#upsetting how much tumble is eating the quality of this. oh well

[scruboaks]

[carrotmakar]

Not Going Anywhere Without You

Pairing: Harry Styles x Reader

Word Count: 2.6k 

Summary: When Y/N finds out that she’s expecting, she’s scared out of her mind. She doesn’t know how she’s going to get through it all. She doesn’t know if Harry even wants to be a father. Fortunately, Harry’s more than ready to take a step back from the stage for a while to start the family that he’s longed for his entire life.

Warning(s): unplanned pregnancy, nerves, pet names, a brief argument (idek if you could call it an argument tbh), fluffiness, dad!harry

A/N: this is one of the pieces that have been on my mind since i saw the dadathon that @tbslenthusiast​ is hosting!! Everyone should go read the masterlist of submissions and join if you want to!! Also a warm thank you to @taintedwonder​ and @sunflowers-styles​ for beta reading/getting me through writing the whole thing!!! and @havethetimeofyourstyles​ for listening to me tell her about how i cried writing/editing this (ily jill) !!!!! 

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*

There’s absolutely no way that this can be happening. 

She stares down at the two pink lines on the pregnancy test and has to hold back the sobs that are threatening to overtake her. How could this be happening? No. This simply just cannot be happening to her. 

Except it is. She’s pregnant. She’s carrying the child that she and Harry have created together.  The truly awful part though? She doesn’t even know how to feel about it. 

Of course, she’s excited. She’s happy. All she has ever wanted is a family with the man that she loves, but she's also nervous. She has no idea how he’s going to react to this. She doesn’t know how any of this is going to work. He’s in the middle of a world tour and she doesn’t even know if he’ll be done by the time she’s due. 

Hell, she doesn’t even know when she’s due. She doesn’t know how far along she is and the amount of unknown facts threaten to send her spiraling. 

What if he’s mad? What if he doesn’t want the baby? What if she has to do this alone? She doesn’t think she can be a single mother.

There are so many unknowns and there’s no way that she can do this on her own. For the time being, however, she knows she has to figure this out herself.  She’s in  their house in London while he’s in the States performing to thousands of screaming fans every night. There’s no way that she can drop this news on him in the middle of that chaos.

No, she reminds herself instead that he’ll be home in less than a month and she can tell him then. It’s better to do these things in person anyway.

Fortunately, that also means that she has a few weeks to calm the nerves that are coursing through her entire body. She also has that time to figure out how she’s going to break the news to him. She can’t just come out and say “Oh by the way, hey, I’m pregnant.” Can she?

*

“I’m pregnant.” The moment the words tumble out of her mouth she hears the excited squeal coming from her mother. 

She needed to tell someone about the news, and since Harry wasn’t an option yet, her mother had  automatically been her first choice.

“Baby, I’m so happy for you!” She shrieks through the phone and Y/N can see how excited she is even though the FaceTime quality isn’t great. The image of her mother all but jumping up and down from excitement brings a beaming smile to her face. “Does H know yet?” 

That question causes Y/N’s smile to falter and her mom immediately catches it. “Why doesn’t he know?”

“Well he’s not here and I didn’t want to tell him on the phone, and I don’t know, really. I just found out the other day and I guess I’m just a little scared.” She’s trying her best to not tear up, and the newfound hormones are not helping the cause, but the lump in her throat is letting her know that she’s not succeeding.

“Why are you scared?” Her mother questions softly, trying to get Y/N to open up about what’s bothering her without pushing too much.

“I’m not sure… just scared he isn’t going to be happy with me.” She’s surprised when her mother audibly scoffs at her words. 

“Y/N, sweetheart. If you really think that he’s not going to drop to his knees the moment that you tell him you’re carrying his child, you’re delusional.” She lets out a light chuckle before continuing. “He’s so head over heels in love with you that there’s absolutely no way that he could ever be upset over something like that.”

“Yeah but what if he’s not ready? He said he had wanted to wait a bit.” The tears that she’s trying so desperately to suppress are beginning to pool in her eyes and she wants to kick herself for letting this get to her again. 

“Honey, H is the only person I know that is completely, without a doubt, ready to have children.” The first tear rolls down Y/N’s cheek as she observes the way that her mother’s face softens at the mention of Harry being ready to start his family. “Y/N, the moment that you break the news to him, his entire life is going to get a million times better.”

She nods and knows in her heart that she has nothing to worry about. She continues to converse with her mom for a little while longer, moving on from the topic of the pregnancy and Harry. Her mother’s words had calmed her nerves considerably. 

After the phone call ends she decides to text Harry; it feels like they haven’t been talking as much recently, and she feels bad, knowing that her nerves have partially been the reason for that. 

Hey babe, how’s everything going? Where are you this evening? 

His reply comes in an instant, almost as if he had been waiting for her text.

St. Paul :) it’s been pretty great here! The show was great last night! Haven’t really done much lately though, it’s just been hotel room after hotel room and show after show. 

The thought of him sitting in his hotel rooms alone, more than likely nursing a drink to calm his post concert adrenaline, makes a frown appear on her face. She knows how he gets when he’s away on tour and has to watch everyone around him pair off and go out to enjoy the city that they’re stopped in. He hasn’t been up for going out as much recently and, despite her efforts, she doesn’t know why. He’s usually always up for going out to let the adrenaline run its course, but every time they’ve talked lately, he’s just been shut away up in his room. 

Why don’t you go out and enjoy the city with the band, sweetheart?

Feels wrong to go out without you, angel. Miss you being here with me.

Her heart clenches in her chest and she can’t help but feel guilty. He had asked (more like begged) her to come on the North American leg of the tour with him. She had refused, thinking that she needed to stay at home so she wouldn’t have to take so many days off of work. Looking back on it, she probably could have taken the time off  and not had to explain. It was just one of the things that seemed to happen when her boss had found out she was dating Harry Styles.

I’m sorry for not coming with you :( I miss you, though. So, so much.

The awful feeling in her gut doesn’t subside - in fact, it only grows stronger. She suddenly realizes that if she had said yes, she would be with him right now. Not only would she be getting him out of those god forsaken hotel rooms but she also wouldn’t be withholding the life changing information that she has.

It’s alright, love. I’ll see you in a few weeks and then we can be together for a while. No worrying about tour. 

The prospect of him being at home for a while, possibly even more than a year, causes excitement to course through her veins. Maybe if he’s home for long enough to where he can start raising their child with her, then he’ll be happier when she tells him the news.

I can’t wait until you’re back in my arms, bubs. I miss cuddling with you.

She can’t see him right now but she knows that - most likely - he’s got that soft smile on his face that he always says is reserved for her. He always does so when he lets himself take a moment and think about cuddling with her. 

You’ll get all the cuddles the moment that I’m home. Promise.

Their conversation doesn’t last much longer. With the time zones being so different and the two of them being in different countries, with their sadness eating away at them.

*

She’s in his arms the moment that he swings the front door open. The force of the surprise impact knocks him back for a moment, but he eventually regains his balance and wraps his arms around her. 

She sighs in content at the feeling of  warmth radiating from his body to hers. He’s always been warmer than her, but right now, after he’s been gone for months, he feels warmer than all the blankets she’s tried to keep herself cozy with. 

“Hey, baby.” He mumbles into her hair, not making any move to pull away or even shut the door.

“I missed you so much.” He can hear the crack in her voice and he immediately squeezes her tighter. 

“Missed you too, darling.” 

She’s the one to pull away first. She unwraps herself from his arms and moves to shut the door behind him. She avoids meeting his eyes knowing that he’s already sensed that something is going on. She never pulls away first, and she’s afraid that he’s going to notice and ask her about it. Hopefully, he’ll just brush it off as the fact that the door needed to be closed or that dinner still needed to be cooked.

Of course, he doesn’t just brush it off. “Is something bothering you?”

She turns away from him and begins to make her way towards the kitchen. “I’m fine, H.”

“Love, please don’t lie to me.” Her breath hitches and her steps falter. That’s the last thing she wants to do  but she knows if she looks at him and tells him what’s really going on inside her head, she’s going to completely crumble. 

“I’m not lying to you, honey. I’m fine.” He scoffs at her words. He knows they’re not true, but he chooses not to push her too far. If he continues to pester her about it, she’ll close herself off to him and then there will be absolutely no way that he’ll be able to figure out what’s bugging her. 

“Do you want me to cook dinner, petal?” He comes up behind where she had stopped and wraps his arms around her from behind. She immediately leans into him and he knows that all she needs right now is his love. 

“I can do it, honey. You’ve been busy lately.” She hesitantly turns in his arms and peers up at him biting her lip. 

Now seems like as good of a time as ever to tell him.

“H, can we maybe wait a minute on the food?” She tries her best to not let her voice waiver but she knows there’s a slight wobble that won’t go unnoticed by Harry. 

