Khasael

Plot Bunny Numbers!

khasael — Sun, 02 Nov 2014 22:42:20 GMT

Soooooo, I'm pretty sure I've figured out my cause of death. It's quite likely going to be that I've been smothered/crushed by a stampeding mass of bunnies.

(Mostly of the plot variety. But both maja_li and byaghro can affirm that they seem to LITERALLY manifest/pop up around me, quite frequently. There's that island in Japan that is basically bunny central. I'm not sure if I should take a trip and visit it, or stay away entirely XD)

Anyway, as promised, here are the plot bunny totals I was able to tally. Sadly, some of these numbers SHOULD be higher (especially in the HP and Inception fandoms), but I lost a number of files in a hard drive crash about a year and a half ago (which is why I have a couple of fics--most notably my sequel to my first Inception Big Bang--that are paused on AO3...since I now have to rewrite the stuff I lost).

These totals reflect only specific, countable bunnies, each of which have their own individual entry in my plot bunny spreadsheet (which has one tab per fandom).

Bunnies Accounted For/Tagged and Collared:

Suits: 158
Teen Wolf: 171
MCU: 41
Harry Potter: 48
Les Miserables: 97
Inception: 38
Other: 42 (includes True Blood, Demon's Lexicon series, Skyfall, Welcome to Nightvale, American Horror Story (S1), Hunger Games series, The Hobbit, Original Fiction, and 8 bunnies that are extra-flexible and could fit into a number of fandoms, but have yet to be assigned)

So? Grand total?

595. Yep. Five hundred ninety-five individual, logged story ideas. And I'd estimate that about a quarter of them have some writing already done on them--anywhere from bits of narration or a couple of dialogue exchanges to, in some cases, several thousand words and multiple scenes.

...A moment of pity and support for groolover, who ends up betaing 99% of my fics, and also either pity or blame for maja_li and byaghro, who are the most likely to be subjected to random text messages or emails detailing bunnies that have just bit, or even ambush texts/emails where I just dump a scene of fic on them without warning (I included the "blame" option for these two, though, because sometimes they are the ones who shove bunnies into my damn hands and then run away, giggling).

Congrats to byaghro and azurelunatic for correctly guessing the number of bunnies in the most fandoms (though Esby has perhaps the unfair advantage/burden of having me sit on her couch and ramble about a lot of them, or hear about them over dinner or while running errands, so she's decently familiar with how active my muse is, on average). kayoko also gets an honorable mention here :)

...Those of you who answered "too damn many" are also probably right, and win as well. Those few who answered "not enough"...well...given the size of these numbers, perhaps all you have to do is wait a bit XD

crawls out from under work-shaped rock

khasael — Tue, 28 Oct 2014 16:19:15 GMT

Soooo...

Hi.

I'm still alive. Er. I think.

Work is ridiculous, and it's not even the place I last posted about (or the place after that one, even). But I'm working in a bakery again, and I've been there since late April, and it's...going a hell of a lot better than it was, in the beginning (perhaps I'll post about that sometime, but don't hold your breath, please). Main thing about that being that I was utterly, completely miserable, and it was bleeding into my personal life, and now I'm not, even if it's not the favorite of all the jobs I've had.

I've kept up with a number of you via some combination of twitter, tumblr, iMessage, gchat, and facebook, but have sadly lost track of others, especially since I know a lot of people have migrated away from LJ. I, myself, post pretty much all of my new fic on AO3. I keep meaning to put it here, too, but limited computer time has made that...not a thing that's happened, yet.

If you've a moment, drop me a comment and let me know what's going on in your life! If you're reading this, then yes, I care, and I mean you!

Also, I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year, because I am insane and apparently a bit of a masochist. For fun (because Ravenclaw), I'm rounding up all the plot bunnies that have been appearing and are nibbling at me, and putting them in a spreadsheet, and will be asking a couple of people for opinions on which should be in the running for my NaNo project(s). There are...more than a handful of them. That being the case, I thought I'd put up this little guessing game, if anyone wants to have a go at it. I honestly don't know the answers myself yet, but I'll be posting the correct answers around the first of November XD

So, here we go!

View Poll: How Many Bunnies/Fics Does Khas Have, At the Moment?

Still alive, still kicking, still busy (and generally covered in sugar).

khasael — Mon, 26 Nov 2012 15:57:11 GMT

As for the question of my sanity...well, we could argue I've never been particularly sane, anyway, so maybe that's a bit moot.

Things are, of course, utterly crazy over here. Every time things seem to be working out and smoothing out and such, something sudden will happen to throw a wrench into it. Some of that'll be listed below, but this is gonna be kind of a fragmented post, possibly in bullet-points (let's see what happens), basically to give a general update of what's been going on over in khas-ville in the last few months.

WORK:

We did hire a cake decorator. We transferred her, actually, from another location, because she's been trying to get into ours for a while. She's actually one of the company founder's grandchildren. She's 2 years younger than I am, and it's funny, because there are people who were worried she may not work out, or be easy to work with, but I fucking love this girl. She's like me, in that she's often quiet, but if she's comfortable, she's completely personable and happy to chat. We have a lot of fun, she's talented (and quick, oh, thank god) with the cake-making, she does theatre stuff (mostly stage managing, at present), so we have a lot to chat about there, she's funny, and she is soooo on top of ways to make the back easier to work in, more organized/streamlined, and she's the one employee I've never had to get on re: sanitation and health code and such (it's not really been a big problem, with others, but I've had to do more reminding to change out sanitizers, or keep raw eggs on bottom shelves, or making sure things are expedited for freshness, or quickly chilled, or whatever, than I feel I should, especially for those who've actually worked in kitchens before).
My department manager (we'll call him "Kid") left. He stepped down, then transferred to another store (the one where he'd worked before), but also switched from working bakery (or grocery, which is what he used to manage there before he managed bakery stuff here) to working the meat counter. We got a new manager (we'll call him "Metal" from this point on), who used to manage the bistro kitchen (he's been a chef pretty much his entire career). No, they didn't offer me the bakery manager position (I'm Assistant Manager for the bakery, and the Bakery Production (kitchen) Manager), but I would have absolutely declined, if they'd offered it, since it would have taken me out of the back. Metal's light-years of difference from Kid, which is both a plus and a minus, depending on the aspect of the job we're looking at. For instance, he's trained me on a lot of management and financial stuff, and with that info, we've seriously (and noticeably, even to corporate) improved our numbers since he/we took over in Oct.... But he, by his own admission, "knows shit about actual baking and cake stuff". So, it's interesting sometimes.
I have (er...had) three employees under me, which is a full staff: one full-time cake decorator (who can also do basic production, and is learning on that front, when she's NOT doing cakes/custom orders, which isn't often), and two general production people (one w/ FT hours, one w/ PT). The PT person (we'll call him "Train"; I swear, these nicknames aren't just picked by stabbing at a random page in the dictionary) is...um...rough. Like, we've had to write off probably close to $1000 of product within 2 weeks, due to his errors. He's slowly improving, but I can't babysit him that much. It's a long story, as to how we ended up with him, anyway. My FT person was mostly competent, and had been noticeably improving, after the sit-down we had with her about a month ago.... Until she quit. Via a 2:04am text message. Four hours before her shift. THE DAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING. Ironically, it was also a few days after we'd sat her down and said how we'd noticed her stepping up her game, and telling her how much we appreciated her making the effort, and other general praise. She cited "unresolved personal issues" and, trust me, I understand people can have issues. But even if she'd opened like planned, worked a couple of hours, and quit, it wouldn't have been such a big thing. Or if she'd given hints before. She was supposed to leave early that day to fly home for Thanksgiving, anyway. But whatever. We're interviewing someone tomorrow (used to work for the company, in the bistro, under Metal), and, really, all I really need right now is a body who can read a recipe and execute it, so the other girl and I can focus on things that require finesse (cakes, decorated cookies, "funcakes", etc.).
Because of the quitting thing, and having to babysit Train to correct errors and provide constant reminders (he was told to write stuff down by Metal, but doesn't, and that might be a Talk we have soon), I've been working on my days off. I'm salaried, so I don't get compensated in any official/guaranteed way. Metal's taken to popping up with lunch he's bought me, or my preferred energy drink, but it's not like I count on that, and he insists he's just "showing appreciation for [me] kicking ass and supporting how [he] can". It's more than other managers would do/have done, and I do appreciate it. He's a good guy. This is part of the reason I've been so scarce here (and even on twitter, lately), though--just a complete lack of time.

Still need to do another pic-heavy post of "here, look at some stuff I've made!"-type things.

NOT-WORK:

Yeah, work is insane, but I'm still squeezing writing in. Often on my phone (and I swear, autocorrect is the bane of my existence during these times), just purely due to logistics. My poor, put-upon beta (the always amazing groolover) is quite good about just noting these errors, adjusting or highlighting as needed, and not commenting with "what the hell are you ON, substance-wise?" or the like. It's almost kind of fun to write, send to beta, do edits, and even post via phone, because until it hits AO3, I often have no idea how the hell many words a fic IS.
I've been failing at posting here, but there are newer fics up on my AO3. Suits and Teen Wolf. Plus, I have over a dozen other things that are not actually too far from being done (Suits, TW, Avengers, and I'm working on an Inception thing--the sequel to last year's Inception Big Bang).
Yeah, I've been sucked into Teen Wolf fandom. Violently. AND I REGRET NOTHING (though I still blame maja_li, who can be blamed for so much of what I do/write in fandom, you have no idea. Really, it's of note if she's NOT to blame for something or behind it in SOME fashion. But she seems quite happy to take this blame, so).
Have been able to hang out with the fantabulous Esby (byaghro) (alone, and occasionally with our spouses) lately, and thank god, no, really. It's such a life-saver and awesome thing to have a fellow fangirl so close by, who is totally okay with sitting in three different coffee shops/bakeries in a day, doing general squeeing, flailing, plotting, and reading of random internet things for like 7 hours before we meet up with aforementioned spouses for dinner and a movie (a thing we did Saturday, after I worked, since it was supposed to be my day off). GLORIOUS. Also, she and maja_li started plotting out possibilities for one of MY fics (that I'd been somewhat stuck on), via IM, while I was sitting there and glaring at my fic!doc, despite Esby not having actually seen any of the show/fandom in question (besides the "we're on a ship!" Sterek video/promo). Which was sort of an odd thing, but worked out, because they were able to toss enough around in the way of possible things that fit what I was looking to do to get me settled in a new direction, totally un-stuck (and we even managed to keep spoiler-free)! And Esby got to laugh at how often I tried to tuck my phone into a pocket that wasn't there, because it seems like I am never NOT wearing a chef's coat; basically, it looked like I was feeling myself up a lot, because that pocket's right over my left boob. Almost dropped the phone as a result, each time. Yay for people who put up with me XD
I actually have a handful of recs collected (again, TW, Suits, and Avengers), though I'm sure a number of you have read some of these things already, but I'll eventually post them here. They're from a number of genres--crack, smut, ovary-exploding UST, angsty H/C, etc, because I like all manner of things :)
Saw Skyfall. Twice (once w/ DH, once w/ DH, Esby, and her hubby). Accidentally not!fic'd some Bond/Q stuff with maja_li. No surprise there. Also some stuff with Harvey Specter, involving Bond. And some Harvey/Mike, Bond/Q crossover stuff. Again, no real surprise. PAR FOR THE COURSE, IS WHAT I AM SAYING.

And that's really it, as far as I can recall at the moment. I'm kind of sick (which happens sooooo very rarely, so when this cold popped up, I was basically like "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?"; I haven't had a cold in, like, 4+ years), and more than a bit overworked, so I'll probably remember a bunch of stuff after I hit post.

HOW IS EVERYONE, BTW? I MISSSSSSSS YOU GUYSSSSSSSS. *glomps everyone before ducking back into the kitchen to make cakes*

Suits Fic: Edith and Gordon (PG)

khasael — Fri, 24 Aug 2012 00:35:12 GMT

Title: Edith and Gordon
Fandom: Suits
Characters/Pairings: Edith Ross, Gordon Specter, Mike Ross, Harvey Specter
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1500
Beta: groolover
Spoilers: Through 2x09 (“Asterisk”).
Warnings: none, other than canon events.
Summary: A meeting, in Heaven.
Author's Note: Written/intended as Harvey/Mike preslash, but can easily be read as gen. Was initially going to be longer, but I wanted this up before 2x10 aired (so there might be a continuation some time in the future, but we'll see about that). Also, this can be blamed entirely on maja_li (is anyone surprised by that, at this point?).

There really isn't much that shocks Edith Ross. Age hasn't dulled her wits any, and she's never come across anyone with the balls to say she's lost her spark. Other women might play the demure, innocent old grandmother act as they get on in years, but Edith has never felt the need to do anything other than be direct and speak her mind.

It's probably that trait that brings her to the attention of an amused-looking man shortly after she passes through the pearly gates (which, if anyone asks her, are more ivory than pearl, but who is she to complain about that sort of detail, in light of it all?).

"Heaven's not exactly what we were promised, is it?" the gentleman asks her with a quirked little smirk as he watches her settle herself onto a cloud not much unlike her favorite old chair, shaking her head and muttering about how this place is about as lively as the recreation room in the nursing home.

Edith almost waves him off--why should she have to engage in bland pleasantries in heaven, of all places?--but the expression on his face stops her. There's something very familiar about it, in a sarcastic, self-assured, charming sort of way that has her trying to place where she might know this man from. "Oh? What were you promised?"

The gentleman--who's been standing against what serves as a ledge, staring down at the world below him--grins a little wider. "You know. Feasts. Fun and carefree living. Angels playing harps all day long. At least, that's what I'd always heard. What about you? This live up to your expectation?"

Edith glances down at herself, just as old as she's looked in her bathroom mirror for the last several years, more wrinkled and a bit heavier than she'd like, and scoffs. "I seem to remember something about eternal youth."

"Ah, yes. But even there, they sort of have you on a technicality," her new friend says, raising his eyebrows. "Don't they?"

She looks at this gentleman with more than a cursory glance for the first time. He's right--at first glance, he's sixty-five or seventy, handsome enough for a man of that age. But at the same time, he's twenty, hair thicker and darker and posture straighter, and, impossibly, he might also be thirty-five or forty, strong and solid and still definitely familiar-looking.

She looks down at herself again and hopes he sees at least a little of how she looked at twenty or twenty-five, and not as much the version of her dressed in an old nightgown and terry cloth robe, with her reading glasses around her neck. "I suppose they do." She gestures to the railing he's leaning up against, which does a very thorough job of keeping him in place despite being made of nothing but clouds. "Watching someone you love? From what I gather, that's a popular pastime around here."

Her familiar-looking friend snorts. "My son," he says, rolling his eyes. "Successful lawyer, and still an idiot when it comes to the important things."

And that's how Edith Ross meets--and instantly likes--Gordon.

--///---

Heaven is a place where you have a ludicrous amount of free time, as it happens.

Time doesn't really mean anything up here. You can see sunrise and sunset on the earth below, if you're specifically looking at a place down there, but there's no feeling of needing to go to bed and sleep, or get up in the morning and get something done. And there's no damned nurse popping her head in and demanding you take your medications, or asking about particular bodily functions, which is definitely a sign that this is heaven, after all.

There also isn't this need to seek out everyone you've ever loved and spend all your time with them, any more than you would have wanted to in life. Edith's found her son and his wife, who still appear to be happy to spend their time together, and that had been a splendid little meeting, and will certainly lead to countless more. She's found old friends and dozens of family members, and been supremely thankful to find that heaven is not simply one long, extended family reunion. Here, people can just sort of...drift around.

And, of course, they watch those they've left behind on Earth. It's not as weird as she might have thought, though it is a little rough to see how hard Michael's taking her death. Despite all those ghost-hunter shows on cable, there's not really a way for her to pop down with a message and tell him that she's fine and he should suck it up and get back to focusing on his job at the firm.

If there were a way for her to send a message or pop on down in spectral form, she'd give her grandson a good, hearty smack on the back of his head the second she sees him look consideringly at the joint he pulls from his pocket.

"Apparently, I was wrong, and I did raise an idiot," she sighs. The dead do a surprising amount of ineffectual talking to their living loved ones, like talking to the television show you're watching, as if you can have any effect on the actors whatsoever. "You're smarter than that, Michael." She shakes her head. Well, he should be, anyway.

"Move a little faster, son," she hears someone say from nearby, and Edith looks over to see Gordon run a hand through his hair, mouth in a thin line. "And don't fuck this up." He sees Edith looking and gives a little wave, his attention going back to whatever his son's doing on earth as soon as she waves back.

"Michael, if you light that thing up, I will make it my mission to hunt down Gabriel or Saint Peter or anyone I can find in here with some sense of authority, and have them fortuitously drop that ceiling fan on your head," she says, trying to sound threatening, though it's not as if her grandson can hear her.

"Well, that's one way to do it," Gordon mutters off to her left, just as Edith's--and Michael's--attention snaps to the door of Michael's apartment, which opens on its own, revealing Michael's boss, who looks more than a little displeased. Michael just sort of gapes, and Edith feels a bit thankful that a hardass like Harvey Specter has thought her grandson to be worth his trouble.

"Kid gloves, son," Gordon warns sternly, and Edith wonders if the son he's watching follows his instructions any better than her grandson does, as she watches Michael scramble to hide the joint in his hand.

"Get rid of that," Harvey snaps, looking like maybe he's the fiery angel of wrath Edith was hoping for, and, beside her, Gordon's palm smacks his forehead.

"I said kid gloves, Harvey, for the love of Christ," he groans, and Edith raises her eyebrows, looking at Gordon for a split second before turning her attention back to her grandson.

"Get rid of what?" Michael stammers, his face a mask of guilt and something else that makes Edith want to be able to just reach over and give him a hug.

"You know damned well what," Harvey growls, and, out of the corner of her eye, Edith sees Gordon shake his head in exasperation. "I told Donna you weren't an idiot. Don't prove me wrong. I really don't like to be wrong." He moves closer to Michael, finally crouching down beside him on the floor, and sticks out his hand. "Hand it over," he demands, and then, after a pause, he looks Michael in the eye and holds his gaze. "Would she want you to do this? And over her?" he asks in a much softer tone.

Michael just looks back at Harvey dully for a few moments. "No," he finally says, voice breaking, and hands over the joint. "She wouldn't."

"Damn right, I wouldn't!" Edith exclaims, and Gordon's attention shifts from down on Earth to her for a moment.

"So you're not an idiot," Harvey says down below. "I didn't think she was the sort to raise one." He crumbles the joint in his hand, dumping the mess into the potted plant nearby. "Now come on, Mike. Let's get you cleaned up."

Michael reaches out for the hand Harvey extends, letting himself be pulled to his feet. "Yeah. Okay."

Harvey puts one hand on the back of Michael's neck. "There you go," he murmurs. "Good boy." And with that, he directs Michael towards the bathroom, and Edith turns to look at her friend, who now looks familiar in a way she can place.

"Gordon. Gordon Specter, is it?"

Gordon quirks a grin at her, and it's definitely his son's amusement she recognizes on his face. "Edith Ross, I assume?”

They get along even more famously after that.

khasael — Sat, 14 Jul 2012 16:18:09 GMT

Title: Challenge
Fandom: The Avengers (Marvel; 2012 movie 'verse)
Pairings/Characters: Tony/Steve (pre-slash; can be read as gen)
Word Count: 400
Rating: G
Summary: He hasn't known Tony Stark long, but Steve knows that look in his eye all too well. It's the look of someone about to propose a challenge he's already sure he can win.
Warnings/Contains: drinking/drunkenness
A/N: I blame this fic (like so many of my others) on maja_li. We were discussing the Marvel films the night I had finally caught up on them, before seeing The Avengers. She said she wanted a fic that corresponds with the last line of dialogue in this ficlet, and I wrote this on the spot, promising to write the follow-up once I'd seen The Avengers. That fic is currently in the works, and will appear shortly. But it all starts with this.
Alternate Links: On AO3

He hasn't known Tony Stark long, but Steve knows that look in his eye all too well. It's the look of someone about to propose a challenge he's already sure he can win.

So when Tony opens his mouth, eyebrows raised, and asks Steve if he can keep up when it comes to holding his liquor, Steve simply nods and gives him a quiet "I think I can manage."

God knows how many drinks later, Tony's barely upright and Steve's just worrying about the bar tab. But then Tony flashes one of his many plastic cards--this one black and sleek like half the things that he owns--and the bartender waves Steve off.

"What, did they build you so a good, wholesome American boy like you can't get drunk and embarrass the country?" Tony slurs as they make their way outside of the bar. "Or is there some sort of injectable potion they've got you on, too?"

"High metabolism," is Steve's response. He slings one of Tony's arms around his neck and wraps one of his arms around Tony's waist, trying to keep him on his feet. "Easy does it."

Tony laughs. "Guy like you isn't chivalrous enough to carry me home in his arms?"

Even Steve smirks. "I usually reserve that for dames with twisted ankles or fainting spells, but if you insist..."

It's easy to sling Tony up and get him into his arms, despite all the drunken flailing and protesting suddenly taking place. "I didn't mean that you--" he starts, but Steve just holds him tighter.

"Oh, just a lot of talk, huh?" Steve asks, trying to ignore the looks they're getting from the few people on the street.

"Hey now. I may talk, but I can back it up, I'll have you know."

"Yeah, when you're in your suit," Steve murmurs, bending his knees enough to get the passenger door open and manhandle Tony inside. He can drive Tony's car home. Probably. It's just a car, right? At least this one's older than a lot of the ones Tony drives.

He situates himself behind the wheel and looks over when Tony taps him on the shoulder with just his index finger. "Yeah?"

"We've really got to get you and Thor together in a drinking contest," Tony says earnestly, and then he's out cold, and all Steve can do is shake his head and grin in spite of himself as he buckles in and starts the engine.

flail

khasael — Thu, 12 Jul 2012 23:12:09 GMT

GUYS.

I have epic amounts of flailing to do over awesome things! But I am so giddy about things that I cannot be coherent! But there is massive good news, and there was an awesome husband-friendly fangirl meeting yesterday evening, and the good news comes with bonus good news!

*flails and knocks self in face*

Um. Till I get the flail under control, I am just gonna post a fic or two. Avengers ficlet, and maybe something else! Will write a real post later! *glomps everyone*

HP Fic: Wine and Pleasure in Equal Measure (Harry/Draco; NC-17)

khasael — Fri, 18 May 2012 14:00:43 GMT

Title: Wine and Pleasure in Equal Measure
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Harry/Draco
Beta: groolover
Word Count: 7,100
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Harry isn't really a wine-drinker, but this evening might change his mind.
Warnings: adult language, sexual content
A/N: Written for alisanne, during the 2012 round at hpvalensmut.

Wine, Harry mused, especially the expensive stuff Draco was now ordering, was very much a Malfoy way to celebrate.

"Why not champagne?" Harry asked after a moment, watching their waiter pour them each a glass and leave the bottle, along with an empty goblet.

"Because," Draco said, raising his eyebrows and swirling the wine in the glass, looking at it as if it needed to pass some test before he'd let it pass his lips, "champagne is overdone for celebrations. Not to mention, this place has a far better red wine selection than it does sparkling white wine selection, and it only has one true champagne." He paused and raised his glass, inhaling deeply with his eyes closed. "Besides," he said, opening his eyes and fixing Harry with a look, "we're going to be eating dinner, and while champagne has its place, wine goes much better with food. Especially a Merlot as exquisite as this."

"I'll take your word for it," Harry muttered, pulling his own glass a little closer and peering into it. He didn't know much about wines the way Draco obviously did – and when your family had its own vineyard, he supposed a little wine snobbery was to be expected – but he did know he'd rather have had a Firewhiskey, or even just a pint of ale or lager or whatever sounded good with the dinner they were about to order.

"Where is Weasley, anyway?" Draco asked a moment later. "I'm all for letting wine breathe in the glass before imbibing, but he's pushing it just a bit."

Harry shrugged and eyed the menus in the centre of the table. It had been a very long day, and what he really wanted, more than anything else, was a good, hearty dinner, a long soak in his tub at home... and, if he were being completely honest, a nice, vigorous wank between the sheets before nodding off for the evening. "I don't know. He said six-thirty, didn't he?"

"Yes." Draco pulled a ridiculously ornate silver – or maybe platinum – pocketwatch out of his robes and frowned at it. "And it's nearly seven. How long does it take a man to change after work?"

"Beats me," Harry said with a shrug, hoping Draco hadn't just heard his stomach growl. Not even a basket of bread on the table. Harry didn't think nearly as much of this place as Draco and George apparently did. He knew they came here periodically to have dinner and discuss business. Harry didn't really think of George as the type to appreciate stuffy places with long wine lists, but he'd argued that the dishes were good and the food was plentiful – and, coming from someone raised by Molly Weasley, Harry had figured that was a good enough recommendation.

"Excuse me, Mister Potter?" the hostess asked, tapping him on the shoulder. "Mister Weasley sent this for you just now." She held out an envelope with Harry written on it in George's handwriting.

"Thank you."

"He requested that any response be sent back directly."

"Fine." Harry opened the envelope and removed the handwritten note, reading it quickly, feeling Draco's curious stare burning a hole into him.

Harry,

Sorry to let you down at the last minute, but I'll be taking the opportunity to "celebrate" with Angelina this evening. As my way of saying I'm sorry, the hostess has been instructed to put the evening's meal on my tab. Please, both of you, enjoy the evening, and I'll see you back at the shop on Monday.

