’d been dealing with her own drama. She just happened to know a lot of juniors. Maybe it was good if she asked someone else. “Got it, thanks. That’s — actually a really good idea.” She was honestly surprised that the brunette had agreed to it, which meant that she couldn’t back out of it, or pretend that she’d done it. Telling everyone else about her father was nerve wracking — and god she didn’t know why she’s even agree to it. She didn’t know how Tia would react to the news — not pleasant, maybe. She smiled and she nodded, pushing herself up and tugging on her sweater before she held her hand out for her. “Yep, definitely. Make sure you bundle up, it’s gonna be cold.”

Dallas nodded, agreeing with that. It definitely wouldn't be easy but life was about not-easy situations sometimes. And it was maybe a teensy bit easier knowing other people were going through hard situations too. Now that she'd gone through talking about everything, Dallas felt a little silly, like she was blowing a funny situation out of proportion, but it had hit her harder for a reason and she'd figure it out, just like Charlie would figure out her thing. Taking the hand, Dallas got herself off the bed and nodded. "Thank you again," she said, smiling faintly at Charlie's mom mode while grabbing a sweater and a breath.