“Yeah, of course.” He keeps his arms wrapped around her and waits for her to make the first move.

She stands still for a few moments, barely moving an inch. She inhales but it’s shaky and she feels the tears bubbling up to the surface before she can stop them.  She tucks her head into his chest as the sobs that she’s been holding in for weeks escape. 

“Shh. It’s okay, petal. I’ve got you. Just let it out.” He smooths the small wisps of hair on her head and slowly rocks their bodies back and forth. The gestures calm her and soon enough the tears start to subside. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” She sighs at his question and he’s scared that he’s crossed a line, that he’s asked too much of her too soon. He knows that he hasn’t, however, when she slowly nods her head and takes a step back. 

He releases his hold on her and she wipes the remaining wetness of her cheeks. She glances around the kitchen and Harry gently lifts her up onto the counter so that she won’t have to stay standing. 

“Um, so I have to tell you something.” She starts, and she busies herself with picking at her nails to avoid his gaze. “And I don’t want you to be mad, okay?” 

She still doesn’t look up at him, but she pauses, giving him the time to answer. After he hums his agreement, she takes a shaky breath and continues. “I didn’t plan for this to happen, I promise. I just… I don’t know… somehow it happened and I just… this is terrifying. And I’m probably making absolutely no sense right now, I’m so sorry.” She can feel the lump in her throat returning yet again and she buries her face in her hands to take  a minute to breathe.

Harry hasn’t moved from the spot that he was in. He feels like his feet are stuck to the floor. He can’t come up with a reasonable guess as to what she could possibly be talking about and it’s making him more nervous that being on stage does. 

“It’s okay, baby. Take your time.” He doesn’t want her to feel like she has to rush to get the words out. 

“Um, so, I know you’re on tour and you have a career that doesn’t slow down for anyone, which is why when I tell you this I want you to know that you don’t have to stick around for it. I can do it on my own, okay?” His stomach drops when she says that, but he doesn’t say anything yet. “I’m… I’m pregnant, H. Like I said, you don’t have to help if you don’t want to, you’re terribly busy, and---

“Y/N why would you even say that?” He tries to hold the harshness back, to not snap at her right now, but the fact that she thinks he wouldn’t want to be completely present in his child’s life makes him see red. 

“What do you mean?” She’s suddenly on alert, the tone of his voice taking her completely by surprise. 

“How could you even let the thought cross your mind that I wouldn’t want to be around? You know me, love.” He’s trying his hardest to not let his emotions take over because honestly, he’s not entirely sure if he’d start yelling or break down sobbing. 

“Harry, you’re a singer. Your entire career is touring the world. Singing is your dream, and there’s no way that I’m going to ask you to give that up.” She didn’t think that he would be offended by her giving him an out, but by the cracking in his voice, it’s clear she’s never said something more hurtful to him.

“Yeah, music is my job, and I love that. But my dream, Y/N, the thing that I want more than anything in this entire world, is you.” His voice catches in his throat and she finally looks up at him. He looks broken, like the things she said, the things she thought would help, really just ripped his heart into shreds.

“H, I really can’t ask you to give that up in any way.” She wants to give in, to say that everything will be fine, that he can take time off of touring if he wants. The rational part of her, however, the part that remembers asking him to give this up to any extent could make him resent her, fights against it.

“Baby, listen to me, please.” He pleads. “You’re not asking me to do anything. Regardless of whether or not you want me in our child’s life… which I pray to the lord that you do, I’m taking time off after the tour. I want to spend time at home, with you, with both of you.” He gently cradles her face in his palms and strokes her cheek with his thumb. 

“Are you sure?” She doesn’t want to keep fighting him on it. All she wants is to raise the family that she’s wanted for her entire life with the most extraordinary love. 

“Absolutely.” He promises.

He bends slightly so that his face is directly in front of her stomach. “Daddy's going to be here for you and Mommy every step of the way, bub.”

*

Thank you so much for reading lovelies!!!!! Again, reblog the pieces that you like and don’t be afraid to leave feedback!!

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[dilly-oh]

The Office War

    Kakashi had been stealing his pens again, Iruka was certain of it. His particular favorite was sitting right there out in the open on that bastard's desk, the orange one with the ugly troll cap that'd been a present from Naruto, as well as several others he'd bought at his own personal expense because the quality of pens the company provided for employees was a damn joke. Iruka had standards. 

    Those are my fucking pens, douche-bag, Iruka thought as he sat at his desk, seething with righteous fury. Get your own.

    He could see the smarmy asshole's hair poking up out of his cubicle, gray and spikey and in desperate need of brushing. As he watched, his computer chair tipped back and Kakashi came into view, lazy-eyed and tapping one of Iruka's own pens against his weird medical face-mask in thought.

    Just let it go, Iruka told himself before he could get truly riled up. He didn't need another talk with HR after the incident with Genma eating his lunches. That had gotten pretty out of hand - there had almost been a lawsuit involved. It's just a few pens, right? Nothing to start a fight over. It's not a big deal.

    And then Kakashi poked the pen under his mask and started chewing.

    That did it.

    Time to confront the bastard. With passive-aggressive guilt-tripping. 

    Iruka stood up from his cubicle and sauntered over as nonchalantly as possible.

    “Hey, Kakashi. What's up?” he greeted. Kakashi gave a distracted grunt in reply, eyes glued to his computer screen. “Sorry, can I borrow a pen?” Iruka went on, baring his teeth in challenge more than smiling. “Mine seem to be...missing.”

    “Uh-huh, yeah, sure,” Kakashi said, immediately handing him the one from his mouth, covered in teeth-marks and spit. Iruka recoiled in disgust.

    “Maybe...not that one. How about...that one?” He pointed to the orange one on his desk. Kakashi shrugged and handed it over. Iruka's eyes narrowed. Time to go in for the kill. “Wow. This pen is really nice. Where did you get it?”

    “Dunno.” Kakashi shrugged again. “Picked it up somewhere.”

    Okay, screw passive-aggressive. Time for full-on confrontational. 

    “Okay, cut the shit!”  Iruka burst out impatiently. “Those pens are mine! Give them back!” He reached over and quickly snatched them up, hugging them protectively to his chest. “And...” He paused, eyes raking over Kakashi's sloppy work station. “Is that my stapler?”

    “Oh, is it?” Kakashi said innocently. 

    “Yes it is!” Iruka snatched it away as well. “What else of mine do you have?”

    “Just some papers and binders and stuff. Oh, and I borrowed your pencil sharpener last week but it crapped out after sharpening my hundredth pencil-”

    “That was YOU?!”

    “I needed them for a seminar.” 

    “That thing cost like thirty bucks!”

    “I thought you wouldn't mind,” Kakashi said simply. 

    “Normally, no, I wouldn't, but YOU take things and KEEP them. That I mind. Plus you don't even have the common courtesy to ASK first.” Iruka turned away with a huff. “Don't touch my shit again.”

    And with that, he stomped back to his desk, arms full of his reclaimed supplies. 

    That'll teach him. 

---

    Apparently, it did not. 

    The next day, all of Iruka's paperclips were missing. He spotted them on Kakashi's desk, bent into abstract shapes. Mostly dicks. 

    That son of a bitch.

    This called for war. 

---

    After an entire weekend of planning, Iruka was ready. 

    On Monday, he took a screwdriver to Kakashi's computer chair, subtly loosening the screws at the base of the seat so it would break when tipped back at a lazy angle. He heard the crash from the break-room and almost choked on his granola bar laughing.

    On Tuesday, he drained half of Kakashi's pens of ink and rigged the other half to explode, splattering everywhere when used. All of Kakashi's reports that day were sent back and he had to stay an extra hour just to re-sign everything. 

    On Wednesday, he jammed the copy machine. Kakashi, the procrastinating prick, wasn't able to print out the dozen or so information pamphlets he needed five minutes before the important presentation. The meeting was rescheduled for the following day, much to everyone's irritation, most of all Kakashi's, who prided himself on his copying skills. 

    On Thursday, he stole every single staple in the office. Kakashi, who had finally managed to print the copies for the presentation, was forced to tape all of the papers together. The strange looks he got from the others as he passed them out was well worth the effort. 

    On Friday, he sabotaged Kakashi's coffee cup to spring a leak when he took a sip. Iruka heard him curse from across the room and looked up to see a satisfying amount of hot coffee had spilled all over Kakashi's shirt and face mask. Hissing in pain, he stood and stomped to the nearest bathroom. Iruka couldn't resist following the other man inside for a victory gloat. 

    “So...” Iruka said smugly, joining Kakashi at the sink where he was attempting to dab the stain away with wet paper-towels, “had enough?” 

    “Of what?” Kakashi asked distractedly. “Coffee?”

    “ME, you idiot! It was all me!” Iruka exploded. “Your chair, the copy machine, your coffee! All ME! Are you ready to admit defeat yet? Have you been thoroughly chastened?” 