– George

"Any reply, sir?" the hostess asked, favouring him with a smile.

Harry considered options such as "you're leaving me alone for the evening with Draco Malfoy. You owe me more than dinner" and "you've left Draco Malfoy in a place with an extensive wine list and access to your tab. You're going to be sorrier than you know" and sighed. "No. No response. Thank you."

"So where is he?" The hostess had taken all of three steps away from their table, tucked into the corner of the restaurant and considerably more private than some of the others, before Draco demanded answers.

"Not coming."

"Are you serious?" Draco asked, face going sort of pinched. "This was his idea. We're celebrating the finalisation of a deal for his business. What else could he possibly be doing?"

"Angelina," Harry said without thinking, making them both blanch a little. "I mean, he said he was celebrating with her this evening instead."

"No," Draco said with a little shudder. "You were right the first time you spoke, I'm afraid, and thank you so much for that visual. I'm not certain all the wine in this place can make me forget that."

Harry eyed the bottle in the centre of the table and smirked. "Care to see about that?"

Draco looked from the bottle to the wine list sitting at the edge of the table, and then up to meet Harry's eyes. He smiled slowly, showing off his nearly-perfect teeth in a wide grin as he continued to consider Harry, head tilted to one side, ever-so-slightly. "Harry Potter. If I've never officially said it before, I will say it now: I may very well have been wrong about you." He chuckled. "I hope your liver's healthy, and you're stocked up with hangover potion at home, because tonight may be a night you remember all your life."

----

It only took two glasses for Harry to remember that the reason he opted for other drinks over wine was that wine, no matter how fancy, no matter how sweet or dry or whatever else it claimed to be, hit him hard. And after four...

"Oh, shit, I'm sorry!" he exclaimed, reaching for his wand to clean up the wine that was rapidly spreading across the table, soaking the white cloth and heading directly towards Draco's lap. After a moment spent trying to remember which bloody spell to use, he'd got it taken care of, Draco smirking at him and raising an eyebrow. "There."

"No damage done," Draco said with a little huffing laugh. "But perhaps you'd better let me pour your next glass. Now, continue with your story. Without all the flailing gestures, this time. What, exactly, had they done when you finally decided to save them?"

Harry grinned and watched Draco pour him a glass from the bottle their waiter had brought only a few minutes earlier, giving them pointed looks as they laughed loudly but not saying anything about their volume. "Like I said, I'd been around for the better part of a week, after the Minister demanded I take leave before I killed myself with work, so I knew George'd been having some trouble. The coffee mix-up and the accidental parcel-switching were bad enough. But when I walked in to find him and Ron somehow stuck back-to-back and unable to get apart, I figured that was a good a time as any to offer to help."

Draco snorted. "I might've let them suffer a bit longer before helping, but that's me." He shook his head in amusement, the crystal centrepiece refracting the light from the candles inside onto his hair as he dipped his head. Harry took a moment to appreciate the golden effect, which made Draco look a lot... softer, for lack of a better word, a look helped a bit by the pinkness in his cheeks and the smile on his lips. It was ridiculous, Harry knew, and probably exceptionally foolish, and maybe even a sign all those spell hits he'd taken during his work as an Auror had brain-damaged him in some way, but there were moments over the last four months when he'd actually found Draco sort of attractive, when he wasn't being a sarcastic prat.

... Actually, even sometimes when he was being a sarcastic prat.

"I might've considered it," Harry said, sniggering. "It really was priceless, believe me."

"I only wish I could have seen it myself," Draco said with a grin, offering Harry the glass of wine. Harry reached for it, trying to grab it by the stem and not the bowl, as he'd already been lectured to do, but, between the limited amount of available space and his somewhat impaired fine motor skills, his fingers met Draco's. But instead of pulling away or making some little biting remark about his lack of dexterity, Draco let his touch linger for a moment more. Then, so subtly Harry might have missed it, had he not been staring so intently at the stem, determined not to spill again, Draco rubbed the tip of his thumb against the tip of Harry's in a small circle.

Harry blinked at his wine glass, as it it could tell him anything. That had been... weird. But not exactly unwelcome. Come to think of it, it wasn't even the first time they'd touched since sitting down at the table tucked into the dim corner, the one George had asked for when he'd made the reservation this afternoon. He'd clapped Draco on the shoulder as he'd arrived, and Draco had elbowed him for something he'd said to the waiter when he'd finally come around to take their dinner order. Then there had been Draco putting his pocket watch directly into the palm of Harry's hand earlier, when he'd asked to get a better look at it, and Harry'd put his hand against Draco's upper arm not too long ago, when they'd both leaned in and scanned the wine list together – not that Harry'd had any insight to anything on there.

If he didn't know better, Harry would almost think they'd been flirting for most of the evening.

That had to be the wine talking.

"Um, thanks," Harry finally said, realising Draco was looking at him as if awaiting some sort of response.

"Make certain you drink this one, not wear it," Draco said with a chuckle, smiling at him in a way that was almost indulgent. He was smiling an awful lot, and it was slowly occurring to Harry that it might not be simply due to their finally-completed project involving a new line of products at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, or even the fact that they'd had an exceptionally good meal and more than their fair share of wine. "Think you can manage that?"

"Guess we'll find out," Harry said, feeling sort of warm in a way that was probably due to the wine, but might not be. He felt like he should say something else – anything else – but could not, for the life of him, figure out what that might be. There had been something to that moment of thumb-rubbing, there had to have been, because it felt good and made his heart speed up just a little bit, and it wasn't like Draco seemed... uninterested. He cleared his throat. "What would you say to dessert?" Another course, at least, might buy him some time to test the waters a bit. Because there actually was some part of him that was intrigued by this new prospect.

Draco took the last sip of his glass of wine and shrugged. "I could do dessert. Anything in particular in mind?"

"No." Harry signalled their waiter and asked for a dessert menu, finishing off his glass of wine before the man returned with a single menu, giving them another raised-eyebrow look before walking away again. Harry took it and realised that either they'd have to take turns with it, or...

He moved his empty glass aside and looked at Draco, gesturing towards the menu, but not handing it over. "What looks good to you?"

Draco regarded him for a moment before he scooted his chair closer, mouth pursed in a curious expression as he leaned in. They were definitely close now – Harry could smell Draco's cologne, something crisp that reminded him of mountain lakes or forests after a rainstorm – and Harry suppressed a shiver. There was something here, some potential that was just waiting for the right moment, whatever that might be. Harry closed his eyes and tried to gather his thoughts for a moment, which was surprisingly hard to do, given all the wine he'd had. "I was thinking something classic, like the cheesecake," Draco said after a moment with his head bent over the menu. "It's just a bit rich, is my only worry."

"We can share it," Harry suggested quickly. "If you don't mind."

"No," Draco said, small, crooked grin replacing the pursed look. "I don't mind at all. As long as you don't hog it."

"Yeah, I think I can manage to share."

"If you don't, I have no problem stabbing the back of your hand with my fork. Keep that in mind. No Weasley-like approaches to dessert, Harry."

"All right, all right."

Draco signalled their waiter back, and handed over the menu. "We'll have the cheesecake."

"Two slices?"

"No, just one to share." Draco was either oblivious to the man's raised eyebrows and quickly-tamed smirk, or had chosen to ignore them. "But a glass of Eiswein for each of us."

"More wine?" Harry asked, as their server wandered away again. More alcohol was probably the last thing he needed, especially when he was trying to sort out if what he and Draco were doing was flirting, and if this celebration had somehow turned into a date.

Things would have been a hell of a lot easier if George had just shown up.

"A dessert wine, specifically. Nice and sweet.Trust me, you'll like it."

Harry shrugged. "All right." He was gradually coming around to thinking that if this was flirting, it had some interesting potential. Still, he wasn't completely certain. And one thing was obvious – if there was going to be some sort of... something... between them, then Harry had better be damned sure. Because if he made the wrong assumption and it just happened that Draco Malfoy was a pleasant drunk who simply forgot the finer points of personal space and acceptable social norms regarding physical contact, then he was never going to hear the end of it.

He was also a bit surprised that the idea of flirting with Draco – and, indeed, of being attracted to him, and wanting the same in return – was really not unpleasant in the slightest. But such appeared to be the case and, if nothing else, Harry was generally the type to try to make the best out of an odd situation.

Unfortunately, he was having a hell of a time trying to figure out a way to test the boundaries without being too obvious. This really would be easier stone cold sober. But then again, if that were the case, he might not have the courage or lack of inhibition necessary to do it in the first place.

Fuck it. He was just going to have to go for it, even if his attempts at subtlety weren't really all that subtle.

"... even listening, are you?"

"Huh?" Harry blinked and looked at Draco, who was rolling his eyes at him.

"I said, you're not even listening to me, are you? Merlin, Potter, how drunk are you?"

"Pretty wrecked, actually," Harry admitted.

The corner of Draco's mouth twitched up into a smile. "What is it you appear to be concentrating so hard on? Remaining vertical?"

"No. I, um... I was trying to remember when the last time I'd had this much to drink was, as a celebration instead of after the end of a bad day." Well, it wasn't what he'd been thinking right then, but that should hold up enough. Because really, Harry could only count a small handful of times he'd been this drunk within the last few years, and only one of those times had been for something positive. None of the mornings following had been exceptionally pleasant, especially if wine had been involved.

Draco eyed him sceptically but, before he could follow up Harry's response with another question, their waiter arrived, setting a glass of light-coloured wine in front of each of them before setting a massive slice of cheesecake on the table, giving a them a nod before murmuring something and slipping away.

Harry looked down at the dessert between them and whistled. "This thing is huge. And that is a lot of whipped cream."

Scoffing, Draco reached for one of the forks. "Please. A place like this doesn't serve something so plebeian as whipped cream with their cheesecake." He gestured down at their dessert. There were thick swirls of caramel on the plate underneath the cheesecake, and the white billowy stuff that sure as hell looked like whipped cream more than doubled the height of the slice. "It's white chocolate mousse." He speared a small bite of cheesecake and plenty of the cream with his fork, put it into his mouth, slid the fork out from between his teeth slowly, and made a noise that was alarmingly like a moan. Harry instantly wondered whether that was the sort of sound Draco would make in bed. He really needed to figure out what was going on between them, especially now that he was having thoughts like that. "Try it. Slowly," Draco ordered after a moment, looking at Harry in a very peculiar way. "Savour it."

"Months working together on this project, and you're still trying to order me around?" Harry asked, shaking his head as he picked up the other fork. "Thought you'd finally learned I don't generally listen to those."

"Tell me about it," Draco sighed. "Stubborn git." He took another small forkful of their dessert and made a face at Harry.

"Spoiled prat." He stuffed the bite of cheesecake into his mouth and chewed quickly, just to be contrary, until his taste buds registered what was going on. Then, he had to consciously remember that it wasn't generally regarded as polite to sit with one's mouth hanging open, especially when there was food in that mouth.

Whipped cream had nothing on white chocolate mousse, especially when paired with caramel and what might be the richest, smoothest cheesecake in existence. "Oh. My. God."

"I told you it was good," Draco smirked.

"Good? It's like... it's like an orgasm in my mouth, which is totally amazing," Harry slurred, only realising what he'd really said when Draco spluttered into his glass of Eiswein. "Fuck. I mean... Er..." Well, damn it. Now, not only could he not come up with something to cover that bit of accidental innuendo, but he was also now thinking about actual orgasms, and how one could literally experience that sort of thing in one's mouth, in a manner of speaking. He'd never actually had that experience – or rather, been on the mouth-end of it – but now his mind was providing all sorts of suggestions and visuals.

And, given the way he seemed to be having trouble recovering, Draco might be having a similar problem. Harry hoped so, in any case.

"You all right?" he asked, giving Draco a couple of good, solid thumps on the back. He debated leaving his hand there, or letting it slide up and play with the hair at the back of Draco's neck, or maybe sliding it down to rest at the small of his back. But that wouldn't be subtle at all. There might be growing... um...'evidence' that there was an attraction here – at least, in Harry's case – but he needed to be positive. He could blame the Auror training for that need. Damn them.

"Fine, fine," Draco said, finally straightening up and clearing his throat a few times. "Just... wrong pipe." He looked at Harry for a moment, and then some of that smirk came back. He took a bit of the back of the cheesecake – the part with all the crust – onto his fork and dragged it through some of the pooled caramel on the plate. "But for the full experience, try it this way." He held out his fork, not angled so that Harry could take hold of it for himself, but so that he'd have to lean in and eat off Draco's utensil.

Harry just stared back at Draco for a moment. Well. It seemed things were getting more interesting. His cock gave another twitch, and he hoped like hell this wasn't just going to be some session of teasing, just because they were both drunk, both relaxing after completing their project at George's shop, both with low-enough inhibitions to have knocked down some of their boundaries... and both still enjoying their ability to tease and fuck with the other.

If so, Harry was going to have one hell of an energetic wank tonight – likely the second he got home.

Slowly, keeping his eyes locked on Draco's, Harry leaned forward and took the bite of cheesecake from Draco's fork. Draco's eyes went wide as Harry licked his lips, and then they narrowed. Underneath the table, Harry felt something – Draco's knee, from what he could gather – press up against his thigh, warm and solid and in no way accidental. "How do you like that?" Draco asked, smirk even wider, and Harry knew he didn't mean just the dessert.

"Can't complain," Harry said, trying for casual and pretending the only thing on his mind was the cheesecake.

"Good," Draco murmured, taking a sip of his wine and also looking suddenly casual, as what felt like his foot, still in his expensive leather shoes, slid around towards the back of Harry's leg and stroked lightly up his calf. Harry somehow managed to suppress a shiver.

Fucking prat. Well, two could play at this game.

"This really is quite good," Harry said after taking a sip of his own wine, surprised at how refreshing it was, the sweetness of it tempered by the richness of the cheesecake. "I wasn't sure about it, but they... pair well. Sort of a nice indulgence." It was tough to do, this verbal sparring, when he was this end of drunk, but this seemed like a good time to put in the effort.

"Exactly," Draco said, nodding, his face flushed in a way Harry was finally willing to bet wasn't just from the wine. "Maybe not something you'd immediately think to put together, but complementary, nonetheless."

"I think," Harry said once he'd managed to stop holding his breath in response to Draco's foot's occasional light strokes, now a little below his knee, "that this might be just what I've needed." He put down his fork next to the now-three-quarters-gone cheesecake slice and dragged his finger through more of the caramel, ignoring table manners completely in favour of sucking it off his fingertip, feeling triumphant as Draco let out a small, huffing sigh and bit his lower lip.

"I do wonder why we've never done this before," Draco said, voice richer and deeper than Harry'd ever heard it. He moved his glass of wine out of the way, closer to Harry, and reached out to pluck the cherry from the side of the plate, where Harry'd knocked it earlier, trying to get a good, solid bite. Catching Harry's eye, he raised his eyebrows, almost as if in a silent challenge, reached out his tongue for the fruit, and sucked the cherry off the stem.

That was it. Harry was done playing. He couldn't take any more.

Draco reached for his glass of wine, but Harry stopped him, grabbing for him suddenly and wrapping his fingers around Draco's wrist. Draco looked up at him with what appeared to be a mixture of shock and amusement. "Enough," Harry nearly growled. He shifted in his seat, pressing his own knee into the side of Draco's thigh. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Fuck me, Potter, I thought you'd never catch on," he moaned, squirming in a way that told Harry that he was just as turned on, if not more so. "You sober enough to Apparate?"

"Probably not, but I'm almost willing to try," Harry replied. "Because I don't think I can walk to the front of the restaurant and wait for the Floo."

"Never mind that," Draco said, shaking his head, a determined and almost predatory look on his face. "Just hold on."

Draco's other arm – the one that wasn't still in Harry's grip – reached up, and Draco wrapped his fingers around Harry's upper arm, holding him tightly. Harry suddenly realised the order to hold on had been quite literal. "I swear to Merlin, Draco, if you splinch anyt– "

But before he could even finish his threat, Harry felt the pull of Side-Along Apparition, and the words were yanked from his mouth.

----

Wine, Harry thought quite happily – if a little dizzily – was amazing stuff, and he really didn't drink it often enough.

His threat to Draco had been cut off the moment Draco Apparated them and, when they'd hit solid ground again, any chance to continue had been cut off when Draco simultaneously caught him mid-stumble and pushed him back against the wall, their mouths pressed together, Harry's eagerly opening in order to let Draco's tongue have access before he'd even properly processed their arrival.

Harry had snogged people before, had initiated and allowed and put up with, but never had he been snogged so forcefully, so possessively. It wasn't just enthusiastic; Draco kissed him as if he needed Harry in some way, like he was a supply of desperately-needed air found deep underwater, or heat in the midst of an arctic blizzard.

And, odd as it was, Harry rather thought he could identify with that feeling.

Also, yes, why the hell hadn't they figured this out before now?

Harry reached up and twisted one hand in Draco's robes, trying to pull him even closer. He wanted more than kissing, more than the feel of Draco's tongue sliding around his mouth, twisting and licking, more than the crush of their mouths together, or Draco sucking at his lower lip. It was a good start – a fucking fantastic start, really – but not enough.

Draco moaned into Harry's mouth as Harry dragged him closer, and just that noise, more than all the harsh breathing and the thudding of Harry's heart echoing in his chest and his ears, nearly undid him right there. That was a noise of desire, of lust and something needy, and it went straight through him in a way he couldn't explain.

"More," Harry panted, finally pulling away enough to get a good look at Draco. He held his gaze, working one hand into Draco's robes and trailing it down along his chest, down his stomach, and finally rotating his wrist so that he could slide his palm down, pressing up against the erection straining against Draco's pants.

Shuddering under Harry's touch, Draco nodded. His hips bucked once as Harry gave another open-palmed stroke, and then he dipped his head forward, biting at Harry's neck and breathing a soft, "Oh, you'll get more, all right," into his ear before going for the buttons of Harry's robes, starting at the very top.

He undid each button slowly, fingers cool against Harry's chest as they worked their way down. His mouth followed after his hands, hot and damp against the skin that had just been chilled, kisses and soft teasing bites trailing down until Draco had Harry's robes off his shoulders. But instead of shoving the robes the rest of the way down and onto the floor, Draco gathered them in his hands and used them to pull Harry away from the wall, up against him, his hands now trapped at his sides. Another sharp tug, and they were pressed together, navels to knees; this time, when Draco rolled his hips, rubbing his hard length against Harry's, it was Harry's turn to moan. He wasn't sure he could take much teasing.

"Feel good?" Draco murmured, letting go of the robes and letting them fall in favour of reaching one hand past the waistband of Harry's pants and wrapping his cool fingers around Harry's shaft, nipping at his shoulder as he leaned in.

"What do you think?" Harry asked tightly, squirming as Draco stroked him in a slow, regular rhythm.

Draco pulled back and smirked, keeping his hand steadily at its task. "Frankly, I'm surprised you can even get it up, after that much wine."

"I'm f-full of surprises," Harry retorted, stuttering slightly when Draco's thumb rubbed the head of his cock, which was already leaking pre-come, and moved back to spread it around, just under the head.

"I'm sure you are." Draco reached one arm behind Harry and pulled him forwards, until they were pressed together, forehead resting against forehead. "So show me." His eyes gleamed in that way that hinted at invitation, tinged with just a bit of challenge.

"My pleasure," Harry breathed, kissing him deeply for a moment before spinning the two of them around until it was Draco up against the wall.

He wasted no time in getting Draco mostly out of his robes – enough so that Harry could run his hands up and down Draco's torso, could press his bare chest against Draco's back as he wrapped one arm around him, pulling him as close as he could manage and taking hold of Draco's cock with his free hand. The position was slightly awkward, but Harry figured he could manage. Right now, this let them be close, connected in a way they hadn't been yet, and Harry savoured the feeling of Draco's warm skin against his own in the cool room, the weight of Draco's cock in his hand, and the way his own nestled up against the crack of Malfoy's arse, pressed tightly between them as he frotted against him. God, it might not even take him long to come like this; drunk or not, Harry thought he stood a chance of coming before his cock even discovered anywhere truly interesting.

In fact, it was maybe only a minute or so later before Harry couldn't keep back a high, desperate whine as his hips rocked against Draco's faster, his orgasm quickly approaching a point of no return.

"Oh, no you don't," Draco grunted, reaching up to shove himself away from the wall. He turned around, face flushed and chest heaving, and fixed Harry with a look that said they were a long way from done. "Not that quickly." He removed Harry's underpants the rest of the way, then reached down and cupped Harry's balls, stroking the spot behind them and just before his perineum gently with the tip of one finger. It felt amazing in a different way, almost like an instant dose of muscle-relaxing potion, something that made him want to go limp all over – well, almost all over – instead of tensing until he could only explode. "Better?"

"Yes and no," Harry moaned, head falling back as Draco continued to massage the area with a light touch.

Draco chuckled. "Well, then. Perhaps it's time to change location. There is quite a comfortable bed, just up those stairs..." He gave Harry's shaft a light squeeze, and Harry moaned again, wondering if this could possibly feel this good if he hadn't had anything to drink. He thought it might. "Look at me, Potter. I want to see your reaction."

Harry raised his head and looked into grey eyes that were hazy, but still clear enough. Draco's pupils were wider than usual, and Harry almost thought that, given some more self-control, he could lose himself in them as he did little more than snog Draco until they were both comatose. "Reaction to what?"

"I was wondering," Draco said, now stroking his shaft with one hand, and massaging that place behind his sac with the other, making for some very conflicting feelings that were nevertheless both incredibly good, "if you thought you could last long enough to fuck me."

Draco Malfoy was going to kill Harry after all, all these years later. He was just going to do it naked, teasing and saying the right things until something in Harry's head burst. Well, the hell with that. Harry hadn't lived this long to die right now, at the precipice of some new adventure. "I can barely stand, but yeah, I think I might pull that off."

"Good." Draco tilted his head forward and sucked lightly at Harry's bottom lip. "Then follow me." He undid the last of his robes, letting them fall to the floor as he led Harry towards and up the staircase, then down the hall, pausing against a closed door to what was probably his bedroom. "Off with everything else," he whispered, and it took Harry a moment to remember that he wasn't completely nude, a problem that was fixed very quickly. Draco grinned and tugged Harry into the room by his wrist, turning around once they were inside to kiss him again in the dark. Harry's lips felt nearly bruised, but fuck, he could do this all night. There was something about this, some level of intimacy to it that hadn't been there with any of the few one-offs Harry'd had in the past, and it was driving him mad, but in a way that was good.

Harry kissed him back, hands roaming over chest and back and hips, until Draco had the backs of Harry's thighs pressed against the edge of the bed and lowered them both down onto the mattress that was so plush Harry felt like he was floating in the night sky. Harry lay on his back, a mixture of anticipation and lust and contentment swirling around in a way that, along with the wine, sort of made his head – and the rest of the room – spin, even as his eyes adjusted to the dimness. "I can't believe we're doing this," he sighed, watching as Draco straddled him, stumbling just a little on top of the bed and reminding Harry that he wasn't the only one who'd had a lot to drink.

"But you want to?" Draco asked, pausing for just a moment.

"Fuck yes, I do," Harry assured him, propping himself up on one elbow and reaching up to cup one hand behind Draco's neck, pulling him down to kiss him softly. "I've never been so happy someone's stood me up for dinner."

Draco grinned and Summoned a bottle of lube from somewhere, pale skin practically glowing. "All this, and dinner and drinks were free."

Harry laughed, the noise turning into a shuddering gasp when Draco slicked a handful of lube up and down his cock. "Best work-related celebration I've ever had," he managed, unable to keep from squirming. He watched as Draco took Harry's cock in his hand, positioned it, and very, very slowly lowered himself onto it, eyes closed and lower lip caught between his teeth.

Draco was hot and tight around him, and Harry somehow managed to keep his hips from bucking. After a short moment, Draco opened his eyes and looked down at him. "Ever done this before?"

"Which part? Sex, yeah. Fooled around with a bloke, yeah. Been ridden? No."

Draco raised his eyebrows, looking amused. "What, you've bottomed? Who knew the saviour to the wizarding world took it up the arse?" He rocked his hips slowly, making Harry shudder. It was going to take a decent amount of effort to last very long at all.

"I don't! I've fooled around with other men, but only snogging, hand jobs, and one blow job." He reached up and put his hands on Draco's hips, his fingers pressing into the flesh of his arse. This. This was almost close enough, with them joined together like this, fitted together.

Draco's look of amusement transformed into something else that Harry couldn't name. "Oh," he breathed, looking both angelic and devilish as his rocking picked up speed, lit by nothing more than the light from the full moon outside the nearby window. "Well, then. Let me see what I can do to make this memorable."

"Already there," Harry said, finally daring to move his own hips. Draco moaned appreciatively and reached one hand out to tweak Harry's nipple. Harry let him, but let go of Draco's arse in order to catch his hand once Draco pulled back, lacing their fingers together.

Draco just looked down at their joined hands for a moment before giving Harry's hand a squeeze, grinning crookedly. "Didn't realise you were such a romantic," he murmured.

"And I didn't realise you'd let me be. I thought Slytherins hated that stuff."

Draco leaned down and nipped at Harry. "Maybe some of them. Others simply relish the attention." He sped up his movements, making Harry writhe beneath him. "Now shut up and fuck me."

Harry laughed, finding the bottle of lube and pouring some into his own hand before he wrapped it around Draco's cock, which was leaking pre-come onto Harry's chest. He stroked in time to Draco's rocking, wondering how long he could hold out, and how irritated Draco would be if he wasn't even close to getting off by the time Harry did.