    “Well, I'm mildly annoyed, if that counts,” Kakashi said, quirking an eyebrow. “I can't believe you went to all that trouble. You should put that effort into your work.” 

    “I should put more effort into my work?! You're the one sneaking naps in your cubicle!!” Iruka sputtered furiously, his face burning with rage, then cut off as Kakashi reached up and removed his mask and his face started burning for an entirely different reason. 

    Oh, shit. 

    Kakashi was hot. Kakashi was really hot. Kakashi was hot enough Iruka wanted to go to HR and lodge a complaint – He's too fucking hot. It's not fair. Fire his ass.

    This changes nothing, Iruka told himself as he broke into a sweat. He's still an asshole, he still deserved it all, the stupid son of a-

    “Damn. It's not coming out.” With an annoyed tsk, Kakashi smoothly removed his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and stripped it off, his shoulders and chest rolling obscenely with the motion. Iruka's mouth went dry.

    ...This may have backfired, he thought, eyes glued to the slope of Kakashi's back as he bent over the sink, scrubbing at the stain. 

    “I...have to go,” Iruka said blankly. 

    “Well you came to the right place,” Kakashi replied, focused on his work. 

    “No. I mean. Leave. I have to leave. Like right now.” Iruka slowly backed up, hit the wall, then slithered along it til he found the door, desperately snatching at the handle, his eyes still riveted by Kakashi's sculpted chest. 

    “You're leaving early?” Kakashi glanced up at him. “Aren't you out of earned time?”

    “Just take it out of my paycheck gotta go bye,” Iruka blurted before finally wrestling the door open and tumbling out into the hallway, shoving past a confused intern as he bolted towards the exit. 

---

    The sight of Kakashi shirtless haunted Iruka all weekend long.

    He considered calling in sick on Monday, but didn't because Kakashi was indeed correct – he had no more sick leave left after Naruto gave him food poisoning for his birthday by being cheap and trying to bake a cake. 

    Also, he wasn't a coward. 

    So, come Monday morning, he marched right back into the office at 8 A.M on the dot, rode the elevator with his head down, pointedly ignoring everyone while also on the lookout for a certain silver-haired individual, and walked straight to his desk.

    Which was covered in a stunning array of brand-new office supplies. Pens, mechanical pencils, highlighters, large and small paperclips, all sitting there still wrapped in plastic with that new-store smell. Iruka almost burst into tears at the sight.

    “Whose dick did you suck to get all those?” Izumo whispered, his voice thick with jealousy.

    “No-one's!” Iruka snapped at him as he sat down, mystified. He tentatively picked up a box of pens, delighted to see they came in a variety of colors. 

    “Do you like them?” Kakashi asked, leaning in over his shoulder. “I was gonna get flowers, but I figured you'd appreciate these more.”

    “Kakashi!” Iruka bolted up out of his chair like he'd been shocked. Which, frankly, he had been. “Wait. You did this?” He gaped at the other man in disbelief, then his stomach dropped like a weight. Oh, God, of course this wasn't real. It was too good to be true. The supplies were probably all fake, rigged to break or explode or-

    “It was the least I could do to apologize.” 

    “...Apologize?” Iruka blinked. “Why?”

    “Some kid came by looking for you on Friday, after you left,” Kakashi went on, scratching at his face mask in an almost nervous gesture. “Seemed real upset about an orange pen missing from your desk. Said it was a present from him. And, well...I connected the dots.” He nodded towards Iruka's desk, where Naruto's gag “Worst Big Brother Ever” mug sat in its place of honor beside his monitor. “I'm sorry. I didn't know that pen meant so much to you.” He dropped his gaze in shame. “I shouldn't have taken it. Or any of your other stuff, for that matter.” 

    “It...it's alright, Kakashi,” Iruka said quietly, looking at him in a whole new light. Perhaps he should reevaluate his opinion of the other man. Sure, he was a lazy, procrastinating jerk sometimes, but he seemed to have a good heart. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all. “And...thank you for the supplies, they're very appreciated, but honestly, there was no need to trouble yourself-”

    “Want me to take my shirt off again?”

    And maybe he was just an asshole.

    Kakashi smirked down at him, and Iruka could imagine how, under the mask, it pulled at the stupid beauty mark on the side of his mouth.

    ...A really, really hot asshole.

    “...Yeah alright.”

(Written for @kakairu-fest Kakairu Month 2021, Day Six Prompt: Office AU)

[avantegarda]

Original Writing: The Audition

yes my friends it’s high time for another behind-the-scenes look at the Austro-Hungarian Cinematic Universe! @ella-enchanted27 I apologize that I didn’t post this last night when I was actually talking about it, as I fell asleep, but here we are!

Starring:

The Late, Great Anna Kiraly (a 19th-century Fran Drescher)

Clara the Violin, as Herself

A Serendipitous Music Professor

A Bunch of Kids

Had Professor Strobel entered any other bakery on any other street in Pest on March 3, 1861, things might have turned out very differently. 

But, whether thanks to fate, God, or simple good luck, he did step into Sovany’s that rainy afternoon. And furthermore, he’d managed to forget the Hungarian for roll.

After a moment of staring at the baker in extremely awkward silence, Strobel was strongly considering turning tail, fleeing back to his hotel room, and making a meal out of crackers and cheese. He might very well have done this, had he not suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder. 

The shoulder-tapper was a tall, rangy woman with dark red hair piled on top of her head, dressed in a gray woollen frock and striped apron, and she eyed him with amusement. “Mister. You need help?”

Delighted at finding someone in this part of the city who spoke German— regardless of how well—Strobel nodded. “Indeed, madam. Perhaps you could translate for me?” He explained what he needed, and the woman informed the baker in incomprehensible Hungarian, resulting in a warm bag of rolls being deposited in Strobel’s hand.

“Thank you, Mrs…?”

“Király,” the woman said. “Király Anna. Who are you?”

 Remembering his manners, Strobel tipped his hat. “Professor Johannes Strobel, at your service.”

“Professor, eh? You teach school?”

“Indeed, at the Academy of Music in Vienna. Thank you once again for your help, if there’s anything I can…”

“Wait.” Mrs. Király’s gray eyes focused on him sharply. “You work at a music school?”

“A music school!” Strobel chuckled. “Madam, I work at the music school. The finest in Europe.”

“Ah! Good. Then you will come to have dinner at our flat. It is necessary that you meet my son.”

Oh, heavens, not this rigmarole. It was an unfortunate hazard of being a music professor that many people, upon hearing his profession, would attempt to foist all manner of untalented relatives on him, claiming that they were utterly brilliant and didn’t they deserve a spot at the Academy. Strobel sighed, preparing himself for the inevitable. “Your son, madam?”

“My son. He plays the violin. He is,” Mrs. Király said with resignation, “a very good boy. But he will not get the proper education here. We do not yet have a music school in Pest.”

“Mrs. Király, I am sure your son is very talented, but I am not certain...”

“I know, Professor. You will think I am prejudiced for my son, and you will not believe that he is talented. But I did help you just now, and you did say ‘anything I can do.' What you can do, Professor,” Mrs. Király said firmly, “is to come to a very good dinner, and to spend five minutes listening to my Andras play the violin, and then to go home in peace. This is fair, yes?”

Strobel resigned himself to the inevitable. If nothing else, Hungarian home cooking sounded pleasant enough. “Very well, Mrs. Király. Lead on.”

...

Upon entering the Király family flat, what hit Strobel first was the smell. A good smell—meat and onions and spices, filling up the small space and making his stomach growl. The smell emanated from a small stove in the corner of the room, where a short, stocky man leaned over a steaming pot.

“Ah! My husband makes goulash,” Mrs. Király said with satisfaction. “György! Látogató!”

The man at the stove turned around, his bushy eyebrows drawing together in suspicion at the sight of his wife’s unexpected company. Strobel noted, with some surprise, that Mr. Király—who this must have been—had a wooden leg.

There ensued a brief conversation in Hungarian, at the end of which Mrs. Király seemed to emerge the winner.  She turned back to Strobel, smiling brightly. “My husband’s German is not so good,” she confessed. “But there is no need to worry, we have plenty of food for you. Would you like to meet the children? They will be in the other room, studying.” She paused as a burst of raucous laughter sounded from behind the narrow door. “They should be studying. Children! Come now, we have a guest!”

There was some scuffling from behind the door before it opened and an assortment of youngsters tumbled out: first, two brown-haired little girls, followed by a tall, thin boy gently carrying a toddler. 

“Here you are, Professor,” Mrs. Király said proudly. “The baby is little Katalin—only we call her Kitti—and then there is Jozefa next, she is six, and Ilka is nine—and here is Andras, he has just turned sixteen. He,” she added, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “is the one I tell you about.”

To Strobel’s eternal shame, his first thought regarding young Andras was Well, he certainly looks like a musician.

He chastised himself immediately afterwards, of course—hadn’t he learned, during his career as a teacher, that musicians came in all sorts of shapes and sizes? And yet it couldn’t be denied that young Andras’ thin face, long fingers, and slightly shaggy auburn hair gave him a rather artistic air. 

Appearances didn’t factor into the matter, though. What was important was whether or not he could play the violin. Which was yet to be confirmed. Strobel was not allowing himself to entertain any high hopes.

“Children, here is Professor Strobel, who is visiting us from Vienna,” Mrs. Király said. “You will speak to him in German so you can practice. And Andras, you will play the violin for him after dinner.”

Andras frowned, glancing from Strobel to Mrs. Király. “Why?”

“Because he is from the Academy of Music,” Mrs. Király explained patiently. “And perhaps he can help you.”

The boy looked as though someone had just told him he was going to war. “Do I have to, Ma?” 

Mrs. Király raised her eyes heavenward, as if asking for strength. “Yes, Andras. You must. But first we will eat.”

...

Dinner was delicious, though Strobel was careful not to eat too much; generous as this family was, they still had four young children to feed. And generally nice children they were, at that. Little Jozefa explained, in an odd mishmash of Hungarian and German, that she could read an entire story on her own now with no help, and nine-year-old Ilka had shyly informed Strobel that Father Jonas at church had taught her to play a song on the piano and had the Professor ever seen a grand piano?

Andras, meanwhile, spent most of the meal in taciturn silence, occasionally casting worried glances in Strobel’s direction. There was an almost palpable air of anxiety around him, and when the last of the goulash had been eaten Strobel fully expected him to flee like a frightened rabbit. From the look on Mrs. Király’s face, however, it was clear that this was not an option.

“Girls, you will please help your father with the dishes now,” she said briskly. “Andras, you will go and get Clara.”

“Who is Clara?” Strobel inquired, raising an eyebrow.

“Clara is my violin,” Andras replied, a bright red flush spreading across his high cheekbones. “That’s what Mr. Batori called her...it. He taught me to play, only he died last month, so I have Clara now.”

Strobel nodded sympathetically. “My condolences, young man. If you don’t think you can play…”

“No, I suppose I’d better, if Ma says so.” Andras let out a long-suffering sigh and rose from the table. “Excuse me for a moment.”

He returned a moment later with a violin that, while it had clearly seen better days, was undoubtedly high-quality—whoever this Mr. Batori was, he must have been a professional. Without ceremony, Andras lifted the instrument to his chin and began to play.

The piece was one of Bach’s sonatas and a devilishly tricky one at that, though Andras didn’t seem particularly worried. Indeed, the minute he’d started playing, the panicky, awkward boy faded away to be replaced with something entirely different, someone who knew exactly what he was doing. A true artist.

And Strobel, who had seen so many auditions and met so many gifted young people, felt a familiar prickle of excitement, knowing exactly what he was confronted with.

Talent. Pure talent.

...

After a brief and quiet conversation with Mrs. Király, Professor Strobel left his card and the address where he was staying and returned to his hotel in high spirits. A prodigy, by God, a genuine prodigy! Certainly, perhaps he was starting a bit late—Liszt had given his first concert at the age of nine—but after all, sixteen was still young. A nice young lad like that could go very far, given the right support. The Királys would make the right decision, naturally. They had to.

Upon returning to his hotel the next evening, Strobel was surprised to see young Andras waiting for him; not with his mother, whom Strobel had expected to see, but entirely alone. 

“Professor,” he said. “Could we talk?”

Strobel nodded and ushered the boy upstairs to his room, where Andras perched on one of the chairs looking highly uncomfortable.

“What can I help you with, my lad?”

“Well,” Andras said hesitantly. “Ma says you want me to go to that fancy school, in Vienna.”

“Indeed I do. It would be exactly what you need, in my opinion.”

“That’s kind of you, Professor. I know Ma wants me to go, she’s been talking about it with Pa all day, and I’m very grateful, but I…” He took a deep breath. “I can’t go.”

“Can’t?” Strobel frowned. Had he not made it clear to Anna that there was no reason to fuss over money, that there were scholarship funds for this sort of thing? “Why on earth not?”

“Professor, you came to our home. You saw we have no money.” Andras’ German was good, schoolboy-correct, though his accent was considerably more distinct when he was upset—which he clearly was now.  “If I stay here, I can get a job in a factory or a shop, help my sisters. I can’t send money home if I am at music school.”

Strobel was not a temperamental man, but at this, he nearly could have thrown something. “Andras, how old are you? Sixteen, your mother said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nearly an adult, then. So I will speak to you as an adult. You are a fool, young man, for thinking that getting a job in a factory will help your family more than your getting a free education. Do you think I would be offering you a scholarship, to one of the finest conservatories in Europe, if I didn’t think it would be worth my while? Now, I cannot guarantee you professional success,” Strobel admitted. “It’s a tricky business, music. But I can tell you now that even a poor violinist in Vienna will be able to help his family more than a factory worker in Pest. And furthermore, if anyone who can play the violin like you decides to work in a factory or a shop, you may as well spit in the gods’ faces. It is unacceptable.”

“Oh.” Andras blinked, evidently somewhat taken aback. “I did not think of it like that.”

Strobel sighed, passing a hand over his brow. “I apologize if I was too forceful. But really, there is only one question that matters here. Do you want to study at the Academy?”

Andras hesitated, tapped his fingers together awkwardly, ran a hand through his already wild hair—and then nodded. 

“Good,” said Strobel. “Then there is nothing more to be said on the subject.” He smiled and gently patted the boy on his shoulder. “You will do well for yourself, I think, Master Király. And believe me, I am someone who should know.”

[agirlinjapan]

Red Data Girl: Ice Shoes, Glass Shoes (Story 1- Week 2)

Red Data Girl: Ice Shoes, Glass Shoes By Noriko Ogiwara A Translation

Read Part 1 of the first story here.

I hope everyone’s been having a nice holiday over the past week! My family and I had a quiet Christmas and now we’re enjoying a quiet few days until New Years.

During this time, I’ve gotten a lot of translating done! I’m finished with this first story in ISGS (what you’re reading now), and have moved onto the second story. The more I can do over the next few days, the less time it’ll take me to get the next story up, so I’m working hard!

There are only three parts to this first story, so next week will be the conclusion.

Happy New Year!

Red Data Girl: Ice Shoes, Glass Shoes By Noriko Ogiwara Story One: The Puppet Show- Miyuki Sagara- Third Year of Middle School- Start of Summer Part 2

Miyuki had been accepted into Keibun Academy in the summer of his first year of middle school. At the time, he had been participating in the “fall training session” on Mt. Haguro, one of the three sacred Dewa Mountains in Yamagata Prefecture.

As the acceptance had come without forewarning and Miyuki had been so caught up in his training at the time, he couldn’t remember much of getting the news except for a vague memory of mixed feelings. It had felt like he would get left behind if he wasn’t with his uncle Harunobu Sengoku. While Keibun Academy was an elite school, his acceptance didn’t feel like something he could brag about.

The day the acceptance had arrived, Miyuki had been days into his training regimen. He chanted sutras from midnight to dawn, then walked through the mountains during the day, barely sleeping, eating, or drinking. The routine had been grueling and had no apparent rhyme or reason, but during those days, he had come to understand one thing. It was shocking to know that Yukimasa came to a sacred mountain to do training like this even once every two years.

Yukimasa actually wants to do this?...

Miyuki had known that traveling around the mountain without sleep or food was part of the religious training that he was partaking in. What he hadn’t been able to handle, however, was giving up water. During the training, the participants completely forsook washing—their face, their teeth, everything. It had felt like breaking society’s rules.

There are plenty of people out there who say appearance is everything, but then they go around doing all sorts of unclean things. But Yukimasa?...

Whenever Miyuki thought about this, he could not imagine his clean-cut father going through the training. He would never do something with such questionable benefits. But that was what made Yukimasa such an unreadable person.

When Miyuki had gone to school after completing his ascetic training, normal life had somehow felt like watching a shadow puppet show. He hadn’t been able to fit in with his classmates who knew they were elite. That had been frustrating, but by the time he had realized why he was so frustrated, those feelings had grown to an unbearable level.

I’m only interacting with narrow-minded people who live narrow-minded lives here at this school. Everyone here looks like me, but that doesn’t mean that I’m the same as them deep down.

Once Miyuki had started thinking that way, things had quickly gotten a lot better. In the two years he had spent at Keibun Academy, he had become one of the most academically recognized students in the school. And the students around Miyuki had done their best to ignore his skillfully aimed sarcastic remarks.

But I can’t even compare Awatani Middle School, way up here in the mountains, to Keibun Academy…

Miyuki didn’t want to be here. He was only following Yukimasa’s instructions because of his father’s violence. But that didn’t change the fact that his present situation was attending Awatani Middle School along with Izumiko and the other students from the area, and being chauffeured back and forth by Mr. Nonomura. The current problem was how well was going to manage in this new school environment as a transfer student who had come out of nowhere.