It seemed he didn't need to worry. Draco's movements got rougher, more desperate and less steady, and it wasn't too long before he let out a low moan, head lolling back, and tensed himself around Harry, his release spilling over Harry's chest in quick spurts. As Draco shuddered and clenched himself even more tightly around Harry's cock, Harry let himself go, coming hard as he held his breath and gripped Draco's hips tightly. His orgasm might as well have been dynamite; it rocked his body intensely and, by the time it was over, he felt positively shattered, broken into a hundred pieces that might never fit back together. The world spun around him, and Harry managed to make himself open his eyes enough to grin dazedly at Draco as the blankets came up to cover them both, enveloping them in darkness as sleep found him and took him swiftly away, floating on a cloud of endorphins laced with alcohol.

----

As the sunlight spilled through the curtains and brightened the bedroom, Harry moaned and rolled over. Wine, he thought with a mixture of dismay and pain, was fucking evil stuff. After a moment, he managed to successfully spell the curtains closed. It didn't make the room dark enough to soothe the pounding in his head, but it did help a little. He felt fucking awful, achy and nauseated with a headache that felt like it was going to try to kill him. He rolled onto his back and threw his arm over his eyes, relieved that that seemed to help. If he just lay very, very still, he might survive.

The mattress moved beneath him, and Harry groaned. His stomach protested briefly and resettled, and Harry muttered an "oh, thank God," under his breath. And then there was a mouth pressed lightly against his half-open one, and Harry registered the familiar bitter lime taste of extra-strength hangover potion, hard to come by if you didn't know how to brew your own or weren't in good with a Potions Master, but very effective, and he kissed back, feeling the very worst of his headache and nausea fade.

"Here," a familiar voice said in little more than a whisper, and then a small, cool, glass bottle was pressed into his hand, the memories of last night flooding back as he realised he might be clutching an unopened bottle of the remedy he'd tasted on Draco's lips.

He groaned again as he removed his arm and light stabbed at his closed eyes, and he fumbled the lid off and drained the contents of the bottle greedily. Within seconds, his stomach began to settle and his head cleared significantly. He let out a sigh of relief and finally cracked his eyes open. Draco was leaning over him, smirking affectionately. When Harry offered a hesitant smile, Draco returned it, wider and brighter.

"Glad to see that helped," he said, taking the empty bottle from Harry's hand and dropping it into the bin at the side of the bed. "Now stop squirming. It's too early to get up, especially after a night like last night."

Harry agreed with him, settling onto his side and pulling the duvet over them both. "You're not kicking me out?"

Draco chuckled and shifted until he was pressed up against Harry's back, his breath tickling Harry's ear. "No," he said, lacing the fingers of his left hand through Harry's and placing a soft, open-mouthed kiss on the back of his neck. "Consider this a display of Slytherin romanticism: I've offered my best hangover potion and decided to let you spend all day in my bed, recovering."

Harry snorted and turned around so he was facing Draco, their faces inches apart on the pillow. His hand found Draco's again, and they twined their fingers together once more. "Recovering? All day, after a remedy that potent?"

Draco just grinned. "Well, I'm certain we can find something to do with all that extra time."

"I'm sure we can," Harry agreed, smiling and angling himself to better reach Draco for a long, slow kiss.

You know, wine really wasn't that bad. Harry was pretty certain he could learn to appreciate it.

Thank You!! (Birthday Recap)

khasael — Fri, 11 May 2012 11:51:01 GMT

Have had faily internet lately (from home, work, AND public wifi spots), but I've overcome it (...or at least am in a coffee shop where it's decided to work for the moment). So, now, before it decides to go away again, I want to take the opportunity to thank you all for the birthday wishes and gifts and such (and if it holds, I'll do a quick repost of a fest fic that can fit within one LJ entry)!

V-Gifts:
jtsbbsps_dk sent me champagne
nenne sent me a bunch of balloons
kitty_fic sent me a box of heart-shaped balloons
veritas03 sent me a chocolate torte
rivertempest sent me a chocolate torte

Fic:
enchanted_jae wrote me A Veela With Bite 2 (Harry/Draco, NC-17)
bleedforyou1 (my birthday buddy!) wrote me The Sweetest Surprises (Harry/Draco, PG-13)
vanessawolfie wrote me Always Knew You Were Stupid (Remus/Sirius, PG-13)

Other:
-- alisanne posted birthday wishes
-- lijahlover posted a happy birthday pic of some chocolates that made me seriously consider going out and buying some
-- maja_li texted me random bits of a Suits (Harvey/Mike) ficlet throughout my day at work
-- uniquepov, groolover, kayoko, and thepretender501 sent happy birthday wishes via text (always awesome to find those in my pocket at work)
-- arineat linked to this adorable kitty in a party hat in her happy birthday tweet to me
-- dysonrules, nursedarry, ladyknightanka, branquignole, bballgirl3022, @anabel100, @aerisaturner, bsmog, blossomdreams, lilyginny27, mayfly_78, moon_foot , and roshni06 all sent birthday tweets
-- I got a birthday #fishpile with arkeiryn, playwithfyr, azurelunatic, hanelissar, & kiyala
-- dysonrules, filmatleven, caecandy, sarkysnarky, humaazul, and arkeiryn all gave birthday love on facebook
-- ldydark1, subtlefire, fireflavored, and c8h7n3o2 sent birthday wishes via PM

...I think that's everyone! If I've left you off the list, please do let me know--it's probably just an error in my coding!

As for RL birthday happenings:

I went to work. Work itself was okay, though DH managed to get a speeding ticket on the way there (ugh, less than ideal happening). But I arrived and managed to find THIS waiting for me:

Yeah. My Awesome Co-Worker of Awesome made that as a surprise, as her gift to me. You can't really tell from the angle of the picture, but that's a cake actually SHAPED like Gir, on top of a gold cake board (with the icing writing on the board)--the lights kept reflecting off the board from all the other angles that showed that it's not a design just drawn onto some cake. She, our boss (bakery manager), and DH all conspired to make this happen.

Also, DH conspired w/ my aunt/godmother and grandparents (as well as my boss, re: logistics) to set up another surprise: next week, DH and I will be going out to dinner and then seeing Wicked! Boss has even told DH that he'll kick my ass out of work on time that day if he has to, so I'll have time to get ready :)

Other than that, pretty uneventful day. After work, headed to campus, where DH was trying to write his last paper of his undergrad. We sat in the library for a while, then got food, then came back to the house where he kept writing. Eventually (after midnight, I think?), I went to bed. When I got up at 5am, he was still writing. Edited that when he was done a few hours later, sent him out the door to turn it in and take a final, and I napped (Twice. Accidentally. And totally screwed up my sleep cycle).

About to catch a bus and head off to work. Will get there early solely to have access to a very comfy chair, because the hard ones in this coffee shop are KILLING my back (apparently, an hour's about the point where my lower back just says NO MORE OF THIS PLS). If the wifi's working, I'll do a fic post from there.

Oh, and today's the last day of DH's internship. He's supposed to meet with his supervisor today and discuss...things. Hopefully, that means a part-time job offer (2-3 shifts/wk). If you've got 'please give Khas's DH a job vibes' to spare, now would be the time to send them! Because he's tweaking pretty damned hard. It's more about the openings/job availability than it is about if they think he'd be good at it--he's heard a number of employees tell his supervisor they should hire him, and the school's internship coordinator told him that the evaluation she received on him is the most glowing one she's EVER seen, from that supervisor or any other. Here's hoping!

HP Fic: Rehydration (Harry/Draco, R)

khasael — Tue, 08 May 2012 23:39:37 GMT

Title: Rehydration
Beta: groolover
Rating: R
Word Count: 818
Warnings/Contains: Adult language, sexual content
Summary: Draco's hot. Potter's hotter.
Author’s Note: Just a wee ficlet for my birthday buddy, bleedforyou1 :) She requested Harry/Draco and left me the prompt of “water”. (Also, oh, hey, look! I AM capable of writing something under 20k these days! Who’d have thought?)

There were two things Draco desperately needed once his feet touched the ground after a long, gruelling Seeker’s match out on the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch: something cold to drink before he passed out, and a very long shower or swim.

Fortunately, these things were fairly easy to attain, readily available in the school's Quidditch changing rooms, just outside the pitch. Unfortunately, he was not the only one who had this idea. Nor was he the one to get there first.

Potter had beat him to the otherwise empty changing rooms and, by the looks of things when Draco entered, had made a beeline for the pitcher of ice water sitting on the counter, underneath the mirrors. There was one unused glass, along with one still wet with condensation, and a pitcher that was three-quarters gone. As Draco headed for it, muttering about Potter not leaving very much at all, the pitcher refilled itself, water and ice, both.

"Well, that's fine, then," he huffed, just thankful someone had thought to appropriately charm the pitcher. He drank two and a half glasses, barely pausing to breathe. In fact, the only reason he stopped at all was because an icy spike of pain stabbed him just behind the eyes. Draco took that as his cue to move towards the showers. There was a trail of Quidditch leathers and other sweaty clothing leading in that direction, and the sound of running water and splashing indicated that Potter had indeed stolen his idea.

Grunting, Draco stripped off his own gear, making certain to hang it in the appropriate locker, then tossed his filthy clothing into the laundry locker and closed the lid, setting the washing charms to begin. At least he would have clean clothes to come out to. Potter had likely left his things a mess in order to irritate Draco. There had been no winner of the Seekers' challenge; the Snitch seemed to have gone missing from the pitch, a fact they both blamed on each other instead of defective charms on the equipment. There had just been flying around, after an hour and a half of them both accumulating a dozen almost-catches, and then grumbling and insults. Not surprisingly, there had also been shoving. What was surprising was the inclusion of a fair amount more touching than either of them seemed to expect. Draco stepped into the showers thinking of that, devising a few new insults as he went.

He promptly forgot them all.

Potter stood in front of the centre showerhead, neck arched and eyes closed as the water soaked his hair and sluiced down his skin. Draco watched, mouth slightly agape, as rivulets of water ran down between Potter's shoulder blades, down the small of his back, and down his thighs. As he watched, Potter reached up and fiddled with the knobs, groaning in pleasure as the water reached the desired temperature. "Fuck," Potter murmured, still turned towards the tile wall, "only thing that'd feel better would be a good, hard shag."

Draco's breath hitched as he took in that rather delightful – and completely surprising – visual, and he swallowed hard as he stepped beside Potter and turned on the water above him. "Think you might have the right idea there," he said casually.

Potter's eyes flew open and, despite the fact that he was half-hard, he didn't turn away in embarassment. Draco's eyes drifted downwards, and Potter's followed the direction of his gaze. "Looking awfully intently, aren't you, Malfoy?" he asked, reaching for the soap. "Stare like that, someone might wonder if you were offering."

Draco snorted, meaning to turn away, before his sex drive asserted itself over his brain as ruler of all. "What if I were?"

Potter stared at him a long moment, a small grin eventually tugging at one corner of his mouth. "Well, then," he said after a few moments, now slowly lathering his chest, "I think we might have some things to discuss."

Draco turned towards him, a smile slowly spreading across his own lips. "You don't say?"

With a nod, Potter stepped a little closer, smirking when Draco only mirrored the move until they were close enough to share the same showerhead. "We might just have to set a record for longest shower after a match with no winners."

Slowly, Draco reached out one hand and let his finger trail up Potter's wet chest, thrilling at the sight of Potter shuddering underneath his touch, lower lip tucked between his teeth. "I think we might just be able to find a scenario where there are two winners, instead. Don't you agree?"

Draco didn't get a verbal response to his question, but he rather felt that the press of Potter's mouth against his own was answer enough.

Heads Up! (announcement? promise? warning? YOU DECIDE)

khasael — Mon, 07 May 2012 04:12:27 GMT

So, I am about a day and a half away from my birthday. I'm not a big "YAY IT'S MY BIRTHDAY" person, in general. Most years, I don't do much (or anything at all) for it, and that doesn't generally bother me. I've worked my birthday pretty much every year since I started working (exception being when I didn't have a job, of course), and I'm working on it again this year. When I was in school, I don't think I went a single year without having to take a final exam or turn in a paper on that date, save for the years when it was on a Sunday (and those years, my b-day was on Mother's Day). But anyway. NOT THE POINT.

Point is, THIS birthday is one of those supposed milestones (I'll be 30). And I'd LIKE to go into my thirties being somewhat better-organized. As such, I'm going to be FINALLY putting all those fics that've been through fest reveals up on my own journal. They'll be going up on AO3, as well (man, I may fight with the formatting sometimes on AO3, but at least I can post even my longest fics in one go, as opposed to having to post something like two, three, or SEVEN entries to get the whole thing up on LJ). I'm also going to be updating my master list (with actual links and summaries and everything, wow) as I do that.

I've tried this before, and have always stalled out after a couple of days, because my schedule was so irregular I couldn't keep doing it, plus a host of other RL things that interfered. But now, with the promotion, the schedule's a bit more regular and, with that and some recent changes I've made to other RL areas, I can actually keep this up. It probably won't be something I do every single day until I get caught up (um. There are over 30 such fics. Yeah, that's a lot of fail. Whoops), but will be more like every day, or two, or three. At the same time, I'll be trying get my tagging system in order--some fics are tagged well, others are tagged a little, and others aren't tagged at all. What even.

And now, off to bed with me. Alarm goes off in 5.5 hrs, and I'm fighting a headache that wants to go all migraine on me (took my migraine meds, but they've not yet kicked in). I also want to get caught up on comments to my entries (fics AND RL) here, as well as on AO3, while I'm trying to get this decade kicked off on a do-not-procrastinate-on-little-things-that-build-up note.

(OH. On that sort of note: DH had an hour-long talk with his internship coordinator at the news station, and there's nothing official, but there's the possibility of good things on the horizon there. He'll know more in a week or two--after finals (and graduation) are over. So thanks to those of you who've sent good thoughts! Here's hoping I'll have even more awesome news soon!)

♥ ♥ ♥

Some Good News (finally)

khasael — Tue, 01 May 2012 11:17:20 GMT

There are a few of you who already know this, but I've kept it pretty quiet for the last week. But now it's all 100% official in all the appropriate places, so I feel it's time to share my good news:

I GOT A FREAKING PROMOTION.

Yeah. After working my ASS off in late March (remember the 70-hour work week, and the 120 hours of work in 2 weeks, because one boss quit and the other was on vacation?)--as well as the rest of the time, they gave me Employee of the Month (got a gift certificate I'll prob never use and a card, plus it went on the corporate website). Last week, my boss (bakery dept. manager) came to me on lunch (where I was trying to squeak in a BOB check-in, heh), and basically TOLD me they were promoting me to Production Manager (as opposed to, say, going "we need someone to officially manage the back; would you like the position?") and giving me a raise. I tried not to have my outward response be a combination of 0.0 and o_0 before I accepted.

I've actually been doing 85% of this position already, only now it's official, with a title and everything, and I have a lot more authority (so, instead of asking another bakery employee to do something and hoping they do it because it really has to be done, now it's more telling them it has to be done, and they need to do it. No, I've not power-tripped. This is not my first time in a management position, and I've always got good reviews on that front). Now more responsible for supply orders, what we're bringing in new to the case, what we're discontinuing, quality control, recipe tweaks, etc.

But boss also wants to eventually train me to be his replacement, doing schedules and time card approvals (have done those things for years, at a previous job) and invoice-entering and basically everything but directly hiring and writing up employees (would not be new to those things, either). When those things start happening, they'll probably switch my title to Bakery Assistant Manager. He has no plans to leave at this point, but he's in school, and you just never know when things are going to require change like that (like he said, 5 months or 5 years). He and store director have already said they think I should attend the upcoming management seminars our HR is doing at the corporate offices later this month.

So. Yeah. Good news!

(Now, if y'all would just send good vibes towards the husband, so that where he is interning will offer him a (part-time) job after his internship is done later this week, that would be amazing. Seriously. If he gets one, we could probably actually move out of this place and get into a decent living situation, which would make life 40924 times better.)

Suits Fic: Third Definition (Harvey/Mike, PG-13)

khasael — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 04:47:59 GMT

Title: Third Definition
Fandom: Suits
Pairing: Harvey/Mike
Beta: groolover
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 5000
Warnings/Contains: adult language, mentions of certain bodily functions/stomach problems (warning for the very squeamish), hurt/comfort
Summary: There's caring for your associate, and then there's caring for your associate. There might also be a third definition in play here, and that's actually the one that worries Harvey.
Author's Notes: Written for maja_li. Also, this just sort of...happened. Thanks to my beta (who, as always, does an excellent and speedy job), and to uniquepov for a bit of last-minute input.

It's chance that Harvey looks up at just the right moment to see that the gentleman who has Mike cornered is completely oblivious to the fact that his partner in conversation is not even remotely interested in what he has to say. Mike's eyes are locked on the DA's face like his life depends on maintaining focus but, even from here, Harvey can see the strained look on his face, and the way his throat works. And he knows that something's wrong, and Mike needs out of there.

He excuses himself from Senator Abernathy, who is only too happy to have a chance to chat with Jessica alone, and slides himself between Mike and District Attorney Carmichael. He doesn't look back, only turns his head slightly to the side so Mike can hear him say "Go. Take care of whatever it is," out of the corner of his mouth. "John," Harvey says warmly, extending his hand and angling the man away from Mike, who practically runs away, headed for the stairs instead of the elevator. "Heard you and your wife ended up with twins. Just wanted to give you my congratulations."

The DA thanks him, getting that puffed-up proud papa look before his phone rings and he ducks his head. "Speaking of my better half," he says with an embarrassed grin, gesturing to his screen.

"No, of course," Harvey replies, thankful to be let out of conversation so easily. He waves a goodbye and heads for the stairs himself, hoping that, wherever Mike tore off to, he managed to avoid falling down a flight or two and breaking his neck in his haste.

It seems for all his sprinting, Mike hasn't gotten that far after all. The door to Pearson Hardman's level is just clicking shut as Harvey hits the flight above it, and he steps out of the stairwell in time to see Mike's back as he half walks, half falls into the men's room.

When Harvey walks in, Mike's staggering toward a stall, already retching with a hand clamped over his mouth. He's running blind, Harvey can see it. So when Mike fumbles in getting the door open, Harvey steps forward, yanks it open, and directs Mike in, all with quick, silent movements.

And not a moment too soon. Mike barely hits the floor before Harvey gets an eyeful of everything the kid's eaten today, and Harvey's just glad he's doing this here, and not back up on that rooftop. Nothing puts a sour note on a career like public embarrassment. And this isn't some minor incident, a reaction to nerves that got a little out of hand. This is intense and violent, the kind of thing that makes Harvey remember a dozen colorful euphemisms for what Mike's currently doing, and Harvey moves forward into the stall without a lot of thought, acting on instinct, as he usually does.

If there's one thing that hits Harvey several minutes later, as he stands in the men's room with his hand lightly resting on Mike's back just below the nape of his neck, it's that there's caring for your associate, and then there's caring for your associate.

There might also be a third definition in play here, with a much different inflection. That's actually the one that worries him.

Harvey waits, his touch light but firm, as Mike kneels on the linoleum and takes quick, shallow breaths. They've been here nearly fifteen minutes now, and the kid's got to be empty by this point. "Done?" Harvey asks as Mike sits up a little straighter, grabbing a handful of toilet paper and wiping at his mouth.

"Dunno." Mike's voice is hoarse, and it's no surprise whatsoever, given everything. He looks up at Harvey, eyes red and watering and face flushed. "Hope so."

"So," Harvey says quietly, hearing a steady drip from one of the sinks. "You have a few too many too early?"

Mike groans, and Harvey can feel the vibrations through his hand, which still rests on Mike's back. He's removed it a few times, but it still keeps finding its way back. "I only had one, I swear, Harvey. I know you told me tonight was not the night to be stupid and do something which might get us caught."

"Then was it the food from earlier? Too much, or too rich?" He hadn't had anything Mike had eaten, and he felt fine. But Mike had wolfed down his meal, seemingly without breathing, and God only knew how the combination of things he'd had on his plate had decided to cooperate.

"Oh God, please don't talk about —" But that's as far as he gets before he's leaning forward again, gagging and choking, and Harvey wrinkles his nose as Mike makes yet another offering to the porcelain god. He's always hated the sound of someone else being sick, but it's not anything he can't actually handle.

Well, that's one answer we'll chalk up as a 'yes', Harvey thinks, glad to know that at least the kid's not been stupid enough to get flat-out drunk with this crowd. Disappearing halfway into the night isn't the best move, either, but it's better than vomiting all over the shoes of a district attorney, which Mike had been dangerously close to doing.

He sighs and steps quickly from the bathroom, striding toward Donna's desk. She's got a small stack of dixie cups in her bottom drawer, bigger than the ones at the water cooler, and Harvey grabs one and heads back to the men's room after filling it with cold water. Mike looks up at him in surprise when Harvey opens the door of the stall again, looking more miserable than anyone should when Harvey's not sticking it to them. "Here," he says, holding out the cup. "Drink that. Slowly." He's not sure when exactly he became Mike's goddamned babysitter, but it's more the combination of motives behind his choice than the appointment that has him thinking.

"Thanks." Mike's smart enough not to gulp it down, at least, so some of that feeling of babysitting resides. In fact, it takes him a good two and a half minutes to drain the paper cup, using the last of it to rinse his mouth, before he hands it back to Harvey, who has the insane urge to quote Wayne's World — if you're gonna spew, spew into this — before he tosses the cup and tells himself that, while he might admit to knowing the movie if Mike quotes it, he will never personally quote Dana Carvey.

Besides, Harvey thinks that if he uses the word "spew" right now, Mike might do just that.

"You all right?"

Mike takes a very slow, very deep breath with his eyes closed before he lets it out and looks up at Harvey from the floor. "Yeah. I think so."

"Good. Get up. Let me get a look at you."

Standing on legs that make him wobble like a goddamned baby deer, Mike grabs onto the handicap railing at his side and stands still, letting Harvey scrutinize him. The knees of his pants are dirty, his shirt's damp with sweat, and his tie — one of the few decent ones he's worn on his own — is still slung over one shoulder, thanks to Harvey's quick movements just before Mike's knees hit the floor.

"How bad is it?"

"...I'm getting really tired of you wearing my suits, kid," he sighs. "That is, if you think you can even go back out there."

He can see Mike start to insist he can do it, that whatever it was that hit him has passed, but then he goes pale green and swallows hard. Yeah. No. That's not happening. Not for a handful of different reasons, not the least of which is that Harvey doesn't want his associate — not just an associate, but his associate — losing whatever's left of his lunch on someone who will remember it at just the wrong time later.

"Never mind," he says, already hitting the appropriate number on his speed dial. "You're done for the night. What's your address?"

"Huh?"

"Your address. Ray's going to need it to get you home."

"I can't go home. They're —" He makes a choked noise Harvey recognizes entirely too well and closes his eyes, one hand moving up to rest on his stomach. "— They're fumigating my place. I'm staying at Jenny's while she's out of town."

"Not anymore you're not," Harvey mutters as the phone stops ringing, someone finally picking up the other end. "Ray. Sorry about the hour. I need a pickup. Pearson Hardman. Just to my place." He thinks for a moment. "Bring a couple plastic grocery bags, if you can find them."

Mike starts to protest, something stupid about his bike, and Harvey just glares until he shuts up; he leads Mike out of the men's room and to the elevator with his hand at the small of Mike's back, helping to propel him forward. He leaves Mike leaning with his forehead pressed against the wall, eyes closed, for just a moment. "Stay here. Don't move."

"Moving's practically the last thing on my mind," Mike mumbles as Harvey walks away. He's back within a minute or two, an empty wastebasket in his hand. "I'm not hurling in your trash can, Harvey," he says as he cracks one eye open. "It's probably platinum or something, and I can't afford to replace that."

"It's just aluminum," Harvey says, rolling his eyes, and then he can't help but smirk. "Besides, ruin it all you want. It belongs to Louis."

Mike gives him a weak grin, still leaning against the wall for support. "Well, in that case, I almost hope I have to use it." He shudders, and Harvey steps forward, his hand on Mike's back once more. Mike hasn't said a word yet about Harvey's frequent touching and steadying, making some crack about comfort or caring about him or anything else, and he certainly hasn't shied away from the touch. Harvey's pretty sure that means even he knows he needs the support.

"Come on, kid. Outside to wait for Ray. Fresh air'll do you good."

Mike looks so miserable on their way down to the lobby that Harvey almost wants to let himself rub the kid's back. He doesn't, though. That runs a little too close to that supposed third definition of "caring" that he's trying to avoid thinking about. Instead, he just hands Mike the wastebasket and keeps one hand hovering, not quite resting on Mike's back, but coming awfully close. He hears Mike groan when the elevator hits the lobby, the floor bobbing back up beneath them as it levels itself with the correct floor. "Easy there," he murmurs, and his hand's on Mike's back again, this time just between his shoulder blades, before he even notices and pulls his hand away.

It's increasingly worrisome how automatic his movements to touch and comfort Mike are becoming.

The crisp air does seem to do Mike some good. He's still pale, but he doesn't look quite so green; his lips are now just a very pale pink instead of practically white. He gets Mike into the car several minutes later, the wastebasket propped between his knees, and shakes his head at Ray, who's giving him the closest thing he's ever seen to an irritated look directed his way. "He won't make a mess," Harvey says, taking the silently-offered plastic drugstore bag. "And if he does, I'll pay to have this thing triple-cleaned."