Miyuki could tell that there was a laidback atmosphere to Awatani Middle School and that plenty of its students seemed oblivious to the world outside of their town. He couldn’t help but scoff at the fact that the school only had one class per grade as well. With so few students in the school, it probably wouldn’t take long for them to see through his forced demeanor. The groups of friends who had welcomed him at the beginning would start excluding him eventually. It was easy for Miyuki, who had transferred schools many times before this, to predict what would happen.

Or maybe I should start acting more laidback, too. I already finished the middle school third year textbooks at Keibun… I don’t have to study here. I don’t even have a desk in my room…

He also considered using everything he had learned at Keibun to make himself look smart and cool as a strategy to fitting in. That was new and novel to him as well.

Izumiko Suzuhara was with Miyuki for the car ride to school, although she appeared to be sitting as close to the opposite door from him as possible. As always, she sat there silent with her hands clasped on her lap, her eyes gazing out the window.

If he was going to have any fun thinking over his plans for fitting in, he would have to make peace with the knowledge that Izumiko would remain like that next to him for the entirety of the trip.

He would also have to make peace with the fact that Yukimasa had told him that he would serve this girl.

~*~

Because Miyuki and Izumiko were dropped off and picked up from school, they could never hang out with friends after class.

Miyuki could understand Izumiko’s embarrassment over the situation, but he decided to make the best of things and spend quality time with his classmates during lunch break instead. There was no reason for him to do nothing.

With so few students at Awatani, the number of clubs was limited. As a result, there wasn’t a soccer club. Instead, the more rough and tumble boys in their third year, Youhei Misaki, Tomoya Ogawa, and Kazuto Seya, went out onto the school field during lunch and kicked around a soccer ball as “practice,” claiming the lack of a club as an excuse. Miyuki had joined them.

Youhei and the others were under the impression that Miyuki had come from some sort of genius school where he had done nothing but study his entire life. He could be just as aggressive as anyone else though.

Those guys have absolutely no idea that I’ve been training to be a monk.

Everything Youhei and the others did was so opposite of how the Keibun students had conducted themselves that it was laughable. It would have been useless to say so to them, however. Instead, Miyuki had thrown himself whole heartedly into their lifestyle. If he felt at all ridiculous for hiding parts of his personality, surrounding himself with such wild students had kept him from noticing.

When Miyuki had first arrived at the school, he had noticed Youhei and his group scoping him out. In response, he had decided that a few minor changes to his demeaner were necessary to fully attract their friendship. With that said, while he kicked the ball around with them each day, he quickly forgot any misgivings he had originally had about doing so. Even if it had taken some adjustment, they were fun to hang out with.    

…So, I guess being a monk in training has become part of my hidden identity as well.

That felt a little strange, even to him, but it felt like more than a strategy for getting along in a new place. It felt like giving into the real him. Suddenly, Miyuki had friends that he could run around and blow off steam with. He could forget all the things that were upsetting him when he was with Youhei and the others.

That day, when he came back in from the school’s field after lunch and returned to his desk, Misa Koshikawa, the student president, came over.

“Miyuki,” she said self-importantly. “This is just a suggestion, but you shouldn’t lower yourself to Youhei’s pace. He’s trouble, and he never studies. If anyone’s going to fail the Sototsugawa High School entrance exam, it’ll be him, and they take anyone.”

Miyuki smiled at her. “So? I haven’t had time to study lately, either. It’s fine.”

Misa’s eyes went wide, clearly making some sort of assumption from his words.

“You don’t even think your parents would let you go to a trade school?”

“No, probably not.”

“…Is your family struggling that much?”

It looked like he was going to make her cry. Miyuki considered saying something along the lines of having been forced to transfer out of Keibun Academy because he hadn’t been able to afford the tuition.

When he didn’t answer immediately, Misa continued talking. “Don’t give up. If you keep taking your studies seriously, I’m sure you’ll find a way to go to high school. You could find a scholarship system if you did some research or something. I’m cheering for you, Miyuki.”

While thinking that the conversation had been very one sided, Miyuki wasn’t sure how much to correct the conclusion she had come to. He supposed that if he could get on this girl’s good side, the quality of his school life would probably improve.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“That’s a lie. I do have to worry about you. Your shirt’s ripped. That wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t hanging out with Youhei.”

Misa pointed a finger at him and he noticed for the first time that the sleeve of his short-sleeved button up was torn at the shoulder seam.

“Oh. Shoot.”

He thought about what would happen when Sawa saw the rip. Dismay colored his face. It wasn’t like he had other shirts he could wear instead.

“Poor Miyuki,” Misa said, her voice full of pity. But then she abruptly turned and went back to her seat. No doubt, she thought she was playing the role of a heroine.

Poor me, huh?...

Feeling a little weary from the whole encounter, it seemed somewhat impressive that someone would feel badly for him. Maybe it was a point of view he should consider as well as he crafted his identity here at Awatani Middle School. Maybe he really was a desperate third year middle school boy worth feeling badly for. However, he would have been more grateful to have his shirt repaired than to receive pity. Misa didn’t seem to be that sort of person though.

She’s not very helpful, is she?

Misa was pretty in an average sort of way and as the student president, she had influence. But Miyuki couldn’t say that he was particularly interested in her. He wasn’t interested in girls who lived their lives based on assumptions, even if they were easy to handle.

What Misa really enjoyed was observing the people around her. She believed that she was more attractive, more educated, and smarter than other people. However, she would learn better soon enough when she had to compare the real world to Awatani Middle School.

Here at Awatani, she probably thinks of herself as a princess. If you take social status out of the equation, Izumiko’s way closer to the real thing.

For some reason though, Miyuki was pretty sure that Izumiko would never be as full of herself as Misa was, princess or not.

Izumiko was taken such good care of—she was more like a queen. What Miyuki didn’t understand was why someone with such an upbringing spent all her time dejectedly by herself.

Whether Misa realized it or not, she was the hardest on Izumiko. It wasn’t her intentions to show off how mean she could be in front of Miyuki, but since it was so engrained into the atmosphere of the class after years of being together, there was no way for her to hide it.

Once Miyuki had noticed it a little and begun observing, it had been easy to see that the third year girls were split into two groups. Misa Koshikawa led one group while the other leader was Ayumi Watanabe. Ayumi was the tallest girl in class and, unsurprisingly, was the captain of the girls’ basketball team. Izumiko was part of this group. It seemed that Ayumi and Haruna Mita protected her from Misa.

From Miyuki’s perspective, Ayumi was a more sensible student than Misa. If nothing else, she had a determination to her that he liked. Her hair was cut short in a boyish style, and she had straight forward, no nonsense personality that was appealing.

If I started hanging out with Ayumi and Haruna, I wonder if Izumiko would start feeling differently about me…

However, Miyuki didn’t talk much to girls. He usually only talked to the ones who came up to him. Things were different in this class, though. It seemed like the boys were the ones who liked to go and talk to the girls and that was the way it had always been. As a result, Miyuki had never talked to Ayumi before.

But… Well, I guess I’ll have a chance eventually.

As Miyuki thought this, his next chance to talk to Ayumi rolled right around thanks to the gym teacher, Mr. Kawasawa’s, invitation to join the district track and field competition.

-------

Keep reading!

[gegenji]

Speaking on Sailing, Sunrises, and Solutions

Tsunene grumbled quietly to herself as she went over her notes again in the flickering candlelight of the cabin, a more “travel-sized” collection of alchemy equipment set on the crate next to her hammock catching the light and refracting it against the ceiling. The top of the container was already stained with spills wrought from the ship’s constant shifting and swaying on the waves, much to the Lalafell’s chagrin. She was already low of the raw materials needed to figure out this formula, and every drop soaked into the wood of the crate was potential gil – and tests – wasted. Which had resulted in her moodily returning to the hammock and reviewing everything she had noted down in her codex. It had been some time since her original attempts at this venture, so there was a strange feeling of detachment when reading over her own musings and comments from back then.

Not that she got much chance to muse over them as the door to the chamber slammed open and a very worn out and irritated D’lilac muscled her way inside.

“Must you make such a monumental racket?” the Plainsfolk chided, peering over the top of her book. “A racket that is so raucous as to ruin my restful reading?”

“Oh, a thousand apologies,” Lilac snarled back as she limped over to their hammocks – hers hanging over Tsunene’s – somehow managing to envenom her sarcasm even through her flagging energy. “I’m so sorry I interrrrupted your reading after being forrrced to help stow away all the carrrgo.”

“Helping with the hard labor more than halved the cost of having us aboard,” the Lalafell countered, looking back down at her notes. “And you’ve shown your skill as with such displays of strength of arm, so it seemed simple enough to sign you up to support them.”

“Yeah, when I had teamsterrrs to help.”

“Lament not, my loyal lioness.” Lilac’s brow furrowed at the term as she climbed achingly into her hammock, the Lalafell pausing at the creak of the ropes – perhaps in concern that they wouldn’t hold – before continuing. “I was not resting on my laurels while you labored. I continued my careful queries into the contents of Khandeed’s confounding ‘konkoctions.’ As much as could be managed given the meager materials and the motions of our mode of transport.”

“Could’ve taken an airrrship,” Lilac murmured as she stretched out, accompanied by the crackling and popping of sore joints. “Would’ve been fasterrr too.”

“And cost considerably more.” Tsunene paused in her flipping through the pages of her codex to prod her companion in the back for emphasis. “Considering our floundering finances, I found being frugal far more favorable.”

“Stop that,” came the warning growl which – surprisingly – resulted in the Lalafell relenting. That alone gave the Miqo’te pause before she continued. “Anyrrroad, it’s also going to take morrre time. Which will leave our equipment unguarrrded for that much longer.”

“The Guild got their goof and gained a goodly amount of his ‘goods.’ Any extra endeavors for the equipment would inevitably come after their intensive interrogation of the idiot and his ‘inventive’ infusions. If at all.”

Lilac made an unconvinced little noise as she stared up at the ceiling, still not liking the idea. Of course, neither of them could’ve known that a very large Auri man with a sword was currently turning their front door into firewood. They both lacked Anstarra’s apparent unique ability to feel the death of such things, after all.

“I still don’t like it,” the Miqo’te settled on, before rolling over a little to peer through the gaps in the hammock down at her often-insufferable partner-in-crime. “Still, werrre you able to figurrre anything out with your… ‘queries?’”

Now it was Tsunene’s turn to make an upset little noise, muffled as it was as she stuck her nose further into her book.

“… Inconclusive.”

“So, no.” There was a bit of smugness to Lilac’s voice to go with the cat-like grin she was sporting.

“Rrrgh. It’s so intensely infuriating!” the Plainsfolk admitted finally, her cool demeanor faltering. It wasn’t something Lilac saw often – though she figured most saw it far less – and so the Miqo’te was absolutely eating it up. “I’m certain these idiotic ingredients are correct, especially considering Khandeed’s own attempts to recreate the chemical!”

“But we ain’t seeing any otherrr giants arrround,” Lilac countered, fiddling with one of the many knots of her hammock. “So, he must be missing something too.”

“And that’s the tincture we’re traveling to restock on!” Tsunene huffed. “Such a shipment went missing shortly before the situation arose. So, it stands to reason that’s what stymies him from snatching success.”

They both went quiet for a moment, leaving only the creaking of the ship to fill the silence between them.

“… It’s weirrrd mentioning ‘Khandeed’ and ‘success’ in the same sentence.”

“Very.”

Another pause as Lilac rolled onto her back again and returned to staring at the ceiling.

“Still, you’d figurrre he had multiple bottles of the stuff even then,” the Miqo’te mused. “But only that brrrat ended up superrrsized. Did he only manage to sell the one bottle, or…?”

“… There’s some special circumstance that sets him apart!” Tsunene murmured, finishing Lilac’s sentence as she rubbed at her chin. Just before yanking at the tail dangling through one of the holes in the hammock – which was still in the process of re-growing its fluff from the encounter with Gran – and garnering a pained yelp of surprise from her bunk-mate.

“What was that forrr!?”

“Your suspicions may have solved this situation!” the Lalafell stated as she hopped off her hammock – having used Lilac’s tail for leverage to do so – and set her tome on the stained crate along with the lab equipment. “Some additional substance must have stimulated the solution…”

“You’rrre welcome,” Lilac sighed, having pulled her poor tail up and out from the hammock to gently massaging away the pain with her hands. “Could’ve shown your apprrreciation a little nicerrr, though…”

Tsunene was unreachable at this point, however, lost to her own musings as she started listing out – and sometimes immediately scratching out afterward – her train of thought into her book. Various other easily accessed potions – including others provided by Khandeed – along with various food and drink one could get around Pearl Lane. Until she hit upon the Quicksand and nearly dropped her pen.

“… Didn’t that Dunesfolk have a drink named after him?” she asked quickly, her sharp gaze levied on Lilac once more. “For overcoming the obstacles of that ogrish organization out on the Ul’dahn outskirts?”

“You mean the Grrrindstone?” the Miqo’te questioned in return, her curiosity piqued. She had always wanted to participate in the thing but had never gotten around to it. “I think so. Called a ‘Champion’ orrr something. It’s just a non-alcoholic Thanalan Sunrrrrise though, isn’t it?”

“… What are the chances one of these caskets contain quantities of this ‘Champion’?” Tsunene’s tone was that of uncertainty – not surprising given how unlikely that would be – though it was still tinged with the slightest bit of hope. Stranger things had happened, after all. Like giant Lalafell.

“Doubt it, it’s not a superrr popular drrrink.”

The lady Plainsfolk let out a dejected sigh and folded her arms over her chest. That would mean having to go get some after their return from the Dravanian Hinterlands. Another obstacle in the way of their success. And that was assuming that it was something that simple…

The Lalafell’s ears drooped at the prospect.

“Howeverrr…” Lilac continued, causing Tsunene’s ears to perk up again in curiosity. “They arrre sailors. I’m surrre they keep some manner of alcohol arrround. Maybe that includes a bottle of Sunrrrise or two.”

That’d work.

“Sounds like we should speak to some sailors.” The tome snapped shut and the candle was snuffed, leaving the porthole as the only source of fading light. “I cannot be certain that it is the correct component, but it can’t hurt to check.”

“Have fun,” yawned the Miqo’te, rolling over to take a well-deserved nap in the dimmed cabin. Or that had been the plan, anyway. Instead, her attempts were ruined by another sharp yank on her tail. “Eeeyow!”

“I did say ‘we’ would delve into the discussion of drinks, did I not?” Tsunene’s hands were on her hips, that indifferent gaze of hers now firmly back in place and locked onto the weary Miqo’te. Lilac, massaging her sore tail once more, groaned at the prospect but relented. Better to just get this over with before the ambitious Lalafell stripped what was left of the fur on her tail.

However, it turned out that getting out of the hammock wasn’t as easy as getting in, and Lilac twisted and turned and flailed before all but tumbling out of it and splatting to the hard, wooden floor at Tsunene’s feet.

“Quite the catlike reflexes there, comrade.”

Another groan from the Miqo’te. She was going to take such a nap after this. Possibly after “testing” the quality of any Thanalan Sunrise they managed to find. Or any alcohol, really; she wasn’t about to be picky.

To Be Continued in “By the Grace of Gob.”

[parkapetrs]

nothing personal ✎ tom holland

summary: two years ago, before harrison osterfield, there was you.

a rising name in the film industry, he was ready to leave behind the life of a personal assistant to focus on his career—but not without a last-minute replacement.

although the bond between ex-bosses and bitter ex-assistants should never be rekindled, theory is always better than practice.

a story about exotic lunches, foreign candies, a severely overworked PA, and one pain in the ass named tom holland.

/ moodboard by yours truly

i. an offer

words: 1.6k warnings: language

I was a known strategist—I looked into the future and what I saw, I interpreted in terms of opportunities for growth and progress. 

And yet to some, I was a neurotic. 

To each their own. 

Irrespective of whatever people wanted to call it, it all boiled down to one important thing: I always had a plan. 

So when I knocked on Harrison’s door but came face-to-face with one Tom Holland, I was taken aback and, quite frankly, fairly annoyed that I had come up with nothing. 

But I, of course, wasn’t one for backing down when it came to ex-bosses.

Seeming unperturbed, I marched my way inside the flat, all the while ignoring the voice in my head screaming at me to get out.  

What the hell was I doing? 

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Tom. He was still standing at the door, seemingly frozen in time, but curiously staring at me as I casually rummaged through Harrison’s pantry. 

“What the hell are you doing?” I spat back whilst pulling ingredients from left and right. “You’re not even supposed to be here until next week. So be quiet; I’m trying to make a smoothie.” 

The words sounded strange and unfamiliar as they tumbled out of my mouth. Sass didn’t suit me and I was painfully aware of it, but so did not having a plan. 

Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

The door clicked shut behind Tom. Like a sleuth, he moved across the marble countertop where I was working up a storm, and rested his hands on either side of him as he observed me intently. 

“Been keeping track?” he smirked, his tone arrogant yet teasing. 

I hate to admit it, but Tom Holland possessed a kind of charm to him. As big of an ignoramus he turned out to be, that much he knew. Oftentimes, he used his wit and personality to his advantage—he’d won countless women over with one glance, and gotten free upgrades on flights with a simple smile. 