Ray laughs a little and nods, looking more at ease. "Any particular music selection this evening?"

"No. Just something quiet, without vocals."

"I might just have something that fits the bill."

Harvey thanks Ray and slides into the car, trying not to jostle Mike. Because, really, the kid obviously feels awful, and Harvey doesn't want to make him feel any worse. He also doesn't want to lose this suit — it's one of his favorites and, at nearly fifteen hundred dollars, he really doesn't want to have to hope that the dry-cleaners could get the mess or the smell out of it, if it came to that.

They pull out into traffic and Harvey picks out the soft saxophone melody of Dave Brubeck's Take Five from the speakers. Not a bad choice on Ray's part, though the five-four time might not be quite as ideal as something in four-four. Still, it's calming and, if they're lucky, the right balance of distracting and inobtrusive.

"I could have ridden my bike home," Mike murmurs after a while, his eyes closed while his head is tipped backward, propped on the headrest. It's one of the few full sentences he's uttered since Harvey noticed how off he looked back up on that rooftop, surrounded by dozens of people who could break his career before it really even started.

"I somehow doubt that," Harvey says with a small snort. "If you'll recall, you couldn't even make it off that roof and to the nearest bathroom without my help."

"Would've managed." But then his breathing goes all harsh and quick again, and Harvey can see his fists clench as he tries to fight back the waves of nausea. Fuck. He'll absolutely pay to have the upholstery and carpets cleaned, if it comes to it, but Harvey'd prefer to save himself the money, Ray the trouble, and Mike the embarrassment.

"Slow breaths," Harvey says firmly, and something in Mike changes at the tone, much as he always seems to snap to when Harvey gives him an order in the office. "Nice and slow. We're almost there." Mike shudders but gives it a shot, eyes squeezed shut while he hunches over in his seat, wastebasket now in his arms. Harvey does sort of have to admire his determination in this. Nausea's one of those things that turns most people into a whimpering, helpless mess, but Mike's actually trying to hold his own. Whether that's to do with not wanting to make a mess in Ray's car, or just being sick of being sick, or any other reason, Harvey can't say. But still, it's plain he's putting in some effort. "There you go."

Harvey thinks Mike may be over the worst of it, after all, by the time he gets him up to his apartment. It's been almost an hour since Mike's last been sick, and he's at least looking around, eyes in focus, as they walk inside and Harvey shuts the door behind him.

"This place is even nicer from the inside," Mike says with his eyes sort of wide, as he glances around the place. "I meant what I said — I'd be happy to watch it while you went out of town at some point."

Harvey shakes his head and hangs up his jacket. "Nice try." Now that they're in his place and Mike's not lit by the fluorescents from the office bathroom, he can see just how much the evening's taken a toll. He should be in bed at home, but fumigation has ruled that right out. And he sure as hell doesn't want Mike with Jenny, who might be just as bad in some ways as Trevor, or even shut up all alone in her apartment. So that leaves here, where at least Harvey can keep an eye on him, even if his plans for the night have sort of gone to hell. "Your suit's a mess. I'll get you something else to wear for now. Anything else you need?"

"Directions to your bathroom, before I puke on your floor," is the reply, and Harvey doesn't even need to look at Mike to realize he's not joking or exaggerating.

"On your left," Harvey says, pointing, and Mike's gone before he even gets to add "last door at the end of the hall" to his directions. He hears a door slam — what sounds like the correct one, and he sure as hell hopes so because, otherwise, he's going to lose a lot of shoes, or maybe a good rug — and then he can hear Mike heaving in a way that sounds distinctly painful.

"Jesus," Harvey mutters, running a hand through his hair. "What the hell did that kid eat?" It might be time to consider looking into a small suit against that diner, or at least a good threat, invoking the office of the Health Department. He makes his way into the bedroom and pulls an old T-shirt and pair of pajama pants from a drawer, then swings by the kitchen and digs a nearly-forgotten can of 7 Up out of the back of the fridge, left over from the last time a guest had decided to make them Seven and Sevens. He might have crackers somewhere in a cupboard but, if he does, it's a fifty-fifty shot they're full of cheese and spices, and that's the last damn thing Mike needs right now.

He knocks on the bathroom door just once, not asking permission, but simply announcing his presence. Mike doesn't even look at him when he enters. He just laughs a little and flushes the toilet. "This is definitely the fanciest place I've ever thrown up," he says weakly.

"Happy to make this a special day ," Harvey says, shaking his head. "Next time, aim for the White House or the Vatican. Here." He sets the pajamas on the side of the tub. "Change into those, whenever you finish. I brought you something to settle your stomach, too."

Mike just looks at him with bloodshot eyes. "Why'd you bring me here? Why'd you even leave the event tonight?"

It's one of the questions Harvey's been asking himself all night. There might be a hundred and forty-six different answers, but none of the ones he can say feels like a big enough piece of the puzzle to suffice. It would have been perfectly easy to let Mike run off toward the bathrooms on his own, and nearly as easy to help him to the men's room and leave him there to do as he needed. Nothing said he had to do anything but check on his associate to make sure he hadn't passed out and hit his head and, really, there wasn't even anything that said he had to do that.

He certainly didn't need to stand there with his hand on Mike's back while he saw the afternoon's meal in reverse, nor get him a glass of water afterward, and he absolutely didn't have to take Mike across town to his apartment in a private car, just to be sure he'd be okay. Nothing at all said he had to care for Mike.

Only he did. Because he cares for Mike, much as it pains him to admit it. Damn that third meaning of the word.

"I wanted to be sure you'd be all right," he finally says. It's as close to the truth as he can allow himself to admit aloud. "You're my associate. You're my responsibility."

"Yeah, when I'm working on a case for you," Mike says, finally pulling himself up a bit and turning to look at Harvey. "This is sort of different."

It is, and it would be stupid to argue against it. "Just shut up and change out of those clothes," he sighs. "Unless you can think of anything else you need?"

"Do you have a gun stashed somewhere so you can put me out of my misery?" Harvey just looks at him and raises his eyebrows. "Then no, nothing else." Mike stands very carefully and undoes the remaining buttons on his shirt, tossing it and the tie that's still over his shoulder onto the floor. He changes into Harvey's old shirt, a faded Harvard baseball T-shirt from forever ago, so worn that the crimson letters are now just sort of a dusky red on thin, practically translucent white cotton. "Fits me better than your suit did," he mumbles, reaching for the pants. Harvey doesn't even wait to be asked; he walks out of the bathroom and back toward the living room, wondering what, exactly, he does now.

Mike finally shuffles into the living room, still pale, and now with circles above his cheekbones so dark it they look like someone's blacked both his eyes. "Don't suppose you've got any crackers?"

Harvey gets up without a word, stuffing his left hand into his pocket before it can come up to linger at Mike's back as he walks by. The kid still looks miserable, but now it seems to be a combination of physical misery and something he's unhappy about, and Harvey's hand seems to be wondering if a few moments of contact will help.

There are Saltines in the cupboard, a whole box, minus half a sleeve, and he pulls out an unopened one and hands it to Mike. "Settle yourself on the sofa," he says, taking in the surprised and plainly grateful look on Mike's face at these words. "Try to get some sleep. I'll call you a cab in the morning."

Mike looks at him for several moments, the crackers forgotten in his hands. "I..." he says after a moment, then stops, frowning. "Do you have any idea how embarrassing this is?"

Harvey just gives him a look. "You've shown up at my apartment in the middle of the night, drunk. You've spilled a briefcase full of pot at my feet. You've had to associate with Louis in a locker room. And this is embarassing?"

Sitting carefully on the sofa, Mike just sighs. "It's a whole new kind of embarrassing, actually."

There's a slight flush on Mike's cheek now, and, from the way he's suddenly not looking at Harvey, and the way he's angled toward him anyway, Harvey gets this faint glimmer of what might be understanding. He hasn't moved away from Harvey once this evening, hasn't told him not to touch him, hasn't asked him to leave. He allows himself to consider why this might be for a moment, keeping quiet as he does so.

"Never mind," Mike says, suddenly interested in getting the crackers open. "I should just be glad Louis wasn't the one to find me in the bathroom or something."

"He'd have run from the room the second you gagged that first time," Harvey says, still thinking. He sits down next to Mike, but doesn't look at him, opting instead to look at the television, which he flips on absently with the remote on the coffee table. Neither of them says anything for a very long time. Mike nibbles on the crackers and sips at his soda while Harvey pretends he's interested in the comedy movie that's playing on the television. Eventually, Harvey looks over and notices Mike's dozed off, chin resting on his own chest, and takes that as permission to change the channel to something less ridiculous.

He wakes from his own doze to see Mike pull the wastebasket toward him from the nearby spot where Harvey had nudged it earler, clutching it like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. "Fuck. Come on, no, not again, please no," he hears Mike whimper before he retches a few times, and it's that dismayed and pleading tone, very nearly a sob, that snaps Harvey out of the shreds of sleep that wrap around his brain.

Harvey moves without really thinking about it, scooting over on the sofa and rubbing his hand in small circles between Mike's shoulder blades. "Just let it happen," he murmurs as Mike lets out a pathetic noise. "It'll be over faster that way." Harvey's college roommate had been the type of guy who would force everything out as quickly as possible, but Mike's definitely not that kind. Neither is Harvey, for that matter. There were times he'd been sure he'd have to call an ambulance for his roommate, due to the possibility of ruptured organs. Still, there comes a point when fighting it doesn't do anyone any favors.

He keeps the heel of his hand moving in circles until Mike's done, only dimly aware he's doing it. But then Mike moves into the touch, seeking it out like a plant does sunlight, and Harvey finally figures fuck it, he's already in this too deep to deny everything. He slides even closer, until his knee is touching Mike's, and runs the whole palm of his hand up and down Mike's spine in gentle, regular strokes.

"Thanks," Mike finally croaks, but neither of them makes a move toward pulling away.

"Done?" Harvey asks after a while longer, when Mike's breathing is normal. He doesn't want to call attention to his hand on Mike's back, but it's going to be hard to ignore its presence for much longer.

"Think so."

"You okay?"

Mike shifts so he's again reclining on the couch. "Feels like I might have sprained something or torn a muscle," he groans. "Fuck, that hurts. Other than that, yeah, I think I'll live."

"You'd better," Harvey says, eyebrows raised. "Where else am I going to find a smartass associate with an eidetic memory?"

"I'm sure we're a dime a dozen. You might even be able to find one who doesn't get food poisoning right before fundraiser events. Good luck finding one as good-looking and generally awesome as I am, though."

"I'll keep an eye out." Harvey gets up carefully and starts to clean up, watching Mike out of the corner of his eye as he does so. Mike's curled up on himself, shivering and pale; every now and then, he glances Harvey's way and looks like he's about to say something, but he never does. As Harvey's having his own issues figuring out exactly how much of what he's thinking he should say, if anything, he leaves Mike to it. "Be right back," he says after a few moments, still debating why he feels like he should say something.

Mike nods as Harvey steps out into the hall, headed for the trash chute. Harvey detours to the bathroom to wash his hands afterward, then grabs a washcloth from the stack under the sink, wetting it and wringing it out. He looks up at his reflection and rolls his eyes. "What the hell happened to your control and distance and stance against emotion?" he murmurs at the man in the mirror, who looks softer than usual, a bit tired, and is definitely missing the smirk he so often wears. Sighing, he shakes his head and heads for the living room again.

Mike shudders as Harvey hands him the warm, damp washcloth several moments later. "Shouldn't have eaten," he says with a little groan, sitting up. He wipes at his face as Harvey stands there with his hands at his sides, both of them seemingly unsure how exactly to proceed. "Don't suppose I've got grounds for a civil suit or something against that restaurant?"

Harvey snorts softly. "Probably not."

Mike looks up at him, face wan, and Harvey sees the calculations and rationalizations going on behind his eyes. "Harvey?"

"Yeah?"

"You had..." He stops and rubs at his face. "You didn't just follow me off that rooftop because you were afraid I'd make you look bad at the event tonight, did you?"

It's hard to lie to the kid's face, because Harvey doesn't actually want to. But doing so might save them both a lot of hassle. He looks at Mike, prepared to do just that, thinking that yeah, murder might be easier sometimes, but, once he gets a look at the earnestness in those blue eyes, he decides against it and sits heavily on the couch. "What finally clued you in? The twentieth time I found myself rubbing your back?"

Mike gives him a small crooked grin. "More like the third. It was kind of hard to have a conversation about it at the time, though, since I didn't think hurling on you would improve how receptive you might be to what I had to say."

"And what do you have to say?"

"You're Harvey Specter. You read people for a living. What do you think?"

And now that he's put it so bluntly, Harvey can drop the dozens of excuses he's made for Mike's behavior in the last few months, all the long looks and deep stares and the way he always seems to angle himself just right, so they're almost touching but aren't actually, should anyone look their way.

"I see."

Mike offers up another small smile. "And I've learned to read people a little, too. You care for me. Like I said you did months ago. You do have emotions. For me, at least."

Harvey snorts. "Don't get too cocky."

Mike shifts on the sofa, arms wrapped around his stomach, and sighs contentedly when Harvey's automatic response is to put a hand on the back of his neck and stroke his thumb gently over it. "It's not being cocky. It's being right."

Harvey opens up his mouth to argue, but then does something completely uncharacteristic: He gives up. "Fine. You win this one. Now shut up. Get some sleep."

Mike curls up with one of the couch cushions, smiling when Harvey moves his hand and brushes his fingertips through Mike's hair. "Hey, Harvey?" he says, settling in and letting his eyes drift closed. Harvey gently pulls him a little closer, Mike moving easily into him, until his arm is around Mike's hip and Mike's head is rested on Harvey's leg. It feels oddly satisfying to sit like this, like they're both perfectly content to be so close, touching, and not caring to do any more for now.

"What is it?"

"You didn't run away when I threw up. It's love, isn't it?"

Harvey sighs and hides his smile in his shoulder. He's not considered the word yet, doesn't really consider it much in any case, but he doesn't shoot it down either. It might not be so easy to deny. "Shut up, Mike."

Mike grins, squirming until he's comfortable, and buries his face in Harvey's leg as Harvey moves his hand gently up and down Mike's side. "I knew it."

Squeeful Weekend Recap and Other Stuff!

khasael — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 20:31:07 GMT

As some of you may know (especially those who follow me on twitter, because there was much anticipatory squee there), I got to spend a few days with uniquepov this weekend! I even (*gasp*), TOOK THREE DAYS OFF WORK, because there was no way in hell I was going to miss her visit.

So! Brief recap!

Wednesday: Long-ass day at work, then headed to campus, where DH was working. Finally headed to the airport to snag Lorca, who arrived after 8pm. After some mild "wait, I am here, why don't I see you?" confusion (damn you, east/west terminals!), we found each other! And there was some waiting for DH, who'd had to circle a few times, and then we finally managed to grab everyone some food, as we'd all failed to eat earlier, and then we got Lorca safely tucked into her hotel room. And then I went home and passed the hell out, because by that point, it was 11pm, and I had to be up at 230 for work.

Thursday: Was met towards the end of my shift, and after some general asking coworkers about recs re: food and drink in the fairly immediate area (what? I don't LIVE in the same town/city where I work, and I'm usually only there FOR work), and utilising google maps, we armed ourselves with some goodies and made it back to the hotel. There was delivery Chinese for dinner and chatting and general lounging, followed by my use of the phrase "D/s undertones" in regards to Suits, which let me more or less attempt to drag Lorca into that fandom :) Watched a bit of that before I basically could not stay awake any longer, and then there was sleep. Like, more than just a few hours of it. (My body, it was confused.)

Friday: Slept in (omg, that is such a glorious thing), we both put in some time sprawled out on our netbooks, doing work and/or writing-like things, before we decided that yes, food was important, and we got ready to head out. Hit the 16th Street Mall (a pedestrian mall downtown), wandered that for a bit. It was 420, which meant there were a lot of...characters around. Including someone dressed in lavender purple wizard's robes and giant pointy wizard's hat, doing tarot readings at a Starbucks patio table. ...Actually, that guy was probably not even high.

After wandering most of the length of the mall, we headed back practically where we'd started and had late lunch/early dinner and drinks at the Yard House (Lorca kept calling my drink "alcoholic Kool-Aid", but she... okay, so she was probably pretty correct in that description. It definitely SMELLED like Kool-Aid. "Strawberry Fields" martini ftw, okay?). Then there was just sitting out in the absolutely gorgeous sunshine for a while, and chatting, and then I appalled her with the information that, while I'd read the novel, I'd never heard any songs from the musical Wicked, so she sang some of them at me, and now I'm gonna have to acquire that damned soundtrack. And THEN she sang "Stars and the Moon" (from Songs for a New World), and I HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO GET IT OUT OF MY HEAD, which means I keep randomly giggling.

Also, for the record, she has a fucking GORGEOUS voice, and I am jealous.

After that, we hopped the train to one of the college campuses, because DH had got us tickets to see the production of Sweeney Todd being done on campus. Pretty good time. We were supposed to meet up with a friend of mine (a coworker of DH's; he's my "substitute/alternate husband"--long story, hehe), but the tennis matches he was filming for the sports show he does went for hours later than expected, so he wasn't able to make it. Went back to the hotel, watched more Suits, fiddled more on the netbooks (again, mostly work for her, mostly writing attempts for me), and eventually crashed (well, I ended up crashing probably 2 hours before she did, but eventually there was sleep for both of us).

Saturday: up late again (hey, we both took advantage of it, since neither of us really ever gets that chance), followed by more netbook time. She IM'd me while I was sitting 8 inches away, and then tweeted me two minutes later. Standard silly fangirly times. :D Eventually, we got ready for the day and went out to meet up with slytherincesss, who lives nearby. The three of us had Indian food for lunch (after some complication on my part, because I am allergic to an ingredient that is in, even according to the owner, EVERYTHING THEY MAKE). Finally got that settled (with a yummy chicken korma), and had a lovely conversation over lunch. After that, we headed out to the Denver Botanic Gardens (somehow, despite living in the Denver Metro Area for years, I'd never been). Another seriously amazing day, weather-wise. Julie and Lorca took a bunch of photos (I have no camera, and cannot compose a shot to save my life; photography may be a hobby of DH's, but in 10+ years together, I have not absorbed any skill in that field), and I wandered around and looked at the pretty and tried not to run away screaming from the 8 zillion bees (okay, so I'm a wee bit phobic of bees and wasps >.<). I ended up slightly sunburned (a surprise to NO ONE who's ever seen me. I flash-fry in the sun like a damned Anne Rice vampire), and with a random bite from something (at least it was not a bee or some such). Julie dropped us back off, and we basically took it easy for the rest of the night.

Also, we might have finished the rest of the Suits episodes while she did work and I did fic-things. *victory arms*

Sunday: Made sure everything was packed and nothing important had been left behind, then DH showed up to put luggage in the trunk of the car, and the three of us had brunch at the hotel's restaurant, with the addition of much conversation. After a couple of hours of that, we dropped her off at the airport (boooooooo), so she could head on to Seattle for work.

So that's basically it. We did not do totally wild and crazy things, like see Boylesque (burlesque/striptease, but w/ male performers), which aparently happens once a month, and took place on Thursday) or do anything to get us arrested. But it was amazing company and fun times and I enjoyed the hell out of it (except for having to give her up to RL afterward) and I got Lorca!snuggles, which are awesome beyond awesome.

Also, for those of you who've asked, sorry, no pictures. Like I said, i do not own a camera outside of the one in my phone, and either way, neither of us are fans of being in photos. Lorca might have ended up with some good ones from the botanic garden, though.

Other stuff's been going on, and I will post about that soon-ish (some work stuff, some other RL stuff), and I aim to start getting fic up on this thing more regularly. I have a brand new fic (Suits fandom) beta'd and ready to go...except for the fact that it does not yet have a title. D'oh. Will try to think of one SOME TIME today, but I am busy beyond busy today. I would really like to get this thing posted, though.... Not to mention the dozens of other things I need to post here and AO3 (I have over 30 fics--mostly H/D--that have gone through fest reveals and are STILL not posted anywhere other than at the original fest. I FAIL SO HARD at that particular thing).

(Also, shiny new ultra-tough and hard-to-lose 16 GB flash drive was a gift from the husband the other day, so I REALLY need to get all that stuff organised and backed up appropriately, which means going through final copies of fics to be posted)

Oh, and if there's anyone interested in joining in on Round 2 of the suits_exchange fest, signups are going on now (and cut off Saturday night). Click here for the signup post, or here for some updated information!

Hope everyone's doing well. I'm slowly catching up on people's LJs, but I don't think I'm EVER going to get completely there. But I'm trying, even if I don't always comment after reading due to time constraints! *hugs everyone*

Despite Work's Attempts to Kill Me, I am Still Alive!

khasael — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 11:19:56 GMT

No, really, work is freaking insane.

But this is a short post, and rather than confuse you all with zillions of details, I'm just gonna bullet point some things and elaborate a bit, to explain where the bloody hell I've been for the last few months and such, and fill you in a wee bit on what's going on.

Work Imploded: No, really. Asst manager got transfer!promoted, manager got demoted (from dept manager to bakery production manager, new manager got brought on, former!manager/still!supervisor resigned, and that left Khas all alone in the bakery production kitchen. For 2 weeks. No, really, there were two weeks where I was the only one in the store who could make a damned cake, let alone anything else we make (and there's a LOT of stuff we make) No, new!manager does not know how to make a cake. I have a photo of a cheesecake he "decorated" for Valentine's Day on my phone (which I might upload and show here sometime) that is a perfect candidate for Cake Wrecks. To top it off, new!manager took a week of vacation after former!supervisor's last day, so it was LITERALLY JUST ME. That pay period, instead of the standard 10 days, 80 hrs (5 days, 40 hrs per week), I worked 11 days and 120 hours. Yeah, I somehow fit THREE WEEKS OF WORK INTO TWO ACTUAL WEEKS. To say I was tired by the end of it would be an understatement. I'm STILL not sure I'm recovered. I'm still working a fair amount of overtime right now, on a regular basis, but at least we finally got another person in the back as of the beginning of this month. Which leads us to the next point:
Cake Stuff (mmm, cake): The girl I'm working with is a rehire. She used to be the production manager/bakery assistant manager, back when I started working here just over 2 years ago. So I've worked with her briefly before (that was, however, while I was still on the counter. I'd never worked with her in the back before this). She is my Amazing Co-Worker of Awesome. No, really. This girl (who's 26) has had one of her cakes featured in a Cake Wrecks "Sunday Sweets" post (will have to get the info on which one), and has competed (as part of a duo representing where she used to work) on a Food Network Challenge--and won. When Project Runway's Mondo won the All-Stars, she did the cupcakes for his victory party, and she just did an order for him for an Easter party he was throwing (she made me an extra; I have pics of that, at least. Also, OMGYUMMY). So, needless to say, I am learning a LOT from her. And she's made the offer, that if our schedules work out/I am okay with doing an occasional late night, she'll try to have me come over to her place and help her with custom orders, so I can learn fondant (we don't use it at work; We're a bakery dept in a gourmet grocer's, not a full-and-dedicated bakery). Basically, an unpaid internship/apprenticeship. Given that the CLASSES I'd need in this run $700, I'm okay with the unpaid-for-experience thing.
Writing ALL THE WORDS (aka, Khas doesn't know how to write short!fic anymore): Um, this is pretty self-explanatory. I've been writing long-ass things, for the most part. Most recently, THIS fic (a remix of a short fic by dysonrules), which went all epic on me (the fic is complete and posted as such, now, at 35k or so). And then there's Smoochfest, and over a dozen other fics that are currently in progress (though some of those ARE short--1-5k). You might see an explosion of posting over the next couple/few months, partially because of...
BOB: Yep, I'm doing the productivity marathon at hd_writers (GO TEAM SNIDGET!). I've written a HELL of a lot of words so far this month, on various things. Also, LOTS OF PLOTTING AND RESEARCH.
Husband Stuff: He graduates next month (and is tweaking slightly). He got into both grad schools to which he applied, and yesterday, sent in his official acceptance to one and officially declined the other offer. So, looks like we'll be trying to move to Denver proper, instead of Arizona, in the fall (maybe winter, depending upon finances). He's also interning at a local news station, for the morning show (which starts airing at 5am), so we've been getting up at 2:30am, since he has to be there by 4:15. I generally open, and there's a 24-hr used bookstore/coffee shop halfway between home and work, so I hang there till I catch my bus to be at work by 6. Works out for both of us. He's done a LOT of stuff for them (technical directing, teleprompter, camera stuff, out-in-the-field stuff), and he's hoping for a part-time job out of it, which isn't unlikely.

UPCOMING STUFF:

I get to have uniquepov visit for a few days!!!! (she arrives tomorrow night, omfgsqueeeeeee)
Will, at some point, update the damned master list and spam you all with posting post-reveal fics (they'll go up on AO3 at the same time)
Will also make the suit!porn picspam post I've got in the works
There will be a Round 2 of Suits_Exchange (more on that very soon)!
...other stuff, which I cannot remember, because I must go sprint for the bus.

*shoves netbook into purse and sprints*
I'VE MISSED YOU GUYS, OMG, YOU HAVE NO IDEA

Inception Fic: Recipe for Disaster (Arthur/Eames) (5 of 7)

khasael — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 07:18:51 GMT

Title: Recipe for Disaster
Type: Slash + ensemble, AU (culinary school).
Word Count: ~55k
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames and Ariadne, plus Yusuf, Mal Cobb, Dom Cobb, Saito, and Fischer
Warnings some swearing (in multiple languages), eventual sexual relationship (see characters & pairings), including oral sex.
Summary: Arthur's known since he was young that he has a knack for cooking and baking, and beginning culinary school only makes him more certain. But no matter how good he is, it seems Eames is better – which does not endear him to Arthur in the slightest. Eames, however, is quite determined to get Arthur to open up and stop being so uptight and prickly by any means necessary. While each hones his skill in the culinary arts (and Arthur desperately tries to convince Ariadne that the desired structural integrity of her cakes violates basic laws of physics), they increasingly find themselves drawn together, inside the classroom and out. Given such close quarters in the kitchen, and the amount of sensory stimulation involved with preparing all manner of food, it starts to become difficult for Arthur to retain his customary level of distance and detachment. And, as Arthur will find, when it comes to unsatisfied appetites, hunger is often the best sauce of all.

Start with Part One
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When Eames looked up from his reading for Saito's class in order to check the time, he caught the sight of Ariadne marching towards him from across the courtyard, eyes narrowed and lips pursed. He wasn't sure exactly what he'd done to make her give that look, but he was fairly certain she was about to let him have it for something.

"How long," she began as soon as she'd reached the concrete planter where he was sitting, hands on her hips, "have you and Arthur had each other's phone numbers? And why didn't I know about this?"

"Well, hello to you, too," he said, raising his eyebrows and slipping a scrap of paper into his text book before closing it.

"Answer the question."

Eames shrugged. "Since the night we went out after the fundraiser."

"But that was Saturday!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air. "Look. I saw your number in his phone when he was adding the number for the East Asian market I was telling him about. He didn't say much when I asked how the rest of Saturday night went, either. What the hell happened? You didn't hook up for drunken sex or something, did you?"

Eames snorted, privately pleased to learn Arthur hadn't deleted his number after all. "Hardly. What did he tell you?"

"That he was hungover as hell the next day.".

"That was it?" It was hard to keep from feeling some level of disappointment.

"At first. But then he said that he beat you at pool." She paused. "And that he was surprised how good of a time he had, even though he usually hates going out to bars in this city."

Well, that felt surprisingly like a victory of sorts. "Really, now?"

"Yes. But that was it. Of course, that's when I turned the mixer on high and flung powdered sugar everywhere," she sighed. "So maybe he would have said more." She fixed him with a calculating look, and he knew – absolutely knew – she was about to press the matter further. "You're out of class for the day, right?"

"Yes. I was just planning on doing my reading and some revising for Intro to Wines, but I –"

"You're going to go ask Arthur out. On a date."

"Pardon me, love, but that sounded like an order." He smirked at her, but she only smirked right back.

"Yeah. It was. Look, didn't I tell you weeks ago I was going to help you get him? Don't be so resistant. Especially now that he's not so...so..."

"Hostile?"

"Yeah, I guess that'll work, though I was thinking more along the lines of 'in denial'. Seriously, Eames. You had a good time Saturday, right? Are you going to tell me you didn't try to flirt with him at all? No innuendo? No compliments? No 'accidental' or strategic physical contact?"

Eames thought about demonstrating the new technique while they played pool, and picking imaginary lint off Arthur's collar while they sat at the bar, and taking Arthur's hand practically in his to apply pressure to lessen his nausea, instead of showing him where to press on his own arm. "Well, maybe some."

"I thought so. And how'd he respond?"

"He didn't exactly object." In fact, there had been one moment, about halfway into their attempts to flummox the bartender, where Arthur had leaned into him to whisper something he couldn't quite remember now. Something about... Fuck, what was it? He'd been so drunk at the time, he was lucky to remember the incident at all, but he couldn't forget the way Arthur had leaned forwards and put his hand on Eames's thigh to steady himself. He also remembered thinking that it seemed so genuine and not at all contrived, because it was half compliment, half insult, even if Arthur hadn't meant it that way.

Ah, yes, that was it. He'd murmured something about being jealous – jealous of Eames's ease and skill in a kitchen, even though his formal training before this term had been shit, or non-existent, or something along those lines. The fact that he'd admitted to jealousy at all had made Eames just sort of blink, startled, and even through his drunken haze, he'd known it was a point he shouldn't ever bring up with Arthur again.

"See? That's a good sign. Now listen, okay? Arthur's done with his classes for the day. He'll be studying in the cafeteria for a while before he heads home. I know he's not eating in the cafeteria, and also that he hasn't eaten since a crappy muffin this morning. You're going to go find him and ask him out. For coffee, or dinner, or whatever. But you're going to do something, just the two of you, do you hear me?"

Eames just blinked at her. "What makes you think he'll accept?"

Ariadne smacked him in the arm. "What the hell, Eames? You're confident around everyone but him? When the hell did that happen? Just...man up, already. You guys both had a good time on Saturday. Use some of that charm you use on everyone else, and you'll be fine. But I swear, I am like this close to just going up and telling him you like him, if you don't give this a shot."

"You'd do it, too, wouldn't you?" A good look at her verified that yes, she most certainly would. "All right. I'll go and ask. But if he says no, you're putting the pieces of my shattered heart back together with sweets, you hear me?" As much as the prospect of actually having Arthur say yes sort of thrilled him, he had to admit, he was a bit nervous about it. Arthur had rejected him dozens of times by now, most usually brusquely, and Eames has generally been able to shrug it it off. The one time he hadn't, after Arthur had snapped at him during Saito's class, Arthur had somehow been the one to give him the smile first, after Cobb's fundraiser proposal. Eames was fairly certain that now, after an evening of mutually-enjoyed company, a rejection would sting ten times more than it ever had before.

"Oh, just go. You're wasting time. Like I said, cafeteria. I expect to hear back by tomorrow morning."

Sighing, Eames shoved his book back in his bag and shouldered it. He gave Ariadne a wave and headed off towards the cafeteria, which was still full of students, despite the mid-afternoon hour. Eames stepped inside and looked around, but couldn't see Arthur anywhere. This was a stupid idea, anyway. He adored Ariadne, he did, but perhaps her expectations were a little outside the realm of reality. He'd spent the entire term so far trying to get Arthur to open up, or at least ease up a bit, and had really had very little luck at all, except for the other night, when all three of them had been high on endorphins and a few stiff drinks.

Just as Eames was about to turn around and head back out the way he'd come, he caught sight of Arthur at the far end of the cafeteria, sitting at a table alone. As Eames watched, Arthur slid his notebook into his own bag, stood, and left out the door not far behind his table.

Fuck. Now, not only had Eames missed his chance to ask him out – or even talk to him, since he'd been unable to do so in Cobb's class the previous day, or Mal's that day, having only been able to exchange smiles from across the classroom – but he had nothing to tell Ariadne that she wouldn't consider a failure, or perhaps a bit of intentional avoidance. To make it worse, Arthur was no longer wearing his chef's coat, and the way he'd been sitting there, looking serious and studious in his grey v-neck jumper, made Eames even more aware of just how much he fancied him.

Frustrated, Eames walked across the campus until he got to where he'd parked his car that morning. He'd been pulled out of his own revising by Ariadne and was no longer in the proper mindset for that sort of thing anyway. He could go home and start dinner, or even order in and just lounge in front of the telly, but that sounded supremely unsatisfying. It was too cold to use the pool, being November, and in truth, Eames just didn't want to be home. So instead he paid the car park attendant and decided to take some time to do one of the other things he enjoyed: find somewhere with a crowd, and people-watch.

It wasn't yet three, and rush-hour hadn't properly started on the Ten, so the trip west went quickly, unmarred by stop-and-go traffic, blaring horns, and people making rude gestures and swearing loudly out of their windows. It took just over twenty minutes to get down to Santa Monica, and providence seemed to be with him, as he found a reasonably-priced car park right away. As he had no particular destination in mind, there was no need to spend ages circling the area, trying to find a closer location.

But even people-watching wasn't quite as interesting as usual. Eames didn't know whether it was due to the unusually high number of couples he saw walking around, holding hands or walking with their arms around each other's waists, or the fact that most people seemed to be headed somewhere in particular, few people meandering just to window-shop, or simply the fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Arthur, who seemed to be everywhere Eames looked, as if he could make him appear by thinking about him, whether it was the bloke walking out of Abercrombie, or one of the people headed for Pottery Barn. Or even the bloke who'd just walked into that spice shop, who really did look sort of like Arthur.

Right down to the dark blue jeans and grey v-neck jumper over a light blue button-down shirt, with the sleeves rolled halfway up to his elbows. He was even wearing the same sort of messenger bag Eames saw every week, slung across his back.

Wait. That was Arthur.

For just a moment, Eames felt frozen to the spot. Finally, his brain managed to kick itself back on. Hell, he needed more fenugreek anyway, and he'd been meaning to get a few other herbs and spices. If this wasn't the world's best excuse to duck into a spice shop – not that one needed an excuse for that sort of thing – he didn't know what would be.

Waiting another two minutes after Arthur had entered the shop, Eames strolled up to the door, pulled it open, and walked straight up to the counter where an older woman was standing, leafing through a cooking magazine. The woman looked up as he approached. "May I help you with something?"

"I was wondering if perhaps you had kala jeera, or mahlepi."

The woman furrowed her brow. "Well, the kala jeera's over with some of our other middle eastern spices. What was the second one, again? I don't think I've heard of it."

"Mahlepi. It's used in Greek and other Mediterranean dishes – mostly baking. It's the seed of a cherry, usually used as a powder–"

"We don't have anything by that name, but I think..." she trailed off, chewing on her lower lip. "Could you mean mahlab?"

Eames beamed at her. "Yes, that's it. Just another name, that's all."

"Oh, well, follow me. That's sort of tucked into the corner of the baking area. We don't sell it as powder, though – just the whole seeds. But you could use a mill or something else to grind it." She led him over to a shelf with powdered honey, an assortment of cinnamon varieties, and different sugar and spice blends. "Here you go. Let me know if there's anything else I can help with."

"Eames?"

Eames peered around the corner to find Arthur standing there, looking at him with his head cocked curiously. "Arthur? Well, fancy meeting you here."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but then his mouth quirked up in a small smile. "Yeah. I've been meaning to come here for months. Just sort of browse, you know?"

Eames nodded at the two small jars in Arthur's hand and grinned. "Looks like you're doing more than browsing."

"Well, yeah, once I started looking around..." He laughed, and the sound was still new enough for Eames to relish it. "You know how it is in these places."

"Quite." Eames plucked the larger of the two sizes of mahlepi from the shelf, then let his hand hover over the cardamom. This was indeed a dangerous place for anyone who liked to cook. "I could spend a small fortune in a place like this."

Arthur held up a small jar of saffron. "Tell me about it."

"Indian or Spanish?"

"Indian."

"Ooh, that will cost you a fair bit." Eames reached for the sample container of the cardamom, opened the lid, and inhaled. Much better than the stuff at the local grocery chain, which only sold the powered white seeds. "I do believe I'd better not linger, lest I spend everything in my wallet here." He put the jar back on the shelf and moved away, pausing when he stood in front of another display of spices. "Oh hell," he murmured. "Can't resist." He opened up the anise stars sample and breathed deeply. Only this time, instead of putting it immediately back in its place, he held the opened container out to Arthur. "What do you think?"

Arthur leaned in, closing his eyes, and Eames brought the jar a little closer, wondering where the hell this version of Arthur – the one who didn't snap at him, and didn't take little things like this as some sort of personal affront – had been all term. He breathed in slowly, and his face relaxed visibly. "It's good." And as if to accent his agreement, his stomach growled.

Eames couldn't help but grin. "Skip lunch, did we?"

"Yeah," he said with a little laugh. "The thought of eating in the cafeteria for the fourth straight week just didn't sound appetizing. I've really got to start making something to bring with me instead of waiting until I get home."

Eames took a deep breath. "Well... Would you care to join me for a late lunch? Or early supper, I suppose? There's a great place a little closer to the pier, if you're up for a walk. Maybe half a mile from here?"

Arthur looked away for a moment, seeming to contemplate the rows of bottled baking extracts, and Eames was sorry he hadn't phrased his offer differently. He watched as Arthur picked up a bottle of vanilla beans and turned it over in his hands, facing away from him. "What kind of place?" he asked, almost hesitantly.

And in a flash, Eames felt that spark of hope he'd felt on Saturday evening back in the church kitchen (and then again, out at the bar). "Italian. But their speciality is pizza. Gourmet pizza."

"That sounds good." He put the vanilla beans back on the shelf. "Yeah. I'm up for that." And then he turned and gave Eames a crooked little smile, unreadable in meaning, and Eames wasn't sure whether they were now just two classmates going for a meal after a long day of classes, or two blokes going out on a causal first date. He wondered if Arthur knew which they were.

To hell with it. Eames would take what he could get on this front, as long as it was with Arthur.

"Wonderful. Shall we pay for our things and head out? It's still early enough that there shouldn't be much trouble getting a table right away."

"Okay." Arthur headed for the till, grabbing a jar of something that looked like Herbs de Provence on his way. Eames followed him up, watching as the clerk put his small assortment of jars into a small plastic bag: tarragon, shallot salt, Herbs de Provence, saffron, and chevril. Not a bad selection for an impulse trip.

They were a few dozen yards away from the store when Eames's hands went to his pockets, patting them down. "Something wrong?" Arthur asked.

"I seem to have left my wallet back at the shop," Eames said sheepishly. "Stay here? I'll just be a moment." He'd scarcely heard Arthur's agreement before he'd turned and sprinted back to the shop, where the clerk gave him a curious look. "Remembered something else I needed," he said apologetically, rushing past her counter and back to where she'd led him when he'd first come in. He grabbed the jar he was looking for, and then a small cardboard box from a display near the register. "Sorry. Just those two. I'll just put them in the bag with the others." He pulled his wallet out from the inside pocket of his jacket, where he'd stored it immediately after paying just a minute or two earlier, and handed over his card for a second time. Just over a minute after re-entering the store, he exited, two new items in with the originals, and his wallet now in his hand. He held it up as he approached Arthur, then tucked it into its regular place in his back pocket. "Musn't lose that. Well. Shall we?"

"Yeah, definitely. Pizza sounds exactly like what I've been wanting."

"Excellent. You should enjoy this place. As a student of the culinary arts, I think you'll appreciate it."

There wasn't much in the way of conversation during the walk, and by the time they were seated at a table in the corner of Mangiamo, Eames was starting to wonder whether the entire meal would be spent in uncomfortable silence, with him trying to engage Arthur in pleasant conversation, and Arthur steadfastly refusing to be engaged. At least it clarified one point – this most certainly did not feel like a date.

Arthur let out a low whistle upon opening the menu once their waiter had gone off to fetch their waters. "When you said 'pizza', I wasn't expecting a place quite so expensive."

"Worth every cent," Eames reassured him. "Don't order with price in mind. Or, if you'd prefer, we can just split one pizza: I'll get what I want on one half, and you can order whatever you like on the other. One pie is quite enough for two, anyway."

"Yeah, I guess that'd work."

"Good. Then let me know when you've figured out what it is you'd like."

"You already know what you want?"

"I always know what I want," Eames said, raising his eyebrows and smirking just a bit. "But feel free to take your time. We could always order a pint when the waiter comes back, if you've not decided by then. Though I feel I should warn you: the beer list is nearly as long as the rest of the menu."

Arthur flipped towards the back of the laminated and bound pages. "Shit. You're not kidding."

"My dear Arthur – I never kid about such serious matters as food or drink."

Making a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh, Arthur shook his head. "Right." By the time their waiter came back around with glasses of ice water, Arthur had set the menu aside with a sigh. "I guess I'm ready. But you go first."

"If you insist." Eames glanced up at their server. "Do you happen to know if Vincent's still working here?"

The waiter peered over his order pad at him. "Vinny? In the kitchen? Yeah. He's here now, actually."

"Excellent. If it wouldn't be much trouble, would it be possible to ask him if he'd be up for doing something off-menu for an old friend from London?"

Their server raised his eyebrows. "I didn't even know he lived in London. Hold on, I'll go ask."

Arthur just looked at him from across the table and picked up his glass of water. "How do you know one of the chefs here?"

"I used to work with Vincent, back in London. We were both working for some little hole-in-the wall pizzeria near UCL." He shook his head. "A place called 'Tossers', if you can believe it."

Spluttering into his water glass, Arthur just glared at him when he'd recovered. "You're kidding me. You have to be. No one would name their pizza place something like that. Especially in England."

"Honest. You can't make something up like that."

"Sir?" Their server said, appearing back at their table. "You're Eames?" Eames nodded. "Vinny says order whatever you want – he'll make it if he has it in the kitchen. If he catches a break before you leave, he'd like to say hello."

"Excellent. Well, we may as well order, then. As for a drink, I think I'll have the Arrogant Bastard Ale." He caught Arthur scoffing and winked, grinning in response. "What? I happen to have a thing for arrogant bastards, didn't you know? Now, as to the food: I think we're splitting a large pizza right down the middle. On my half, let's do...oh, shrimp, goat's cheese, and red peppers. Arthur, what'll you have?"

Arthur just stared at him, wide-eyed for a moment, much like the look Eames had given the bloke who came to fix the satellite dish over the summer, who talked about Man United's recent season, and how it compared to the one before. It was a look of utter, thrilled shock, the unexpected moment when you realized you'd met someone who shared some secret passion no one else understood. "Never mind the two different halves," he said, looking at Eames instead of at the server. "Same thing on the whole pizza. And I'll do a Theakston's Old Peculier, I guess."

Eames just looked across the table at Arthur as their server left to put in their order. "You enjoy that combination of toppings on pizza? Funny, I've known people who like the shrimp and the goat's cheese, but never all three."

Arthur just looked at him, incredulous. "...But without the red pepper, what connects the shrimp and the goat cheese?"

If Eames weren't already besotted with Arthur before this point, he most certainly would be now. "Yes, exactly! Thank you for understanding."

Cracking a smile, Arthur shrugged, and Eames thought he might actually have caught the hints of a blush at the tops of his ears, though that could have just been a trick of the afternoon light through the nearby window. "You know, after that conversation with the waiter, I'm curious about something."

"And what's that?"

"If you know all these chefs around town, and have worked in all these places, and are obviously skilled enough to work in a kitchen, then why is it, exactly, that you're going to culinary school?"

"Well, the short answer is that it's a leg up on the competition, to be able to brandish that piece of paper, especially with some of the snootier restaurants. But if you want the real answer...?" He smiled a bit when Arthur leaned forwards just enough to indicate his continued curiosity. "That one's a bit complicated, really. I guess you could lay the blame with Yusuf. I got to know him a few years ago, back when I was working at a little Indian restaurant in town, and he was just beginning to teach at Pacifica. Some of the others who worked there would invite him to stay after closing, and we got to know each other. The more he got to know me, got to know my history, the more convinced he was that culinary school would be a helpful career move. You see, he thought that I was moving around so much because I couldn't find a job that satisfied me, or challenged me enough."

Arthur looked at him shrewdly. "But that wasn't it, was it?" He gave a casual nod and a thank-you to their server as he deposited their drinks upon the table, but never looked away from Eames, keeping his gaze steady and unbroken.

"No, not really. It was more..." Funny, he hadn't really had cause to tell this story to many people, at least not in the way Arthur seemed to want to hear it. All of their classmates had their stories as to why they were in culinary school, and Eames's story generally stuck to the theme of using his degree to get into the door of some of Los Angeles's most prominent and lauded restaurants. But there was much more to it, little influences and reasons that were highly personal, or perhaps even silly to those who didn't know him well. And as easy as social interaction and casual acquaintanceships were for him, Eames didn't really ever see the point in delving too deeply into his past. It was much easier, especially for someone who lived such a nomadic life, to keep things light and on the surface.

So why did it feel so bloody important that Arthur get to see under that, and not just see it, but understand it?

He sighed, trying to find the right words to convey it all, without revealing too much. "It was more that I just didn't feel a strong enough pull to keep me at any one place. I worked one place, I learned some things, and then at some point, I was just as happy to move on, to find something else. It's not that I felt I didn't belong in any one place, because I've always been happy enough where I am." Eames shook his head with a little laugh. "I'm doing a rubbish job explaining what I mean. I suppose, in the end, I'm looking to learn enough to be able to not only pick up new things wherever I end up next, but to teach them, to impart my own sort of knowledge or techniques."

Arthur looked at him steadily for a moment, and then he grinned, just a little. "I don't think you've really told me what made you decide to spend the time and money on culinary school. But you know what? Strange as it sounds, I think I might have an idea about what you mean."

And yes, it did sound strange, but Eames thought that maybe, somehow, Arthur did sort of get the gist of the matter. Maybe not everything about it, but enough to understand that it wasn't boredom, or a desire to try to do absolutely everything, and that the whole thing wasn't some lark, undertaken lightly. He hadn't gone into it figuring it didn't matter if it didn't work out – he had gone into it knowing that it would work out, even if in a way he hadn't anticipated. Because that was how his life was, and had always been. He'd always known he was happiest in a kitchen, preparing food not only for himself, but for other people to enjoy. He had a natural talent there, honed by years of practice. What had started as a chore of sorts back in the days of hopping from home to home had turned into an escape and something fun, where he could find himself. But how did he put all that into words, without sounding like a sob story? He didn't feel like one, and never had.

Eames supposed the answer was simple: he didn't. Besides, Arthur had seemed to glean onto truths he hadn't said, and for Eames, that was good enough.

"What about you, Arthur? Why did you decide to go to culinary school? You haven't worked in food service before, and you obviously didn't enter straight out of school."

"No, I didn't." He opened his mouth, then seemed to rethink whatever he'd been about to say. After a moment, he cleared his throat and reached for his beer. "I just figured it was the most reliable way to break into working someplace good, since I didn't have years of related experience."

Eames cocked his head and looked at Arthur, who was now running his finger through the condensation on his glass. "And that's the vague-but-acceptable answer. Now, what's the real one?

Arthur made a face at him. "That is the real answer."

But it wasn't, Eames was positive. There was always more to a person's motivations, especially when choosing a new path in life. There were subconscious desires buried deep within and below the conscious ones. Arthur might always seem direct and straight-forwards, but Eames knew there was more to him. But perhaps he'd misjudged this supposed blossoming of their friendship or relationship after all. "Oh. Sorry."

Arthur made a dismissive little gesture. "Forget it."

And once again, they'd reached a point where conversation seemed to take much more effort than it should. It stayed that way until after their food arrived and Arthur took a bite, making a noise that was very much like a moan of pleasure (and, of all things Eames didn't need to be thinking of, given the current state of their non-relationship, Arthur moaning was at the top of the list), rolling his eyes in a way that made Eames think of one of Ariadne's favorite terms – "foodgasm". In fact, Eames was starting to feel just a little bit absurd, being jealous of a slice of pizza. "Enjoying that, are we?" he finally said with a cheeky little grin.

Putting down his slice, Arthur snorted and just looked at him, mouth quirking up on one side. "Forgive me for getting so excited over having something hot and thick in my mouth."

It took a moment to remember how to form words, but finally Eames regained that particular skill. "I'm sorry, did you just...?"

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him. "What? Weren't you the one making stuffing jokes at the fundraiser?"

Well, Arthur had him there. Although... "I seem to recall someone telling me to shut up before I could."

Arthur laughed, those deep dimples reappearing. They did that entirely too rarely. "Well, that was in front of Cobb and our other instructors. This is just the two of us. Unless you're worried about offending our waiter or the other diners."

Eames chuckled. "Hadn't even crossed my mind." It was funny how just fifteen minutes before, Eames had been thinking he'd completely misread Arthur, and now he was thinking it again, only with a very different interpretation. Not once since Ariadne had given him the order to ask Arthur out had Eames thought they might be sitting together for a meal, cracking jokes loaded with innuendo, let alone that Arthur might be the one to start such behavior. And unlike the other night, when there had been tiny, almost questionably-present moments where Eames had thought Arthur might not hate him after all, now Eames was almost positive of it. At the very least, he was open to displaying a sense of humor, even if he wasn't up for sharing anything deeper about himself.

"What would you say," Eames asked later as their waiter cleared away their plates, "to an ice cream before we turn in for the night?" There had been no further dirty jokes or racy innuendo since their food had arrived, but dinner conversation had been surprisingly pleasant, flowing easily in a way Eames wouldn't have thought possible before that night. It wasn't as if he knew Arthur's deepest secrets – and Eames got the feeling that those Arthur did have were guarded quite closely indeed, much as his own were, though in a very different way, and for different reasons – but the things he did know about his classmate had grown exponentially in the last hour. They'd talked music, films (independent, blockbuster, and everything in between), apprised each other of underappreciated places to eat in and around Los Angeles, danced briefly around the subject of sports, having little common ground there, and even discussed TV habits. The last delighted Eames, actually. He wouldn't have thought Arthur the type to lounge in front of the telly, drinking a beer to unwind, but between Arthur's earlier comments in Saito's class and the things he'd said this evening, he was fairly certain Arthur watched an unnatural amount of Food Network programming.

"I think I could go for ice cream. Were you thinking of a place around here?"

"Just down on the pier. Not very far at all."

Arthur nodded. "Sounds good to me."

This time, conversation remained effortless, as Arthur told him about the project he wanted to do for his final in Yusuf's course. It sounded ambitious, but Arthur seemed quite confident he could get it done. "Well, I could," he lamented as they reached the ice cream place, "if I had the space to do it. The kitchen in my apartment is ridiculously small, and there's virturally no counter room. And there's nowhere on campus where I could store the different parts of it." He ran his fingers through his hair, which was still just a bit mussed from his chef's toque, and looked up at the menu. "Two scoops," he said, once it was his turn. "Buttered cinnamon almond ice cream and pistachio gelato."