Fortunately, I’ve built up an immunity to his charisma from working with him in the past. The kind of job I used to have—working in such close proximity to him—was enough to desensitize me from his cruel, borderline-manipulative tendencies. 

I definitely did not miss playing personal assistant to Mr. Holland. 

“I only knew that—“ The blender whirred loudly as it homogenized the strawberries, bananas, ice, and milk before I brought it to a stop. “—because of Harrison. Don’t flatter yourself.” 

“I’m disappointed, Y/N.” Tom pouted, feigning hurt. “I arrived last week. Thought I’d surprise you.” 

Looking around, I saw huge luggages carelessly strewn across the wooden floorboards. I grimaced at the realization that true to Tom Holland nature, he hadn’t even bothered to unpack. 

“Truly, I’m surprised,” I replied, training my voice to sound bored. I grabbed a glass into which I transferred the blender’s contents. Because there was more than enough for one, and because of the sheer goodness of my heart, I asked Tom if he would like a smoothie. 

Of course the glutton would like a smoothie. 

“Actually, I’m good,” he said. “Thanks, though.” 

Huh. 

“I’d like a smoothie,” came Harrison Osterfield’s voice as he sauntered into the living room. A shit-eating grin was plastered on his face, and it was getting increasingly difficult not to slap off. “Hi Y/N. Thanks for coming.” 

Somehow, seeing his elaborately coiffed hair set something off inside me. How can he act so exuberant while the rest of us (read: me) were left to our own devices to deal with the insufferable (read: Tom)? I could feel steam coming out of my nose and ears and, before I knew it, I had downed my glass and slammed it on the counter with a resounding thump. 

“You can get your own smoothie.” 

Harrison held his hands up in mock surrender, but he was laughing. “Woah, there. You seem upset.” 

“Why do you think I am, Haz?” I challenged. Before he could open his mouth to speak, I pressed on, “Right. You forgot to tell me who’d be getting the door for me.” 

“You wouldn’t have come,” was his pathetic reply. My eyes followed him as he lazily plopped down on the royal-blue couch, shamelessly lounging about in the heat of my anger. 

I took the spot next to him, willing every muscle not to pounce and put him in a chokehold. “That justifies it perfectly!” 

As if he hadn’t heard a word, Harrison grabbed the remote control from the table, turned on the TV, and flipped through the channels. At this point, I was livid and fuming from his blatant lack of regard to my situation.  I was about to throw the “this is why we don’t hang out anymore” card when he pointed a finger to the TV, commanding me to look. 

At first, I was confused. Then my mouth hung agape. 

There, on CNN, was a portrait of Harrison. These days, that was no longer a rarity. Seeing as he was all over the media, picking up guest roles for established television dramas, and getting invited to countless talk shows, it was almost natural. 

No, the real shock came with the news headline at the bottom of the screen, screaming in bold letters against a red backdrop. 

“Harrison Osterfield to star in an up and coming historical drama directed by Martin Scorsese.” 

What the… 

Scorsese?! 

Martin fucking Scorsese! 

“Yup,” Haz said nonchalantly, but the pride in his voice was unmistakable. “Your little childhood friend just landed his first starring role.” 

Suddenly, all hostility left my body at once. “Oh my God, Haz! That’s amazing. W-Wow. And Scorsese too! That’s been your dream since… forever.” 

“Exactly! This is huge, Y/N. Absolutely mad.” 

“I’ll miss you, bro,” came an uninvited voice. I was so overjoyed and completely thrilled for my friend that I didn’t even notice Tom had managed to wedge his head between mine and Harrison’s from behind the couch. His arms were hung over the back cushion, pinching Haz’s cheek as commendation and the other accidentally grazing my bare shoulder. I pulled away. 

“Miss him? Where’s he going?” I asked. 

“Nowhere. At least, not now,” Tom winked. “Come on, Haz, tell her already.” 

I narrowed my eyes, looking back and forth between the two boys. “Tell me what?” 

“Don’t freak out before you’ve heard the whole thing, but—“ 

“Don’t start your sentences like that!” I scolded. “Now I’m kind of already freaking out, thanks.” 

“Okay. I know this will come as a shock to you, but I need you to take your spot back as Tom’s personal assistant.” 

Harrison spoke fast and managed to get it all out in one breath, but the words echoed in my mind in slow-motion. When I didn’t answer, Haz took it as a sign to continue. 

“I obviously have other things to pursue now, and with the second Spider-Man movie filming next week, he’ll really need you.” 

“No. Stop talking. Why?! It doesn’t have to be me!” I protested when the air returned to my lungs. 

Harrison pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Y/N, you know I wouldn’t do this to you if I had a choice. I know this is all so last-minute, but that’s exactly why it has to be you. You’ve worked with Tom in the past, and have shown your skill and competence. They trust you!” 

“They?” I raised my eyebrows at Tom, who could only shrug in response. 

“My manager.” A pause. “And me, I guess.” 

“I find that hard to believe,” I glared. “Two years ago, you fired me out of fucking nowhere so you could spend some quality time with your best friend! And now in your most desperate time, you call for me?” 

“I thought you’d be happy,” Tom hummed, but we both knew of the strain that the past had placed on whatever friendship we had. Following the events, I unfollowed him on social media shortly, and he did the same six months later when he finally noticed. We’d never reconciled since then. 

It wasn’t that I grew attached to my boss that I was so bitter about it. No, it was nothing personal. But as someone who only knew to be completely invested in their work, getting laid off for no valid reason never quite sat well with me. Not to mention the mountain of bills I had to tend to in the wake of my unemployment. 

Sensing the rising tension, Haz interjected. “Please, Y/N. At least do it for me. I won’t be able to do Scorsese if I can’t find a replacement. I don’t want to leave Tom with just anyone.” 

The softness in his eyes spoke volumes to me. I’ve always cared for Harrison deeply, and if I was the one thing that came between him and his dream, I’d never be able to forgive myself. 

Also, I was sold the moment he said, “It’s only for six months—just until they can screen and select someone else. They promised to double the pay. Triple, if you want me to pull some strings.” 

“Fine,” I grumbled. 

“Thank you!” He beamed and pulled me into a one-armed hug. “God, I love you so much.” 

I couldn’t help the smile on my face. “But I still start next week, so you can save your praise until then.” 

“Nope. You start in three hours! Tom’s leaving for LA tonight, so you’re taking him to the airport. His bags are ready,” he said, motioning to the luggages I saw earlier. “Then pick him up again next week, when he’ll start filming here in London.” 

Harrison was already barking orders at me, much to my chagrin. Had he not appeased me a while ago, I would have slapped his words right back at him. But no, I was playing nice starting now for the duration of six months. 

“I knew you’d come along,” Tom whispered in my ear when Haz excused himself to grab the itinerary. 

“You shut up,” I pointed a finger at him. “You had nothing to do with this.”

A/N: a short and sweet first chapter for you! send me a message to be tagged in this (i’ll start doing the reblog-for-a-tag in future chapters once i’ve established that people actually wanna read this lol). in the meantime, please help me by commenting and reblogging the hell out of this first one; that shit encourages us writers uwu <3 my ask box is also open for any prompts, questions, and suggestions, so feel free to drop by. let’s be friends!

if you’re still reading, send in red and blue hearts for our boi tom holland!

[spideyxchelle]

ok idk if its a little too early for a Halloween themed headcanon but maybe,,,,? MJ dresses up as Spiderman for Halloween (to mock him) Peter not ok™

HALLOWEEN SPIDEYCHELLE. high school group costumes are fun, right?? cool. that’s what we get here.

peter isn’t sure how he’s suddenly a senior. like, it seems like yesterday he was a gangly freshman getting pushed and pulled through the halls like a ragdoll to his next class.

but its official. he’s finishing high school. and senior year peter is way different than freshman year peter.

for starters, he has friends that are more than Ned. he’s got Abe and Cindy and Sally and, sometimes, even Flash. and his best friend circle has expanded, too. instead of Peter and Ned its now Peter, Ned AND MJ.

plus he’s a superhero. which, like, as a freshman wasn’t even conceivable. but he is. he’s THE spider-man. no matter what Falcon and Bucky say. spider-MAN. not spider-BOY. man.

and life is good.

so good that he knows he’s got that entitled, cool senior air about him. and cool seniors do halloween hard. meaning group themes.

they all put it to a vote and Ned is in for Star Wars. MJ vetoes it when Flash leers at her and suggests she be the slave Leia of the group. which peter feels REALLY ashamed of himself for being disappointed about. because, well, just the THOUGHT of MJ in that costume is doing something to his teen boy brain.

Sally wants to do Harry Potter. its generic. they could just be their houses. and its still a theme. but Cindy doesn’t want to be mistaken as Cho Chang because she’s asian. and Ned is having an existential crisis about his house and so he can’t commit to Potter.

then, MJ smirks at Peter across the lunch table and says, “how about the Avengers?” Peter’s face pales and Ned, beside him, chokes on his lunch. no one notices their reactions but he KNOWS MJ doesn’t care. that reaction was all for her. and peter wants to veto it. but the whole group seems hella excited.