Eames fought the urge to make some crack about Arthur's preference for nuts, and placed his own order, musing things over. "You know," Eames said slowly as they headed for an empty spot along the railing over the water. "If you need somewhere to practice or work on your project, I think I might be able to offer some help."

Arthur looked at him, spoon of ice cream already in his mouth. "How?"

"The house where I'm staying is owned by a friend with a love of cooking. The kitchen is absolutely state-of-the-art. I'm talking marble counter tops, an island, table-top industrial mixer, food processors, a rotisserie oven, a proofer, and two convection ovens. Come over and do your work there. There will be no one to bother you except for me, and I'll even stay out of the kitchen, if you like. You can store everything there as well – there's plenty of room in the fridge and freezer, as well as ample counter room. Your things wouldn't be in the way in the slightest, and you wouldn't have to worry about anyone messing with your project."

"And your friend won't mind, either?"

Eames grinned. "He's in Italy for eighteen months. As long as you don't break anything, it's fine. I can call to verify if you'd like, but believe me, he'd let you if he were in town."

"You'd really let me work on my project at your place?" Arthur just looked at him, eyebrows raised in curiosity and skepticism. "I'd really owe you."

Eames quickly nicked a small spoonful of Arthur's gelato and stuck it into his mouth before Arthur could say anything. "There," he said, swallowing. "That'd make us even, I think. And I didn't know they used salted pistachios in that gelato – absolutely heavenly contrast to the creaminess and the sweetness."

Arthur just looked down at his ice cream for a moment, then back up at Eames. "Seriously? That's all you want in repayment?"

With a grin, Eames gave him a little shrug. "Well, the rest of it's already taken care of. It's just nice to have company when out for dinner, and someone to enjoy some scenery with." He gestured out at the waves below them, now a dark blue under the sun that had sunk below the horizon as they'd left the restaurant. The sky itself was dark purple, with just a few remaining streaks of pink. "I think I like the ocean best at night, and I enjoy having someone to hold a conversation with."

Arthur didn't say anything for several moments, even seeming to forget about his ice cream. "It is nice at night, isn't it? I mean, even with the ferris wheel lit up over there, and the lights from the midway and the people shouting.... On this side of the pier, it's quiet. Not nearly so many tourists."

"Exactly." While he loved to watch people, to gather little quirks and elements to mimic later, sometimes it was nice to just enjoy the peace of the waves lapping at the legs of the pier and get away from the sounds of others.

A gust of wind came up over the water and they both shivered, though it didn't stop Eames from enjoying the last bite of his dessert before tossing the empty paper bowl into the nearest bin. When he turned back, Arthur was just a little closer than he had been before, his bowl set down on the edge of the bench behind them. They both looked down at the water, which was quickly turning black, crested with pale foam as each wave broke. "I was really good at my job," Arthur said after a while, so quietly that at first Eames thought he was talking to himself. "But I hated it. When I applied to Pacifica, I wanted something that I could be good at, that didn't make me dread getting up in the mornings." He snorted. "But I'd always wanted to work with food. You want to hear the moment I knew that?"

Eames held his breath for a moment, feeling like this was some sort of tease, or Arthur was going to make some joke, or maybe just rethink the conversation and tell him never mind. But then Arthur looked up and turned torwards him, and Eames saw the unexpectedly earnest expression on his face. That decided him. He might never get another opportunity like this. "Yes, I do."

"It's stupid, though. I didn't even tell my parents, when they badgered me about it."

"If it's an important enough moment for you to remember, then it isn't stupid, no matter what it was."

Arthur let out a laugh that was half-sigh. "I was six. My mom hired this girl to babysit – someone a friend had recommended – a child development major in college. She wanted someone who wouldn't sit me in front of the VCR, or treat me like a baby, I think. And this girl – Natalie – didn't. We read, or talked about school, or my favorite toys. She was the coolest babysitter, because she knew all about GI Joe. And sometimes, she was supposed to make me dinner."

Ah, an early crush on the sitter. It was adorable, really, for young Arthur to idolize a girl who treated him maturely.

"And every now and then, when my parents were out really late at a dinner party of something, she'd have her boyfriend Rob come over. My mother would have fired her, I think, if she knew. But she wasn't that kind of babysitter. Her boyfriend would hang out and play with my toys with me while she made dinner, or tell me awesome ghost stories while we all straightened up my room. But the best nights were the ones where he'd come over, and they'd let me sit on the counter in the kitchen, and he'd bake cookies or cupcakes or sticky buns. They were always really good about cleaning up after, so my mother never knew, and he always brought his own supplies. And before bed, if I'd been good, they'd sneak a plastic bag of cookies or an un-iced cupcake into my backpack for the next day and he'd wink and tell me it was our secret." He looked up at Eames. "See? Ridiculous, right? I mean, I was six, and that made me decide I wanted to learn to make those things, and have fun like that in a kitchen, and bake for people who would enjoy it as much as I did."

"That's not ridiculous. It's adorable." Arthur's cheeks flushed, and he turned away, muttering about knowing he shouldn't have opened his mouth. Eames caught him by the elbow and tugged him back. "I'm not making fun. Really. It's just the most romantic thing I've heard in a long while. Everyone should have such a story. I don't have one defining moment, you know. Just a gradual accumlutation of positive reinforcement, and realizing I always felt most comfortable when I was working with food, letting the rhythm of kitchen work lull me into a peaceful sort of relaxation."

Though his face was still red, Arthur seemed to relax significantly at Eames's words. "Yeah?"

"Absolutely. You might call me a bit of a romantic sod, really, when it comes down to it. I think, when we have those defining moments, those brief bits of absolute clarity, they're worth remembering. Sometimes, in a moment, you just know something, and have to act on it, or you'll always regret it."

"Yeah?" Arthur said again, his voice this time little more than a whisper on the breeze. He seemed so much closer than he'd been before and, dimly, Eames realized he still had a hand on Arthur's elbow. He was looking at Eames intently, as if trying to work out something very important.

"Yes." His heart suddenly seemed to be beating much too loudly, audible even over the sound of the waves crashing against the pier below their feet, and he couldn't help but draw closer to Arthur, who was now turned towards him fully, staring at him as if he held the answers to questions Arthur had been needing resolved, lips parted just slightly, as if he was going to ask another question just as soon as he could figure out which words to use.

And just as Eames was figuring that this, this right here, might be one of those moments of clarity he'd been talking about, the phone in Arthur's pocket jangled shrilly, startling them both. "Shit. My parking meter's about to expire. And they're not hesitant about giving tickets out here." He laughed shakily, fumbling in his pocket and finally retrieving his phone to silence it. "I'd better get going. I'm parked just south of here, since I started at the aquarium before I realized it was closed. You?"

"North, closer to where we met."

"Did you...did you need a ride to your car?"

"No, it's not really that far," Eames said automatically, kicking himself when he realized he'd just turned down a chance to be sitting next to Arthur for a little while longer. Fuck.

"Oh. Okay. Then...I guess I'll see you in class."

"Of course. Just, well, let me know when you'd want to work on your project, and we can set aside a day for you to come over and use the kitchen."

Arthur's face looked relieved. "Right. Yeah. Definitely." His phone jangled again, but Arthur was able to silence it much more swiftly this time. "I'd really better go."

There was a moment of awkwardness when it appeared neither of them knew quite how to say goodbye. Eames was the sort to go in for a hug with friends, but he wasn't certain if he and Arthur fell into that category, and in any case, Arthur didn't seem like much of a hugger. Arthur seemed to be aiming for some sort of handshake that Eames didn't catch onto until too late and, in the end, they just settled for an awkward wave, Arthur shoving his hands back in his pockets and walking quickly south.

Eames watched him go, thinking about the way they'd moved in, closer to one another, and the questioning look on Arthur's face, his lips just slightly parted, like they might almost be inviting him to do something, and the bashful look on his face when he'd offered Eames a ride back to his car. There had almost certainly been a missed opportunity there, and he was going to be able to think of very little else tonight. What would have happened, had Arthur's phone not gone off?

He was deeply afraid he'd never know.

x X x

Never in his life had Arthur been so turned on by yelling.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" the head chef yelled at someone on the other side of the kitchen. From his spot at the fish station, Arthur could see someone standing over a smoking sauté pan, looking moments away from tears or possibly throwing something at the tyrant hovering over him. Arthur took a moment to look down at his pan-seared scallops to make sure they weren't going to be a victim of the same circumstances.

"And you there! What is it you're doing?"

Arthur's head snapped up to find Gordon Ramsay barrelling down on him as if he was moments away from snapping him in half, the vein in his forehead bulging, face bright red. "You don't mean to serve a customer shit like this? Think, why don't you!"

"Yes, chef!" Arthur snapped back, a mix of anger, humiliation, and unexpected arrousal filling him. And when Gordon Ramsay looked back at him to issue another directive, Arthur saw it wasn't Chef Ramsay at all in those chef's whites, worked up and so close Arthur could feel his breath. It was Eames.

Which only made the attraction triple. Seeing that level of intensity on Eames's face, for any reason whatsoever, only made Arthur realize just how hot he might be.

Something jabbed him sharply in his side, and Arthur swung around to find Ariadne poking him with the end of a rolling pin. "Arthur, damn it, snap out of it!"

And suddenly, Arthur was no longer standing in the middle of dinner service, things cooking and bubbling and searing all around him, people darting around and calling orders while trying not to anger the head chef. Instead, he was sitting at a desk with Ariadne, looking down at the instructor's station with the overhead mirror, where Chef Yusuf was teaching them how to properly temper chocolate. Or he had been, before Arthur had succumbed to sleep-deprived dozing and fantasy. Now, he was just looking critically at Arthur, who muttered an apology and slunk a little further down in his seat, afraid to look up again until Chef Yusuf resumed his demonstration.

"What is wrong with you?" Ariadne muttered. "Why were you muttering about Gordon Ramsay?"

Arthur blushed even harder. She might know about his small crush on Alton Brown, but there was no way in hell he was going to admit to his...thing...for Gordon Ramsay. It was a psychological quirk he was going to take with him to his grave. Even under torture, Arthur was never going to admit that he sort of wanted to be Chef Ramsay, because he was a man who didn't take shit from anyone. But he simply couldn't bring himself to act like Ramsay did. There was no way on earth he could call Ariadne a 'dumb cow' – because first of all, she would probably cry, and Arthur liked her way too much to want to see that. Also, he got the feeling that if he ever tried something like that, she could probably sabotage the structural integrity of his next four-layer cake. "Nothing's wrong with me."

Ariadne just looked at him, eyebrows raised. "Yeah, right. You've been acting weird since last week. You're not getting twitchy about finals already, are you?' She peered at him. "Or is it something else?"

"It's just finals. And I'm not 'twitchy', okay? I'm just...anticipatory."

"Yeah. Whatever. Just try not to doze off in class again, all right? Believe it or not, the lecture material will be on the exam."

"Yeah, okay."

The problem really had little to do with exams, and had much more to do with the fact that since the evening he and Eames had run into each other out in Santa Monica, Arthur hadn't really been able to stop wondering if there could be something between them. Even just a few weeks ago, he'd have been appalled by such a thought, but between the good time they'd had after the fundraiser (alcohol over-indulgence and resulting extreme hangover aside, that was), and dinner and ice cream a few days after that, Arthur could no longer deny that some part of him wanted to explore that feeling.

Especially since he thought there might have been a moment, out on the pier, when they had been approaching a kiss. And now, of course, he'd never know.

And it was driving him crazy.

They hadn't talked about it at all since it had happened, though he and Eames had spoken briefly a handful of times since. The problem was that the very few times they had more than a couple of minutes in the same space, it was in the middle of class, with a handful of classmates around, or when they were doing something that actually required they both pay attention, or when Ariadne would suddenly pop up, wondering what they were talking about, or asking a question about their assignment. And though Arthur did have Eames's phone number still in his contact list, now spelled correctly, he had yet to have the nerve to call or even text – mostly because he had no idea what he'd actually say.

Of course, the fact that Eames hadn't bothered to call or text either didn't exactly lend much credence to Arthur's theory that there had almost been something between them. It was quiite likely that it had just been so long since he'd gone out with someone, he'd misread some of the signals. Because it wasn't as if he'd never seen Eames flirt before. In fact, it seemed more like a natural attitude or way of communication with him, which only made it more likely Arthur had gotten a bad read on the other evening.

Still, it didn't stop him from obsessing over it.

Arthur's phone buzzed in his pocket, and, carefully, so as not to attract Chef Yusuf's attention a second time, Arthur slid his phone out and looked at his incoming text message: we still on for saturday at eleven?

"Who's texting you in the middle of class?" Ariadne whispered. "It's not your mechanic again, is it?"

"No. It's no one. Misdialed text," Arthur said, quickly tapping out a yes before sliding his phone back in his pocket. Though he knew Ariadne might actually be interested to know that two of her friends might have something going on between them, and that she seemed to feel, in general, as if dating might be a way for Arthur to relax and enjoy his life a bit more, he hadn't mentioned this thing with Eames. Mostly, of course, because he wasn't sure there was anything and, dear God, he didn't want to hear about it from her later if he was wrong.

There was another buzz in his pocket a moment later, but Arthur knew better than to pull his phone out again and check, lest Ariadne start badgering him about who was misdialing him more than once. He had two more days until he was supposed to head over to Eames's place to make use of his spacious kitchen and, honestly, he was slightly panicked about it. He was also a bit giddy about getting to use a professionally-designed personal kitchen, but that was sort of overridden by the worry that he wasn't going to be able to keep from giving away the things he was thinking about Eames, or wondering about their relationship, which seemed to have at least evolved to the friendship stage. The text just now might not have mentioned the night in Santa Monica, but just knowing Eames had checked in with him regarding Saturday gave Arthur just a little bit of hope that Eames was...thinking about him, or something.

For the love of God, he was as bad as a thirteen-year-old girl. This most recent dry spell had been way too long. He needed to snap out of this, and quickly. He was twenty-six, on his way to a second (and hopefully, permanent) career, and generally much more self-aware and in control of himself than this. Besides, finals were coming up, and now was not the time to lose focus.

But even telling himself these things didn't stop him from smiling to himself behind his hand when his phone buzzed in his pocket again, reminding him he had an unread text message.

x X x

Continue to Part Six

Inception Big Bang Master Post

khasael — Sun, 12 Feb 2012 06:25:37 GMT

Title: Recipe For Disaster
Type: Slash + ensemble, AU (culinary school AU).
Word Count: ~55k
Rating: R
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames and Ariadne, plus Yusuf, Mal Cobb, Dom Cobb, Saito, and Fischer
Warnings some swearing (in multiple languages), eventual sexual relationship (see characters & pairings), including oral sex.
Summary: Arthur's known since he was young that he has a knack for cooking and baking, and beginning culinary school only makes him more certain. But no matter how good he is, it seems Eames is better – which does not endear him to Arthur in the slightest. Eames, however, is quite determined to get Arthur to open up and stop being so uptight and prickly by any means necessary. While each hones his skill in the culinary arts (and Arthur desperately tries to convince Ariadne that the desired structural integrity of her cakes violates basic laws of physics), they increasingly find themselves drawn together, inside the classroom and out. Given such close quarters in the kitchen, and the amount of sensory stimulation involved with preparing all manner of food, it starts to become difficult for Arthur to retain his customary level of distance and detachment. And, as Arthur will find, when it comes to unsatisfied appetites, hunger is often the best sauce of all.

Author's Notes: I owe more thanks than I can give to maja_li, who poked and prodded me (and this fic) for two solid months, and who, when necessary, kicked my ass a bit. Thanks also to arineat, for her help and cheerleading in the homestretch, and to groolover for betaing not only outside her fandoms, but also for dealing with all the technical terms involved in a fic like this! Much love to all of them, as I never would have finished without their help.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven

OR, the whole thing on AO3

Art by itsychick. Link forthcoming.

HP Fic: Double-Rush (Ginny-centric Gen-fic; PG)

khasael — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:49:54 GMT

Title: Double-Rush
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters: Ginny, Fred, George, assorted Weasleys (completely gen)
Era: Set a little over a year after the end of the war.
Rating: PG
Length: 8,150
Beta: groolover
Warnings: None except a bit of angst
Summary: Ginny plays in her first professional Quidditch match, and recalls what she's learned from her brothers.
Disclaimer: Done for fun, not profit. All recognizable elements belong to JKR and associates.
Author's notes: Written for the 2nd round of hpchallengefest. The prompt I chose was from velvetmouse, who prompted: "Ginny-centric genfic, background canon pairings ONLY. Ginny grieves for Fred." As Ginny's never appeared in one of my fics for more than a few lines, if at all, this was DEFINITELY a challenge. Thanks to groolover for the RIDICULOUSLY speedy beta, at an even more ridiculous hour of the night (any errors are completely mine, and likely due to me trying to do edits with a severely sleep-deprived brain), and to mathnerd for the suggestion regarding plot that got this thing to happen at all.

The wind blows steadily across the pitch, and Ginny takes a moment to enjoy the feeling of it, the way it brings the smell of autumn with it, dampness and leaves and earth and, somewhere, carried from far away, wood smoke. She wants to feel it in her hair, be comforted by the way it lifts and blows it around, making it stream behind her when she flies hard, or making it float around her face when she hovers this high up, something she's learned to see through, but obscures her face for others. But instead of flowing freely, the way she lets it when she flies on her own, it's tied back in a tight plait, the Department of Magical Games and Sports advised style for those whose hair goes past their shoulders.

The lack of movement and freedom feels odd, from her hairstyle down to the weight of the safety equipment underneath her robes, much more intense than the uniform she wore at school, even with the charms to make it feel lighter. But she's had three months now to get used to it, and she knows from experience that less than three minutes after the match begins, she'll be flying around with ease, as if wearing nothing more restrictive than her everyday robes.

Looking down at the pitch, Ginny spots the referee on the ground with the case of Quidditch balls, still not ready to take his place and begin the game. That's perfectly fine. It gives her time to fly in a slow, lazy circle, testing the direction and force of the wind and adjusting to the golden afternoon light. Her nerves will hold, and every second spent on her broom reassures her of that.

Just get a feel for everything, if you can. Take some time to appreciate the way it feels, and notice the way light and shadows fall.

Harry's voice, of course, earnest and helpful. He said it months ago, as they sat together late one night in his living room, when he caught her fretting about the next morning's tryouts. She laughed a little, teasing him that he still had a Seeker's mentality towards the game, thinking about light and shadows and other tricks that would help him spot the Snitch before his opponent, and he'd given a sheepish little grin. But before she went home for the night, he'd taken her hand and given it a firm squeeze.

Don't worry about it. You'll make it. I know you will.

Simple words, but they made her feel a little better, playing through her head that night until she fell asleep. And he was right, after all. Smiling at the memory, she flies a little higher, up where the wind is stronger and the angle of the sun keeps her free of the shadows down on the pitch. Not far below, she can see a few of the Kestrels' players weaving in and out of each other, in an easy, well-practised warm-up manoeuvre. They all fly easily, but there is one girl, built more like a Seeker than the Chaser Ginny knows her to be, who adds a little flourish every time she turns left.

Before the match starts, keep your eye on the other team's players. See if you notice any patterns in the way they move, or if you can peg who's quickest. It'll help you anticipate their important moves later.

Ron has been the most vocal about giving her tips on the game from the moment she announced her intention to try out, as if she'd never played before. Some of his advice is good, some of it is stuff she's known since she was eight, and all of it is very, very firm. Like Harry, his advice belies his own position on the Hogwarts team. A Keeper would find anticipation of a Chaser's speed and manoeuvring abilities to be of the upmost importance. When she pointed out to Ron that she wouldn't be up there, waiting for people to come to her and trying to get past her, he threw his hands up in the air and muttered something about just trying to help his little sister, but there was a bit of good-naturedness underneath the complaint.

Fine, then. If it's Beaters you're worried about watching for, go and talk to George. I reckon he'd be the person to ask.

She wasn't worried about Beaters, necessarily, but Ron's words sort of drove it home that this wasn't an impromptu game with friends, nor even a battle between the houses at Hogwarts. This is a professional league, a career, no matter how much enjoyment the game brings her, and injuries aren't exactly rare. And, in the heat of the moment, things sometimes have a way of getting rough. A foul can always be called afterwards, but that doesn't mean the crack in your skull or Bludger to your back hasn't happened.

So, my baby sister wants advice on dealing with Beaters?

I'm your only sister! ...And, I mean... If you have any.

Well... I guess my advice is to just be too quick for them. Don't give your moves away. Seem spontaneous. Or, you know, toss out a Bat-Bogey Hex if you get into trouble.

Even now, Ginny snorts at the memory. Leave it to George to suggest something completely against the rules, and to shrug it off when she pointed that out.

Down below, the referee is approaching the centre of the pitch, both team captains walking out to meet him in the middle. Ginny flies lazily towards the rest of her team, catching a glimpse of her own private cheering section--a sea of red hair, save Hermione's easily-identifiable frizzy brown head, since Harry can't come--and giving them all a little wave as she flies by, careful not to pay too much attention to where they are, so she won't be tempted to keep looking over later in the match. Hermione hasn't given her any advice on the game like the boys have, admitting this morning what Ginny already knew: she doesn't know anything about the sport, really. Still, she wished Ginny good luck in the kitchen of the Burrow after they'd cleared the breakfast dishes away, giving her a tight hug. In a way, it was better than all the advice, because she won't be looking to see if Ginny has followed it.

It hits her, a little before the referee opens the case and let the balls go, that the nerves she thought she doesn't have have just been waiting for this moment to announce their presence. Her palms start to sweat and her arms and knees feel shaky.

My best piece of advice, little sister, is this: Don't throw up. After that, it's all easy.

Ginny's breath catches in her throat, and she nearly flubs her landing. Of all the advice running through her head this morning, helpful and pointless both, she doesn't expect this one to come back to her. Not after this many years.

Fred.

His only words directly to her the morning before her first match as part of the Gyrffindor team, whispered out of the side of his mouth as they waited around for Harry to lead them onto the pitch. She giggled and gave him a smile, grateful he hadn't teased her instead, because she did feel a little queasy after breakfast. She hadn't said thanks, though she felt it, but Fred seemed to know that anyway. He just tugged at the sleeve of her robes and smirked, moving over to stand again at George's side, where she thought he'd always be.

The memory stings, raw and tender in a place she thought was healed-over, and though she sort of wants to tear up, she instead swallows hard and takes her place with her team, determined nothing will distract her from the game.

~*~

Ginny waited for the twins to land again, laughing and shoving each other, before she walked out into the yard where they were, fixing them with her most persuasive look. It worked most of the time on her mother, on her father nearly as often, on Charlie and Bill some of the time, and, every now and then, on George and Fred. "When can I play?"

They'd looked at each other instinctively, holding an entire conversation with their eyes that Ginny could see, but not comprehend the complexity of.

"See, the thing is--" George said, starting to raise his shoulders in a shrug that, somehow, Fred finished.

"--you can't."

It'd been Fred to utter the words, but as Ginny'd known for years, even at the age of six, he was speaking just as much for George as he was for himself, and so she'd dropped the sweet act and just glared at them both, little hands making fists and resting on her hips. "Why not?" If she weren't so angry, she might have made an attempt at tearful to try to change their answer through guilt, but the way they'd brushed her off so quickly had sparked her anger, which, even back then, had been quick to ignite.

"Mum'd have kittens if she saw you on a broom with us," Fred said, glancing back to the house. "And trust us, baby sister--"

"--we don't exactly like the thought of having our ears boxed if you fall off a broom," George said, wincing. "Besides, we don't have any brooms small enough for you. You're too titchy. Not to mention the fact that if you did "...we'd have to be gentle with you. You couldn't handle playing for real."

Ginny saw red. "You wouldn't have to be gentle! I'm tough enough!"

Both twins laughed, slinging their brooms over their shoulders and heading for the shed in order to store them until the next time they wanted to play. "Right. Of course you are."

Watching them retreat, leaving her in the middle of the back yard, Ginny glared in their direction. They were never that careful with locking the door to the shed, and as they walked into the kitchen, arguing over who would be the better Beater once they got to Hogwarts next year, Ginny crept over to the shed door and gave it a little try. Completely unlocked.

Scampering inside before her mother or anyone else could see her and ask what she was doing out there by herself, Ginny made up her mind: if her brothers wouldn't let her play with them, then she would simply play without them later on. With the twins and Ron keeping her mother so busy these days, she'd certainly have the opportunity to sneak out here and take one of their brooms out. And after she'd had a bit of time to practise, she could finally show them how good she could be, and then they'd be sorry they hadn't agreed to let her in on their fun.

~*~

The second the match begins, the whistle ringing in her ears, and Ginny feels something very much like how she felt the first time she managed to mount a broom and kick up into the air. It's exhilarating and terrifying at the same time, although now the terror's for a completely different reason. She's not worried one of her brothers or her parents will come outside and see her up this high, where she definitely shouldn't be, or even that she'll fall and hurt herself. It's simply that flood of nerves that accompanies the knowledge that this time, it's real, and there are thousands of eyes on her in a way she never really felt back at Hogwarts. This is the real thing.

There's the familiar drop in her stomach as she stops climbing and instead begins a slow dive, heading for the Quaffle. It's the same set of moves it's always been, only for different stakes. Out in the stands, there are no students shouting their housemates on, wanting nothing more than bragging rights until the next match, or professors watching her perform in a way that's so different than her school work. Now there are families watching with their children and elderly life-long fans of each team comparing the start of this new season to dozens of ones in the past. There are men and women drunk on the excitement of the sport and on pints of lager consumed before the game. And of course, there is most of her family (and Hermione, who will be part of it before too much longer, everyone knows, even if nothing official's been discussed yet) cheering in the stands, brothers and her parents, both, the former wanting her to beat the pants off the other team, and the latter just wanting to see her do her best.

And that's exactly what she plans on doing. There's a reason she was awarded a spot as Chaser for the Harpies, and she is damn well going to show everyone--her manager, the fans, and especially the other team--exactly what that reason is.

The Chaser for the Kestrels is so busy trying to dodge the advances of the Harpies' toughest Beater that Ginny can see he isn't holding the Quaffle very securely. Ginny makes a bee-line for him, nodding to Alsam, another of the Chasers, who flies underneath the bloke and reappears on the other side of him, catching his attention. Ginny's able to pop up along his side easily, snatching the Quaffle from his hands as he shouts in frustration. Then she's off as fast as she can manage, weaving in and out of the other Kestrels' players and heading for the goal hoops. This is about as good as she's felt since the end of the war, really, only a few other instances standing out against this one as competition. And when she gets close enough to see the determined look on the Keeper's face, Ginny tosses the Quaffle in an arc, the girl's gloved fingertips just failing to deflect the ball.

"Ten points for Holyhead!" Ginny hears the announcer exclaim, aided by a strong Sonorus. "First points of the game, and scored by new acquisition, Ginny Weasley. Looks like the Kestrels had better watch out for this young firebrand!"

Some part of Ginny wants to gloat at the accomplishment, or at least turn and wave at her family, but there's no time for that, not in the professional leagues. While she's managed that early goal, it unfortunately means the other team is paying her more attention, aware already that she's someone to keep an eye on. Both Beaters and the Keeper will be watching her closely, using what they've already seen to anticipate her future moves. It's only the first game of her career, so it's not as if they have any idea which techniques she relies on, or how predictable she might be, but they'll be looking, analysing, just as her brothers told her she should be doing.

Unfortunately, the other team scores a goal not two minutes later, and that seems to be the indication the crowd was waiting for, signalling that this match will be in no way one-sided. By the time the sun is low enough on the horizon to be perched just at the top of the stadium's walls, catching Ginny with a sudden, blinding burst of light, the other team is ahead by two goals, eighty to sixty, and they're all playing that game of trying to judge how much energy they should hold back for the rest of the game, and how hard they can play now. Each Seeker has had at least one instance of almost catching the Snitch, but the last time was nearly an hour ago, and Ginny's definitely feeling it. Her left wrist and forearm burn with the force she's using to hold on to her broom handle, steering with one hand as she cradles the Quaffle with the other. This time, the Keeper dives and makes the save easily, and Ginny can only swear under her breath, vaguely grateful her mother can't hear her use language like that while she's up here.

The missed goal only makes her more determined to get the Quaffle for another shot, more willing to be a bit rougher and more aggressive. On a team full of girls, there isn't one of them who could be called weak or timid, but Ginny's had a lifetime of advantage on this front. Being the youngest of seven, last in line behind six boys who were only too willing to wrestle over toys and deal in punches and kicks when fighting for the last bit of dinner, Ginny's learned to not only be quick, but to be sneaky.

And in a game like this, that's a lesson she might need.

~*~

She'd had to wait for the right time, the moment her mother was too preoccupied with the laundry that five boys had brought home in their school trunks to pay her any mind, but now that her mother was tied up, Ginny was free to duck out the back door, trailing her brothers.

She kept out of their line of sight as well, knowing they'd tell her to go back inside, and there was no way she was doing that. This was the first time since the Christmas holidays that everyone had been home, and Ginny had missed the distractions necessary to escape her mother's watchful gaze.

Of course, she had missed her brothers, too. Ron was still home, of course, but everyone else was off at Hogwarts and, even at their loudest, she and Ron couldn't match the natural volume and energy of a house full of Weasleys. Besides, with so few children to watch over, it was far easier for their mother to figure out who'd done what, and dole out punishments accordingly.

The twins headed straight for the far end of the yard with their brooms, just as Ginny had guessed they would. Somewhere inside, Percy was sitting near their mother, recounting his accomplishments and the twins' shortcomings, both academic and behavioural. Charlie and Bill were in Charlie's room, looking through that picture book Ginny hated, the one of dragons that showed the men in the pictures meeting with gruesome ends. Ron was somewhere with their dad, which left the twins out here, and Ginny hidden in her spot, watching them.

Neither of them made the Gryffindor Quidditch team in their first year, just like Percy'd told them they wouldn't, but it hadn't seemed to dampen the twins' enthusiasm for the game. Tucked up against the trunk of the oldest tree in their yard, Ginny watched them fly through the air, swatting light bats at the toy Bludgers they'd been given for their birthdays last year. Fred was more forceful about lobbing the things than George was but, by the end of the night, they'd both be hiding the bruises from their mother.

After a while, even they seemed to tire of hitting each other with the toys, and, as they reminisced about things that they'd done at school--things Ginny was positive they were never going to admit to their parents--George took up a spot in front of the hole high up in the fence they used in place of a real goal, and Fred found the old, flat, orange rubber ball some Muggle child had left behind during a picnic not far from here a few years ago. "Ready, Fred?"

"Give it your best, Georgie," Fred smirked. "You've yet to get that thing past me."

"Yeah, right," George scoffed. "Except the hundreds of times you're purposefully forgetting." He hurled the ball at the hole, and even Ginny could see that they were both much more comfortable hitting Bludgers at people than they were at playing other positions. She wasn't sure she'd like that very much--she'd be too afraid she'd accidentally hurt someone, and besides, she was better at throwing things than she was at hitting them with a bat. She was even okay at diving and pulling back up, but she still thought she'd rather be a Chaser when she got older, all things considered.

When their game devolved into little other than antagonising each other, Ginny could only watch, enthralled, as they flew closer and closer, trying to get each other to crash into the ground or the fence. And when they got so close she could see them lying on the ground, bruised and bloody, before they even touched, she couldn't help it--she shrieked.

"What the bloody hell?" one of them--Ginny couldn't tell which, with her hands covering her eyes to avoid seeing the inevitable tragedy--shouted, and then there was a distinct thud as they collided, and a second, different one a moment later as they hit the ground.

"Ginny!" Fred wheezed a moment later, and the tone of his voice made her peek through her fingers to see how he'd managed to sound so angry if he was dead. "How long've you been there?"

"The whole time?" she squeaked, now at least sure the twins were alive, if a little stunned.

"Why were you hiding? Trying to scare us?" George asked, disentangling himself from his broomstick and limping towards her. "I've half a mind to tell mum--"

Ginny panicked. "No! She thinks I'm in my room. Besides, if you tell, I'll tell her that you got detention for setting off that explosion in Potions on purpose!"

Both twins stared at her. "You little sneak," Fred said disbelievingly, shaking his head at her. He looked up at his brother. "Well, how do you like that, Georgie? Our baby sister's already versed in blackmail." George snorted and rubbed at his knee, and Fred walked over to stand in front of her. "All right, then. You obviously heard some things you shouldn't. What do you want from us? That isn't flying," he added firmly.

Ginny looked up at him, already a little upset he'd taken away the very thing she would have asked for. She hadn't meant to startle them, or to find a way to get something out of watching them. She'd really just missed them, was all. With both of them gone, there wasn't anyone home to hassle Ron and keep him from being too insufferable, or to distract their mother so she could sneak biscuits for the three of them to share. She missed their jokes, too, since she wasn't usually on the bad end of them, and she missed the way they sometimes let her hang out with them, mostly to irritate Ron, whom they didn't let join them, and the funny things they'd say about Percy when he and their parents weren't around. But growing up with all these boys taught better than to talk about things like that. "Show me what you were doing. When you were headed for each other and then both went separate directions."

George laughed like she'd asked for one of them to deliver her the moon, but Fred just looked at her before giving her a wide smile. "Well, we can't do it properly without a third person as Chaser--and you're not going to try, mind you. We do like having all our limbs in the right places--but George and I can show you what's supposed to happen. We call it double-rushing. It's something good Beaters can do to a Chaser, to fool them. Works pretty much every time. Come on, George. Up on the broom." He winked down at her. "This little move right here's gonna make us rich and famous. Just you watch. People are going to see this move in the European League and think 'Weasley'."

~*~

By the time the sun is down enough for everything to be turning from pink and orange to blue and purple, Ginny's fairly certain the landscape isn't the only thing wearing those colours. This game has been brutal, aand there's no way she won't be paying for it in the morning. It's been almost three hours of constant play, certainly not the longest game the League's recorded in the last ten years--not even close, but it's definitely longer than any practice Ginny's had since joining the team, and much tougher.

The Kestrels are still ahead, now two hundred and ten to one-fifty, but it's still anyone's game, with both Seekers starting to strain to see the Snitch in the fading light. Ginny hopes Marston can find the stupid thing soon, because she really wants to hit the shower and stand under the water until the muscles in her thighs and arms stop trembling.

But exhausted or not, she's not giving up. The crowd below her doesn't seem to be tired of the action yet, either, if their volume is anything to go by. If anything, they seem louder than they were an hour ago, and that's including the shouting that stemmed from the last foul called. She hasn't exactly caught a second wind, but she hasn't proven herself as much as she'd hoped, either, and that knowledge drives her to push harder. In some way, she feels like she's doing this for her family, to show them that there's still fun and excitement and a reason to celebrate like they used to before the war, and everything that happened during it.

And on some level, she even feels like she's playing for Fred, or, more accurately, for George, who's probably thinking of his twin, and who seems more affected by her up here than any of the rest of her family does. The look on his face the last time she managed to glance at them all, while one of the other Holyhead Chasers took the penalty shot, showed him with that same sad look she was so used to seeing these days, the one that said no matter what he was doing, or how things were going, he felt like there was something about it that was missing.

She's been trying not to think of Fred too much during the game, and for most of it, she's succeeded. Nothing's hit her quite as hard as that moment of hearing his voice in her head, an almost-forgotten memory from so long ago, but she still can't help wondering how things would be if he were down there with everyone else who'd managed to come. She's sure that even this far away from their spot in the stands, she'd be able to hear them yelling in unison, berating the other team and probably even the referee.

She's still thinking about Fred as she heads for the scoring area, feeling some of her hair come loose from the plait she did nearly five hours ago now, and that might very well be the only reason she doesn't go into blind panic when she realises that the two Beaters from the Kestrels are coming for her, hard and fast, flanking her and on a direct course that will not only lose her possession of the Quaffle, but likely her grip on her broom. She has two choices: keep going for the goal, with a slim chance of making it close enough to get the Quaffle near any of the hoops and virtually guaranteeing she'll need a hefty dose of pain potion, or something else dispensed by the team Mediwizard, or try the only thing that might get her out of the double-rushing.

"Here goes nothing," she mutters, hoping that her brothers weren't just messing around with her more than ten years ago.

~*~

She felt vindicated, really, when Harry announced her place on the team, a smile on his face as he looked in her direction. She'd been flying for years on her own and, by the age of nine, had figured out how to charm the toy Bludgers to track her as she raced for the hole in the fence that was always the goal hoops. She knew no one really expected her to be much good, let alone as good as tryouts proved her to be. In fact, even better than the look of surprise and relief on Harry's face was the look of utter shock on Fred's and George's faces as she scored her first goal.

They'd offered her warm congratulations at the time, of course, and then had promptly gone all big-brother on whomever had muttered she'd made it because Harry fancied her--McLaggen was Ginny's guess, given the silhouette she could see backing away from the twins--though she'd pretended not to see that bit. She didn't need them to fight her battles, but sometimes she let them anyway, because she knew they liked to.

The common room had had a festive air about it that evening and, after a butterbeer, Ginny felt she couldn't really feel any better about her accomplishment. Even that, though, couldn't keep her from feeling ready to find Dean, celebrate a little with him, and then turn in for the night, ready to sleep like the dead.

"A word if you don't mind, dear sister," Fred said, sidling up behind her and startling her so badly she nearly dropped her almost-empty butterbeer. He gestured for her to follow and she did, certain this wasn't one of those times he was luring her away to pull a prank of some sort. Years of exposure had given her a good sense for those moments. She followed him over to the window, where George was leaning, staring out at the night sky.

"What is it?"

"You know," George said, turning around to look at her, eyebrows raised in imitation of the way Percy looked at all of them before he was about to begin a long lecture. "Hermione told us."

"Told you what?" A dozen things flashed through her mind, including all those things she'd told her about liking Harry over the summer, and she fervently hoped Hermione hadn't taken to confiding in the twins about their little sister's love life.

"About the fact that you've been taking our brooms out of the shed and practising on your own since you were six," Fred said, trying for the same face George made, but failing utterly when he laughed instead. "Eight years, and you never got caught. We taught her well, didn't we, Georgie?"

"Very well," George agreed, nudging her with his elbow. "I have to say, we're quite proud of you. For making the team, too, of course. Not just for sneaking around for so long, undetected."

Fred put an arm around her shoulders. "You know, there was one time I thought ickle Ronniekins had broken some twigs on my broom. Gave him quite a hard time about it. And to think, that was you." He mussed her hair, beaming when she smacked him hard on the arm. "Aw, Georgie. Our baby sister's growing up. So advanced. Next, you'll be giving Filch a hard time." He pretended to wipe a tear from his eye. "I just hope you're willing to take our advice as you mature."

She swatted at him again, making both of the twins laugh. "Yeah, well, let's see what you can teach me that's actually helpful. Then we'll see."

~*~

Fred's voice speaks quietly, somehow easy to hear, even over the blood pounding in her head and the wind in her ears. You have to wait. Half of the trick to double-rushing is making the Chaser panic. More often than not, they'll drop the Quaffle and your job's done. But those who don't fly away as quickly as they can, and it's easy enough for one of us to get a Bludger aimed their way then. If a Chaser wants out of the double-rushing trap, he has to wait. And just when we're practically on top of him, he has to fall. I'm not talking about a dive, like the Wronski Feint, little sister. I'm talking, like a stone. Just let yourself go. Get far enough under them that they can't see you, and then go for it, you hear me?

She's got one shot at this, and she really wishes she'd practised the move at any other time in her life before this. She remembers the sight of Harry plummetting to earth during a match back at Hogwarts, and even watching that had been terrifying, let alone being the one to fall through the sky.

She holds her breath until the Beaters are close enough that the one she's looking directly at is raising his bat, and then she lets herself go. There's a feeling of weightlessness, a sickening drop in her stomach as it tries to figure out where it belongs in relation to the rest of her body, and her robes billow just a little as they catch the new direction of the air. Time seems to slow down, and though it can't have been any more than a second, maybe two, it feels like forever until she's far enough below both Beaters that she can only see the undersides of them. With a death-grip on her broomhandle with her left hand and her arm squeezing the Quaffle so hard it hurts, she shoots out in front of them from below, giving a quick jerk to her broom and rising swiftly, nearly parallel to the hoop as she hurls the Quaffle at it, praying she'll at least get close.

The crowd goes from silent to explosively loud as she slows her ascent, and Ginny looks back over her shoulder to see the Keeper just barely regain hold of her broom, and the shouts from her teammates tell her she's made it. And then, during the height of the chaos, the crowd at the other end of the pitch roars, and everyone else turns to see Marston holding something shining and golden in her hand, its wings fluttering madly.

"And that does it for the match! Fabulous distraction technique by Ginny Weasley, who managed to score a goal while diverting attention towards the south end of the pitch, while Revena Marston plucks the Snitch out of the air at the north end! Harpies win, three hundred and ten points to the Kestrels' two hundred and ten!"

Everything's a blur as Marston streaks towards her, nearly knocking Ginny off her broom as she throws her arm around her, Golden Snitch still clutched in her hand. "That was bloody brilliant!" she shouts over all the noise. "I've never seen anything like that! Talk about courage, Weasley!"

This feeling is probably shock, because while Ginny's not numb, she's...well, she's something that's not normal, and then a glance over at the stands where her family is on their feet, shouting and waving, sort of makes it all hit home, and suddenly she's hot and can feel how fast her heart is pounding. "Thanks," she says, finally able to come up with words. "That was great timing with your catch."

There are hugs and fists pounded on backs all around, and Ginny doesn't even care that half of her teammates are hitting the spot where she got smacked by a Bludger less than an hour ago. Bergman and some of the others invite her out for drinks but, as much fun as it sounds, she has to decline. "I would, but my family's all here, and my brother offered to take us all out to dinner."

"Ah," Marsden says, sounding sympathetic, like no one could possibly enjoy time out with their family. "Your first professional match, with the family local enough to attend, to boot. No worries, love. We'll celebrate plenty of wins this season. You can join us for the next one. But expect to explain that little stunt of yours during practice next week. That was mad!"

It isn't until she's halfway through her shower, fingers exploring the new bruises on her body that are like dark, tender badges of honour, that the adrenaline high seems to burn itself up and leave her crashing much faster than expected. All the nerves she's put aside, and, more unexpected and harder-hitting, the intense memories of her brothers together, intertwined with her earlier experiences with Quidditch seem to swell up from somewhere within her. She can feel them rising in her throat, making it hard to swallow, restricting her breathing.

The other girls are all eager to get out of here and celebrate, and the last one leaves the changing room just a few minutes later, leaving Ginny standing alone under a strong blast of hot water that hits the tile floor and echoes in the now-empty room. As soon as she's sure she's the only one left, she gives into the exhaustion and everything else, the memories of Fred, which still sting, even more than a year later, the grief she still hasn't completely found an outlet for, and lets herself sob as the water hits her body. It seems to wash away the sharpest of the grief as it washes away the sweat of a long, hard game. It's a release unlike any she's had in a long time, now that she's alone with no one to judge her, or even hold her in mutual misery.

She dresses slowly, aching and spent, but she feels better than she would have expected. When she steps out of the changing room and into the cool night air, there's a crowd waiting for her, all freckled faces and red hair just like she sees in the mirror every day. It isn't everyone who's dear to her, but everyone's tried to be here, and that's what's important.

Her mother rushes at her, throwing her arms around her and nearly knocking Ginny over, squeezing her tight until Ginny's wincing from the abuse to her bruised shoulder and left arm. "Let the girl breathe, Molly," her father says good-naturedly. "She took a couple of good hits, you know."

"Oh! Oh! You're right, I'm sorry, I forgot. You're not really injured, are you, dear?"

"I'm fine, mum. A bit banged up, but nothing that won't be fine in a couple of days. I'd better get used to it, I suppose."

Her dad gives her a much more self-aware hug, patting her softly on the back and congratulating her on what he knows will be the first of many wins, and she wonders if she'd tear up, if she wasn't cried out. "Thanks, dad. I'm glad you all could be here. It means a lot to me."

It does, too. Bill and Fleur are standing off to the side, Fleur gently bouncing Victoire, who's fussing slightly. "She just needs to eat," Fleur says apologetically. "She really was very good during the match, even with all the shouting." She glares over at Ron, who blushes and ducks behind Hermione, as if she can hide him from his sister-in-law's wrath. Percy gives her an awkward hug, and even Audrey leans in and congratulates her.

Hermione gives her a large smile, pulling Ron away with an admonition when he forgets she's taken a few Bludgers and elbows. "Sorry," he says, though he's smiling widely. "I'm just excited for her, okay?" He looks down at Ginny. "Head swelling with all that fame and glory yet?"

Ginny laughs. "Right. You're one to talk, Mr 'I'm on the front page of th Prophet for another impressive arrest'. My head's probably got a way to go before it reaches comparable size."

Everyone laughs, and Ron mutters something about just doing his job, but he's still smiling. They're much closer than they used to be, especially during that period in school when he was dating that cow, Lavender. But then, grief has a way of pulling the family together, changing the way they all interact. It's probably most noticeable in Percy, though, who still doesn't seem to have got over his guilt over the brief estrangement while he was working for the crumbling Ministry. He's the one who's offered to take every last one of them out for dinner, now that he's got his latest promotion--a real one, based on competency and his knack for fussy little details.

"Did you hear from your brother, dear?" her mum asks, suddenly rummaging through her bag. "He owled to make sure...I have the note somewhere."

"I did," Ginny nodded. There had been an exhausted-looking owl waiting at her window late last night, a tiny little package strapped to its leg. She'd let it in and given it food, water, and a rest as she'd got ready for bed, reading the short letter of well-wishes as she fingered the dragon's tooth pendant Charlie had sent for good luck. "I sent his owl back this morning. It's probably just still on its way. Poor thing looked shattered."

"Harry's really sorry he couldn't be here," Hermione started, looking sad for her. "But he--"

"I know." It would have been nice to have him here with the others, waiting with a hug and words of congratulations, but she knew she would see him tomorrow night, after he got back from his assignment with the Aurors. One of the downfalls to Harry's steadfast insistence that he be treated the same as any other Auror on the squad was that he hadn't been able to get the night off, having drawn surveillance duty on some case. But he'd sent her flowers this morning, before breakfast, along with a note saying he hoped she'd be free the following night for dinner out in London, and he wanted to hear all about the Harpies' win, because he knew they would. "It's okay. I'm glad you and Ron came, too. I know you're not terribly familiar with Quidditch."

"I'm not," Hermione admitted. "But that manoeuvre you did earlier was so exciting! I almost couldn't watch, I was so certain you were going to be hurt."

Ginny laughed. "Well, I won't say it didn't shoot my heart-rate up." She looked out at everyone, taking in their smiles and enthusiasm, and smiled. "And not to be rude, but... I'm famished. Percy said something about dinner, right?"

"Yes, absolutely," he said, puffing up a little, like a self-important owl. "Everyone, follow me. We have a port-key, you know."

"Hey," a voice said quietly in her ear as everyone else began to jabber about wherever it was Percy was taking them. George put his hand on her elbow. "Hang back a bit?"

She nodded. "I'll be right there," Ginny told her parents, who were badgering Percy about spending frivolously. "I just forgot something in the changing room. George'll wait for me, and we'll meet you at the port-key."

"Oh, all right, dear," her mum said. "Do hurry, though. You look like you need a good meal. You're a bit peaked."

"Mum," Ginny said, shaking her head and sighing as they all rounded the corner, voices suddenly much quieter. "Still thinks I'm a little girl."

"Yeah," George says, and, though he's smiling, there's that look in his eyes that makes her hurt for him, wondering if he'll ever be free from it. It used to be worse, of course. She remembers with a pang the look on his face in the first few weeks after the final battle, when she'd catch him looking in the mirror, searching for something he knew he wouldn't find. Worse were the times she'd knock on his door, ready to get him to come to dinner and eat something for the day, and find him just lying there, looking faded and hollow, as if he'd buried more of himself than was left to walk the earth, all the vital bits suddenly gone.

"You were thinking of him today, too," she finally says, because if she waits for him, he might never say it.

"I'm never not," George replies simply. "But yeah. I recognised that move, you know. The one that you pulled when those two Beaters double-rushed you. It's the one we taught you when we came back home after our first year at Hogwarts."

"Yeah, I know," she says, unsure how to put everything into words. How can she tell him she couldn't shake thoughts of Fred during the game, the way her memories of the two of them were tied up so tightly with her memories of Quidditch, a game she learned from watching them in secret, and then trying to copy the things she'd seen them do when no one was looking? She learned almost everything from them, either from just watching, or later, from the tips they gave her when they were pretending they were just giving her advice that would help Gryffindor beat Slytherin, instead of helping her out because they were concerned about her safety in a way they'd never admit to.

Finally, she gives up on the attempt to put all of that into words and just turns to face him, taking one of his hands in hers. He still looks a bit odd, seen from one side, with the hole where his ear used to be, but he still looks so much like Fred that sometimes, it hurts. "I miss him. A lot."

"Me too." It's the most obvious statement in the world, something that doesn't even need to be said, and his voice is a little thick. It still hurts to think about Fred, and she can't imagine what it's like for George, who's always had him at his side, someone to finish his thoughts and complete his plans. George was always the quieter of the two, the gentler one, but Fred was the one who seemed to feel she should be taken under their collective wing, who gave her special attention and was the first to let her join in.

"I love all of you guys," she says after a moment, "but you two've always been my favourites."

George blinks at her, like this is news to him, though really, it shouldn't be. Or maybe it's the fact that she didn't say "were" when she admitted that. He swallows hard after a moment, pulling her in for a strong, tight hug, and really, she doesn't even care how hard he hits her bruised arm and shoulder. He breaks it off after a moment, but leaves his arm slung around her shoulder, just like they both used to do. "Well, what can I say?" he says, clearing his throat and beginning to lead her down the passageway to join everyone else. "You've always had good taste, now, haven't you, little sister?"

I'm Alive! Really! (Um... At least, I think so?)

khasael — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:07:31 GMT

Okay, so I've not been around much. Definitely not on here, and not even on twitter that much, which is where I ALWAYS used to be. So. What've I been up to?

WORK.

Also, writing. But really, so much work. Thanksgiving and Christmas were hectic, of course, but then between Christmas and New Years, we found out that our dept asst manager was getting transferred to another store--where she was going to be made THEIR bakery manager, and would be starting there on the following Monday (less than a week from then). Awesome, right (well, except the fact that she'd be seriously missed)? But then, immediately after (like, seconds later), we find out that THAT store's bakery manager is being transferred to our store, to be OUR bakery manager. Which means my manager? Demoted to bakery assistant manager/production (kitchen) manager.