Cindy is dying to be Black Widow, Sally wants to be Scarlet Witch, Abe is all for Black Panther, Flash wants to be Thor. even Ned is about this group costume. he shyly admits he wants to be the Hulk. and peter knows its because Doctor Banner is the only guy upstate that ever takes the time to talk to Ned. there is a bit of hero worship there.

but Peter is so anti-Avengers for Halloween he can’t stand it. because if anyone upstate gets a hold of these pictures that’s instant humiliation for the next seven years. literally. which is why he assumes MJ suggests it. because only Ned and MJ know about Spider-man things.

everyone turns to Peter and he shrugs lamely, “I could be Iron-Man?” and MJ snorts, “no way, boy scout. you’re all Cap.” and PETER IS OFFENDED BECAUSE EXCUSE YOU MISS JONES, “I-I am not.” Abe laughs into his hand, “yea, you are, Peter.” Peter blushes, “fine. what are YOU gonna be MJ?” she shrugs, “I dunno..probably Iron-Man.”

and god damn it, he hates her sometimes.

only sometimes. most days her smile gets his insides all fucked up. which should probably be evaluated at some point. but he’s knee deep in denial about his feelings for her. so he’s gonna NOT look too closely at that.

and just before the end of the lunch he remembers, “HEY. why didn’t anyone pick spider-man??” Sally tosses her trash, “because he’s not a real Avenger.”

and y i k e s, that stings. because he is a real Avenger. he fought in the Infinity Stone Wars. HE IS. hmph.

after lunch, MJ seems to sense how upset he is, because she kisses his cheek and tells him to, “get over it grump gus.” and wow that kiss works. which is something he doesn’t wanna deal with atm. MJ. and feelings. nuh uh.

the homecoming game comes and goes and peter and his friends decide to go as a group and senior year feels like its in full swing. so he basically forgets about halloween. because he’s got a shit ton of avenging to do (because he’s a real avengrer. hmph.) and homework is also a thing. so is applying to college. why are college apps, so long?

tony likes to hype peter up, tell him that he’s gonna get in MIT, he’s a straight up genius. but prototype dads are supposed to say nice stuff like that.

and then, somehow, its october 29th and peter is SHOOK. because how the hell did it become halloween so fast? he doesn’t have a costume, he doesn’t have anything together. and halloween is on friday and all of his friends are going dressed up to school and he’s gonna be the one guy that lets them all down.

so, he knows its cheating, but he makes a phone call. Steve answers after three rings. his voice is bright, “Peter, hey kid, how can I help ya?” peter swallows, “hey, uh, steve…..i’m gonna…..look, this is….embarrassing….but can I, uh, borrow one of your uniforms?” he tosses all pride out of the window at that question. steve chuckles, “sure. can I ask why?” peter mumbles, “Halloween.” there is a beat of silence before Steve says, “you’re being me?” Peter nods before he realizes Steve can’t see him, “yea…is that…is that okay?” Steve’s voice is raked with emotion, “yep. i’ll have Sam drop it off. he’s gonna be in Manhattan tomorrow.” “NO!” Peter yelps. the LAST thing he needs is the Falcon reading him to filth over whatever he’s gonna make fun of peter about this time. Sam loves to just give it to peter whenever he can. and its embarrassing. he’s easily embarrassed. he takes a deep breath, trying not to be rude and amends his outburst, “no, that’s, uh, that’s fine.”

real talk? its not fine. when Peter opens his door on the 30th and Sam is standing there with a box and a shit eating grin…Peter almost closes the door. but Sam stops it with a foot in the door. “got your dress up order here, parker.” “okay,” peter rolls his eyes, “get it all out now.” Sam smirks and shakes his head, “nah…..i’m gonna wait. you get all twitchy when you don’t know what’s coming.” “i do not,” peter’s voice breaks. “sure you do,” he smiles and shoves the box in peter’s hands. “see ya.”

and peter is thankful it was short. but then it hits him. it is almost worse. now that he doesn’t know when Sam is gonna tease him about it. so much worse.

but he sucks it up and tries on Steve’s suit.

it’s a little baggy in certain areas. and he has to roll the pants up because he’s short, but it’ll work. he just needs a shield. which he fashions out of some scrap medal he had after a mission. its uneven, barely a circle, but he paints it and it’ll work. again, he’s doing the best he can. and there is a sort of thrill knowing this is one of steve’s ACTUAL suits. which, uh, who else on his friend group can say that?

the next morning, he gets dressed, sweeps his hair off to one side, and goes to school. when he arrives all of his friends look about as put together as he does. it’s a SOLID effort. they’re not the real avengers (well, sort of….peter excluded) but for halloween they look rad.

Ned painted his face green and is wearing some tattered old shorts and a ripped shirt and green sneakers. Flash is wearing a velvet red cape and peter doesn’t want to address the amount of bling on his person, nope. cindy is a kickass black widow even if her costume looks like a recycled catwoman suit. Sally’s scarlet witch is borderline cosplay level impressive. he makes a note to show it to wanda. and Abe’s costume is a piecemeal costume like Ned’s. the whole group will make for some fun pictures.

“holy shit…MJ!” Cindy says looking just behind peter. and he realizes he didn’t see MJ. he turns around and his heart freakin’ stops.

she’s spider-man.

no. not only is she spider-man….she’s wearing his old suit. before he upgraded to the iron-spider, his first high-tech suit. the one he keeps in a locked box in his closet. and….it forms to her body like he knows his suit always does. tight and snug for optimal flexibility.

his first thought is…how the hell did she get his suit out of the case? his second is…..holy hell. what a look.

his jaw must be hanging open. actually open. because Flash snorts and comments, “like something you see, parker?” he blindly throws an arm behind him to nudge Flash. he misses and hits Abe. “sorry, man.”

MJ puts her hands on her hips, which, oh man, he’s going to have a heart attack. teenage boys should not be able to see girls they find attractive in spandex suits. nope.

then she smirks at him because she’s not wearing his mask. he supposes if she wore a high tech mask people would ask some questions. the actual suit part of his suit looks innocuous enough. could be store bought. high quality, but store bought. and so her curly hair tumbles out over her shoulders.

and he has a crazy thought. if he reached forward and touched the spider in the center of his suit, it would fall away from her and pool at her knees.

DAMN IT PARKER KEEP IT TOGETHER.

he shakes his head and, thankfully, the bell rings. so their friend group starts to part. peter catches up to MJ and whispers under his breath, “where’d you get that?” “the password shouldn’t be your birthday, loser.” he groans, “what about iron-man?” “why would I spend money on halloween? I had access to an avenger’s suit.” “my suit.” “details.”

he steps in front of her so she’ll stop walking. and he STARES into her eyes. because he won’t look down. no sir. “i want that back, MJ.” she blows a curl out of her eyes and whispers, “you’re gonna have to take it off, then.”

and his eyes BLOW WIDE. he’s broken. his systems are down. he needs IT. the peter parker is absolutely broken. she laughs and walks away while he reboots.

he tries not to stare at her legs all day. and fails. and, uh, holy crap. her legs are so long. and her ass is also great. does that make him not feminist if he thinks so?? he’s not sure. but it is a great ass.

after school, they gather outside of midtown and get some poor freshman to take their group picture. MJ slides in next to peter and throws an arm around him. while everyone gets situated, she whispers in his ear, “does cap know you have that suit, Parker?” he turns his head and she’s so close their noses accidentally brush. he sputters. “uh, yea.” she rolls her eyes and turns her head back to the camera.

they take, like, a hundred pictures. because Flash wants them to take glamour shots, action shots, he also needs his best side represented. it’s a whole mess.

and in the last shot, MJ turns Peter’s face toward hers and kisses him full on the mouth. when the camera snaps….his eyes are HUGE.

but he doesn’t stop kissing her. like, the picture may be done but he sure as hell isn’t. he turns more squarely into her mouth and sweeps her up off of her feet to kiss her better. in front of all of their friends. outside of the high school. in broad daylight.

she laughs against his lips and wraps her legs around his waist.

when all of their friends realize what’s happening. they immediately start groaning. like WTF GUYS?!?

Ned squees. but he’s excited. he’s been waiting for this.

when MJ is contented to be done kissing, she climbs down and wipes the back of her mouth. “really?” she laughs, “the suit is what did it?”

he blushes beat red. “I like it.” and he knows she can tell that he means he likes her in his clothes. but that’s just between them.

the next year at halloween, with her at Harvard and him at MIT, they go out partying in Cambridge as Han Solo and Leia. not slave leia tho. well, ahem, not slave leia in public. what happens later in her dorm room isn’t anybody’s business, frankly.