Oh god. The awkward. I can't even begin to tell you. It was AWFUL. Like, so awful I couldn't eat during my shifts, and I just felt seriously on edge, and at least one other person in the dept felt the same way. Our boss is a good guy, pretty mellow, but he took it HARD, and it came out in rudeness. I mean, it's okay now, but it was so bad he made the girl who was being transferred/promoted CRY (she found out she was being promoted/transferred about an hour before he was told. It wasn't like "would you like this opportunity?" so much as "here's what we're doing!").

So, yeah, chaos and flux at work, including having my regular days and shifts changed all around, plus being incredible short-staffed on top of it (most days, we're struggling to keep our heads above water, and I haven't gotten out of work on time in months, seriously).

But yeah. That's work stuff. But like I said, I've also been writing.

BOY, HAVE I.

In the last few weeks, I've written my first-ever fic for the Suits fandom (I'll post it here after reveals, but right now, it's still in the "anon fest fic" stage). I've been writing my Inception Big Bang fic, which'll be up on the 6th--yep, this coming Monday. My longest fic for that fandom, before this one, was under 5k. This one...er... Yeah. Closer to 40-50k. I've been working on my fix for HD Remix, which is a definite challenge for me, because... well, I can't tell you, because it's supposed to be anon! I also wrote a fic for hpchallengefest, which is definitely one of the most challenging things I've yet written for the HP fandom (definitely in the top 5, along with this Remix thing). I don't expect that many of my friends will read it, because it's not smut. It's not even slash. It's gen--AND it's Ginny-centric gen, at that (Ginny grieves for Fred). Best compliment recently was along the lines of "wow, you've made me NOT hate Ginny!", so I'm going to consider that a huge accomplishment, given how much of my flist feels about her. If you're curious, I'll be posting that here immediately after this post.

Let's see, what else? Oh, right. When I'm not working my ass off or writing my ass off (really, I'm surprised I even HAVE an ass, at this point!), I've been busy with modding duties. In case you didn't know, I'm currently co-modding TWO exchange fests--one for Suits, with maja_li, and one for Harry Potter, with luvscharlie:

suits_exchange will be wrapping up soon (our last fics will post next week), and there's been some truly amazing stuff for our first round, even though the fandom's still new and tiny. If you haven't yet, and are a fan of the show, give it a look. Most of the submissions this round are Harvey/Mike slash (as that does seem to be the most prevalent pairing in the fandom), though we've had some HarveyxMike bro-mance, some team!fic (er... firm!fic?), some gen, and some side pairings. I'm a mod there, so it's kind of unfair for me to rec my absolute favorites, but trust me--there's a lot of EXCELLENT (and in some cases, ADORABLE) stuff there, from angst to fluff to hurt/comfort, to kid!fic, to humor.

Also, as more of my flist is probably aware, hpvalensmut started posting yesterday (well, REALLY late last night, sorry. Both mods had chaotic days). Since it's a slash and femmeslash fest devoted to R and NC-17 submissions, you can be pretty sure there's a lot of yummy hotness on order for the month of February. We're posting Monday through Friday, with the weekends off to let everyone catch up on reading and commenting. There are so many pairings and kinks featured, there's sure to be something for just about everyone! One of the privileges of being a mod is getting to read through things early... unfortunately, that also means we only have each other to flail about awesome things with. But now that posting's begun, hopefully, some of you guys will come and flail, too.

In the meantime, I'm about to post my little 'Ginny and the twins' gen fic here and on AO3 (it's already on the challengefest comm), and then write like MAD on another fic. I managed over 8k yesterday, after work, and today I have about 7 hours to dedicate to writing (um, and chores, ick), so with any luck (and ass-kickings via twitter pings or something, if anyone wants to), I can get that finished, or close to, before bed. We're supposed to get 10-18 inches of snow between this afternoon and tomorrow night, and I have to be AT work at 6am tomorrow, so... I'll probably have to get up early to dig out the car at 430am or something, so no late night for me, I'm afraid.

Also, since I'm so damned behind on LJ and everything that's NOT a fest I'm modding or a fic I'm writing (er, scratch that. I'm behind in some of those fics, too), feel free to catch me up in the comments! I've really been missing you guys! Some of you, I can catch a bit on twitter, but not everyone uses it (and sometimes, i open my app on my phone and find I've missed 2943 tweets, and my app just won't LOAD that many! Oh, and if you're on twitter and we're not friends there, my user name's the same as it is here, so feel free to follow).

(also also: look at my pretty icon! It was one of my gifts from misbehavingmom at leo_palooza. Coffee beans and love, ftw!)

Gattaca fic: I Only Lent You My Body (Vincent Freeman/Jerome Eugene Morrow)

khasael — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 22:00:37 GMT

Title: I Only Lent You My Body
Fandom: Gattaca
Characters/Pairing: Vincent Freeman/Jerome Eugene Morrow
Beta: maja_li
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none, really
Word Count: 1400
Summary: As time passes, Vincent and Jerome become comfortable with one another, until the boundaries of who they are when they're together start to...blur.
Author's Notes: This fic nestles into the film's timeline just after the line "You must be drunk, to call me Vincent". Title taken from a line of dialogue later in the film. Written for yuletide 2011, as a gift for autumdynasty. Originally posted here at AO3.

It's weird to hear his real name from Jerome's mouth, and weirder still that he thinks "Jerome" but says "Eugene." But then again, there's nothing about this that isn't a bit odd in some way, this little arrangement of theirs.

Jerome reeks of liquor—vodka and scotch, one ingested at home, one at the club—and he's even less help than usual when it comes to getting him into bed. Vincent's seen Jerome drunk hundreds of times by this point—possibly more than he's seen him sober, Vincent thinks with a grimace as Jerome blows a particularly alcoholic breath into his face—but something about tonight makes it different. It's not just that this is a celebration. They've done that before, the day Vincent got the call from Gattaca telling him to report the next morning for his first day, and for the most recent promotion, and even for the first time Vincent stood in front of his old janitorial supervisor and didn't get so much as a flicker of recognition from the older man. This feels different because now there's a feeling that what they've worked for together might actually be happening.

"No more drinking for you the rest of the week," Vincent says with a grunt, shifting Jerome's legs fully onto the bed so that the dead weight of them won't drag him off onto the floor. He's learned that lesson already, remembers hearing the thud from the other room and wondering what would happen to him if Jerome was stupid enough to hit his head and kill himself like an idiot.

"Try to stop me," Jerome says with another breathy little laugh. His face is flushed and his eyes—though surrounded by dark shadows—are even brighter than usual. Much as Vincent hates to admit it, Jerome was right—his eyes are prettier.

"Don't be such a dick," Vincent mutters, removing Jerome's shoes and dropping them onto the shelf underneath the nightstand.

Jerome smirks, drunken, sarcastic grin stretched wide. "I prefer to think of myself as more of a bastard. Though, being of spectacular genetic makeup and pre-planned, unlike yourself, I suppose the term doesn't really apply." After a moment, the smile fades, and he fixes Vincent with a gaze remarkably steady for one so drunk. "I am proud of you, Vincent."

Again, Vincent shrugs it off, just a proclamation brought on by excessive celebration. "Right. Thanks, Eugene."

But Jerome isn't having that this time. He lifts himself up off the pillows, leaning back and supporting himself with his elbows, and now his blue eyes seem to bore into Vincent in a way they haven't since just after he'd woken two and a half inches taller than he'd been the morning before. He reaches out for a third time and grabs Vincent by the tie, demanding, entitled—the way they all seem to be, so used to taking what they want, as if the world had been built for them instead of the other way around. He pulls Vincent down, harder than before, until Vincent's actually forced onto the bed to keep from falling directly on top of him, and not once does that gaze waver. "Call me Jerome."

Vincent tries to remove the hand twisted tightly in his tie, but the other man isn't loosening his grip. Instead, Vincent settles for a quiet snort and a roll of the eyes. How many nights has he dealt with Jerome's drunken antics? Yet never once, in all this time since the night they'd made their way up to gaze upon Gattaca together, has Jerome wanted to be called by his own name. "Why?"

"Because I want to hear you say my name," Jerome says, sitting up fully, and something in his tone makes Vincent shiver. "My name."

It's only one word, and one Vincent's said thousands of times before, but for so long now, it's always been said to give him identity, to give him a skin to fit into and a place to hide. He's chanted it to himself, back in the days before it became reflex, scribbled it in cursive with his right hand on hundreds of documents, and typed it into the system at Gattaca countless times.

So why does it feel so odd to say right now? It's almost as if saying the name will give it back to its original owner, bestow some meaning or essence that isn't usually there. There's power in a name, just like there's power in the associated identity, potential in the genetic blueprint. Perhaps it's that, that makes Vincent pause and not want to play along. But he's long since become accustomed to humoring his roommate, his partner in numerous felonies, if only to get some peace. "All right. Jerome."

"Vincent," Jerome whispers softly, and then he lets go of Vincent's tie, trailing his long, narrow fingers down Vincent's chest as he pulls his hand away. "I've lent you everything, haven't I? Everything I am, everything that makes me me in the eyes of the world?"
Vincent has no answer. It's true, of course it is, but Jerome's getting at something that seems to stem from someplace deep within him, perhaps finally able to surface with the aid of the alcohol or the sense of celebration, something as deep as the secret that Jerome's accident had been no accident at all. There are times, an increasing number of them since Vincent's dream of heading up to Titan has moved further into the realm of possibilities, when Vincent gets this feeling that Jerome has been thinking over some very serious matters. Matters, perhaps, that have something to do with what they are to each other, what they'll be when Vincent finally attains his ultimate dream, and what they are apart. But he knows better than to ask, knows that Jerome will only respond with a bit of wit or a quick barb to distract him with the sting. "Yes," he finally says, voice catching somehow on that one word.

Jerome shakes his head minutely, the heat of his hand penetrating Vincent's clothing and warming his skin just enough to be noticeable. "Actually, I don't believe that's quite true. Not everything after all."

The question of what's missing isn't even fully formed into words in Vincent's brain before Jerome's leaning in to him, closer than he usually lets himself be, closer than even a moment ago, with the tie as leverage. This isn't the Jerome he's used to, the one with the quick wit and disarming comments and dry humor. There's often a bit of intensity to that one, but this is different. Different, and alarming, and frighteningly provocative. Vincent can still smell the alcohol on him, the mint of the mouthwash used not long ago, the last of the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, but he's close enough that the cologne he wears on the rare occasions they go out is noticeable as well. It's warm and woody with just a hit of spice, and the scent of it reminds Vincent of seeing Jerome with that peculiar morning-after smirk, once all hired company has left the premises.

"There are still things I can...share," Jerome whispers, fingers trailing slowly down Vincent's chest, suggestive and promising. "Things I can lend you use of."

Vincent shivers underneath the touch, but makes no attempt to move away. He's mesmerized by the blue of Jerome's eyes, the depth and brightness of them that's so often dulled by alcohol. Before he can answer (and honestly, he has no idea what his answer might be, not in the slightest), Jerome closes the little bit of distance between them and kisses him. It's not forceful, not like the tie-pulling; just the barest touch of his lips to Vincent's own, and then he's leaning back into the pillows, smiling softly, eyes half-closed. "Something to dwell upon."

With legs that shake almost as badly as his voice, Vincent stands. "Go to sleep," he repeats, switching off the light. He heads for the door, but it's several moments before he can bring himself to step out of the bedroom and tear himself away from staring at Jerome's form on the bed.

Sleep is a long time in coming that evening, and it has little to do with knowing he'll be headed for Titan before the month ends.

HP Fanfic: Everything I Need (Harry/Draco, PG)

khasael — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 21:56:19 GMT

Title: Everything I Need
Rating: PG
Warnings: Just a little bit of flangst.
Word Count: 1200
Summary: The first Christmas after the war's end, neither Draco nor Harry have a holiday like those they're used to.
Author's notes: Written for mugglegato, for the 2011 Secret Santa exchange at leo_palooza.

Without even a word--before Harry even walked through the door, in fact--Draco knew that it had been a rough day. It was in the way his shoulders hunched up, not just fighting off the chill of a frigid Christmas eve. It was in the way he walked, deliberate and trudging. And it was in the way he paused outside the front door before coming in, as if he was trying to gather his thoughts or pull himself together enough to pretend nothing was wrong, because he didn't know that Draco could see him through the tiny window in the kitchen.

"In here!" Draco called as Harry's heavy footsteps fell just inside the door. It wasn't as if Harry would have to search long to find him in any case--Draco's new home was old and small, even less to look at than Snape's place in Spinner's End had been--but this way, he could judge Harry's mood by how long it took him to get here. Right away, and there might be a chance at salvaging the evening. If he took a while...well...he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

After the sound of Harry stomping snow off his boots before removing them and another pause that Draco couldn't help counting (eleven seconds; not good, but he'd already known that from seeing Harry approach the little cottage), Harry appeared in the doorway to the area that served as both kitchen and dining room. "What are you doing in here?"

Draco shifted slightly, in order to block Harry's view. "Just trying my hand at a new skill. Sit. How was...how was it?"

Sitting heavily in an old chair that probably wouldn't hold up much longer to that sort of treatment, Harry sighed. "I don't know. Great. Horrible. Both at once." When Draco turned around, Harry was sitting with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "I knew it would be different, you know? But Mrs Weasley was so insistent that I come. And it was good to see them all. It's just.... It's the first Christmas after the war, and someone found a gift marked for Fred, and Mrs Weasley spent the next hour crying so hard Mr Weasley had to take her upstairs for a bit. And after that, you know, I just couldn't..."

"Harry," Draco said softly, hiding what he'd been doing behind the tin of biscuits his mother had sent from France, where they were staying with old friends of hers, "I know." He gestured to their surroundings. "This Christmas isn't anything like those we're used to. The Weasleys are mourning, along with hundreds of other families. You're not with your friends. I'm not with my parents at the manor. Instead, I've got this run-down little shack that won't respond to improvement spells, and little-to-no skill when it comes to things in the kitchen." He crossed to the small table and crouched down. "You know what else I have?"

Harry gave a little shrug that pained Draco somewhere deep in his chest. He knew Harry was hurting, having to deal with the fact that for all he had done for the wizarding world in general, there were some things he simply could not make better. In a way, he supposed, that was more difficult than having your money and your home taken away while the Ministry went through everything with a fine-toothed comb, trying to figure out how long they could tie things up
before releasing funds and property. "What?"

"I have you," Draco said, putting one hand lightly on Harry's arm. Harry looked up then, green eyes bright and cheeks flushed from the cold, his face showing surprise overwriting the misery. "I still don't know how we came to this, and so quickly, given our history, but I have you, and I'm not taking it for granted. This isn't the Christmas either of us wanted, but it's the one we have, right? And at least we have it together."

Harry did smile then, still looking slightly shocked, and Draco thought there might be no better present. "Yeah." He snorted softly. "Never would have guessed, even eight months ago, that there was a side of you not concerned with your money or your status."

Draco swatted at him lightly as he got up from the floor. "Yes, well, eight months ago, you hadn't even guessed you might fancy blokes, so I guess it's no shock you're not all-knowing." He moved back to the counter and pulled the two mugs of hot chocolate from their hiding spot. He really was nearly useless in a kitchen, but he was learning, if only because he couldn't bear to put up with sub-par meals and take-away, or having Harry bring him meals like he was a charity case. But hot chocolate, even with home-made whipped cream, he could handle.

He was putting the peppermint stick in each mug when Harry spoke again. "Hey, Draco?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks for proving me wrong."

This time, Draco was the one to snort. "It's what I live for, you know." He turned around and handed Harry one of the mugs, smiling at the shocked expression on Harry's face. "Come on. Let's go into the living room and warm up. There's a fire going and everything."

"But no tree," Harry said, taking his drink and following Draco into the other room. "Draco, I know I've already offered, but I have more than enough. Wouldn't you like me to buy--"

"No." Draco set his drink down on the small table next to the small sofa and took Harry's, setting it down alongside. "I've told you. One of the many lessons of the last year: I need to stop relying upon other people to provide. More importantly, I need to stop living like my father taught me to and learn to be my own person. And you know what? I don't really like the smell of pine, anyway. Gives me a headache. I don't need a tree, and I don't need a flat in London. I don't need expensive decorations, or furniture, or expensive anything--other than that shampoo," he allowed, earning a smirk from Harry. "I have what I need right here." He pulled Harry close. "Everything I could need or want, at my fingertips, after all."

Harry reached one hand around and caught Draco around the waist, pressing them both together from knees to hips before leaning in to kiss Draco, long and deep, sweet but with a hint of fire. In that moment, Draco forgot entirely about the bare cottage, the hot chocolate on the table, and everything else that wasn't Harry, feeling a thrill run through him as it always did when they shared a moment like this. "And you always will," he whispered. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Favours (poking and help with non-English phrases)?

khasael — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 04:59:44 GMT

So, assuming anyone can SEE this, with all the DDoS stuff going on the last few days, I have two brief favours to ask! Both are actually related to the same thing (a particular fic). If anyone can help, I would HUGELY appreciate it!

1) Anyone willing to kick my ass/pester me/word war tomorrow (Monday, 10:30am EST until at least 8:00pm EST), to make sure I get something -- anything -- written on this fic? (Also, if anyone wanted to send good "figure out the first f$#@%ing scene so I can write the others in my head, since I cannot write out of order" vibes, that'd be most excellent!) Pinging via Twitter's best, but gchat's also good (if you have that address), and I have my own personal chatzy room I use for word wars/fic plotting/details help, with friends from multiple fandoms--if you want that option, or need some of that for yourself, feel free to comment, and I can PM you the link and we can figure out a time that works for both of us). What I'm hoping to work on tomorrow most of all is an Inception fic, but Word Wars rely not on such details!

2) Related to that fic (and, um, sorry if it's a weird request): Anyone know any curse words and/or insults and/or words for foods in languages other than English? Any language will do, but extra-special bonus points for those in a language that might be heard in ANY sort of "ethnic" restaurant in the US: Greek, Japanese, Chinese (Cantonese or Mandarin, I suppose?), Vietnamese, Korean, Indian, most any Middle Eastern language (actually, most any Asian language, too), Ethiopian, Spanish, Portuguese, German, Italian, Yiddish, etc.? Also French. I might actually need a few specific (short) phrases translated into French within the next couple of weeks (a sentence in length at most, though there might be a couple). If you can help, would you mind commenting with the word/phrase (English and other language) and let me know which language it's in? If you're not comfortable showing off your prowess at swearing, a PM or email would also be spectactuar. You can send an email to either khasael[at]gmail[dot]com, or to my other address, if you have it.

RL's been hectic (when has it NOT, right?), but I'm hoping to finish cranking out a few more fics and such, and after doing that and surviving the holiday season at work, things should calm down SIGNIFICANTLY, woo! Hopefully, I can catch up on LJ the way I used to be at that point (and stay on top of it)!

♥ to you all!

Dear Yulegoat Letter (2011)

khasael — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 07:04:23 GMT

Dear Yuletide Author,

I apologise so much for being late on this. If you've already started something, please consider this my encouragement to just go with it! Real Life got ridiculously hectic, and then the DDoS attacks threw another wrench into updating this thing! But below you'll (finally) find my complete (and lengthy, sorry!) letter.

Also, if we do not already know each other, then let me take this moment to apologise for the combination of American English and British English likely contained herein. I'm American, but I write primarily in British fandoms, and converse daily with friends from the UK and other foreign-to-me locales; a good bit of BE has crept into my spelling and phrasing, if I'm not concentrating on using AE or BE exclusively!

Fandoms and Characters, at a glance:

Gattaca (1997 film): Jerome Eugene Morrow, Vincent Freeman

Dark Tower book series by Stephen King: Roland Deschain, Eddie Dean, Susannah Dean, Jake Chambers.

Demon's Lexicon book series by Sarah Rees Brennan: Nicholas "Nick" Ryves | Hnikarr, Alan Ryves, Mae Crawford, Cynthia "Sin" Davies

First and foremost, this post contains massive spoilers for all fandoms mentioned, so, due to that and the length, each of these is behind a cut! It's likely you're familiar with the canon if you've offered to write it, but just in case you know one of these sources but are curious about the others, I'll do them separately, both to spare you, dear author, as well as anyone on my f'list or anyone who wanders by later (I am not generally a fan of being spoiled for things, so I do try to be considerate in this matter). I've organised this post by fandom, and then by information on the canon I know, what I like most about canon, what I didn't/don't like about canon, and other considerations for the fandom, so hopefully, it's easy to follow!

If you're curious about my general kinks and squicks, those'll be listed on the bottom of this post, though, really, don't worry about those. I'd really rather read something you enjoyed writing, even though it wasn't in my list of things I wanted most, than read something you didn't like, but that fits my limitations. Write something with the characters on the list in some combination, and I'll be happy!

That said, here we go!

Gattaca:

Characters requested: Jerome Eugene Morrow, Vincent Freeman

This is the only non-book series of my three requested fandoms, so I don't really need to say much about the canon I know versus the canon I don't. I mean, I've seen the film in its entirety, and recently, at that (in fact, I found the film this summer, through a lecture series at the film society in town, and the shortage of fic for it is what led me to Yuletide). So. I suppose I'll just jump straight in to what I love about the film.

Things I love about it: I love the complication in the relationship between these two. It's an unusual sort of circumstance, and they'd both obviously be under a lot of pressure. Vincent has his Issues, and Eugene certainly has his fair share as well—both the stuff they share (not getting caught) as well as the things they're dealing with before they enter their arrangement. I love how, as the film progresses, we see the growing level of familiarity, but how that doesn't necessarily mean they're completely at ease around each other. Psychological barriers and all, you know (especially with Eugene). I like how Eugene still retains that bit of prickishness and bite, even when he's close to opening up a tiny bit more, and I love Vincent's determination in pretty much everything. He knows what he wants, and he's going to do absolutely whatever it takes to make it happen.

Things I don't love about it: Personally, I can't think of much at the moment. I know it's not a perfect film, but nothing jumps out at me as something I hated.

Other considerations: Given that the only two characters on the list are the two I requested, I'd ideally like to see something about them interacting. Now, by the time I saw this movie, I'd already been immersed into fandom culture, and especially the slash culture, so honestly, I saw this with my slash goggles firmly in place (apparently, once they're on, they're on for life?). There were so many moments of UST between these two (at least, I thought so). Heated glances, long looks, body language, etc. So, yes, what I started trying to find was fic that incorporated that.

That being said... If you're not into slash, don't worry in the slightest. I will be perfectly happy with these two being friends, or even not being "friends". I'd love to see your take on their relationship, given all their complications. Irene's not one of the characters included in the listing, so I suppose it's not as if you'd be writing a vivid Vincent/Irene romance, but if she's mentioned in the background and you've kept to canon-based things between her and Vincent, it wouldn't bother me.

Ideally, I'd like something set within the canon timeline of their (Vincent and Eugene's) meeting, but I'm open to other options. Canon-compliant is love, but if you have an idea for something revolving around Eugene before he meets Vincent, or if you want to deviate from the film's ending in any way (whether it's just that Eugene doesn't perform that final act and waits, or Vincent doesn't go after all, or some other thing or combination of things), that's also perfectly lovely. There is a shortage of fic in general for this fandom, and really, I'll be happy with pretty much anything. Character death is fine (either canon-compliant or of your own devising), if you choose to go there. While I love canon-compliant things in general, and that is certainly my preference, it's not as if I'll be livid if you write something completely AU, set in a world unlike that of the film (obviously, given above remarks, if you go AU with purely the ending, I'm perfectly happy).

Dark Tower novels/series:

Characters Requested: Roland Deschain, Eddie Dean, Susannah Dean, Jake Chambers.

Canon I Know: First of all, I haven't read the graphic novels (I know, bad fan, right?). I own a few of them, but they're all still pretty and in their little special box thing, and with our current living situation, they'd only get ruined if I took them out to read here/now. Anyway. What I mean by that is, the only canon I know is the seven novels of the series (plus the short story "The Little Sisters of Eluria", which I read when Everything's Eventual came out. Said story takes place between the events recounted in Wizard and Glass and the beginning of The Gunslinger). Any other backstory from the graphic novels is unfamiliar to me, but if you use any of that in whatever you create, I won't be upset about spoilers (though if you could mention you've used something from that source if you have, that'd be awesome, but lack of such won't bother me).

My favorite things about this fandom: I love so much of it. I love the mythos of the Tower, I love the references to things in "our" world bleeding into All World (songs, literary references, things like the "Sneeches"), and vice-versa, and I love the characters on their own and interacting with each other. I love the complicated feelings Eddie and Susannah have for Roland, because he's a stubborn bastard, and they don't always understand his apparent lack of compassion, but they acknowledge that he DID save them, though they also know they've been infected by his dream/obsession of reaching the Tower. I love the Roland/Jake dynamic, how there's so much guilt and love and gratefulness, plus the father/son vibe. I love seeing how these characters, together and on their own, change Roland. I love how complicated each character is, and how their interactions vary based on the others' influence/circumstance (even Oy). And I love the supportive, devoted, and passionate relationship Eddie and Susannah were able to forge, fucked up as they were, and how that relationship has also given them new motivation and made them stronger as individuals.

Things I am not a fan of in canon: Hm. It's not really so much of an issue, given the character list, but some parts with Pere Callahan just didn't interest me quite as much (but maybe that's because I've not read Salem's Lot). Ditto some of the stuff with Ted (though I have read Hearts in Atlantis) and Sheemie. Actually, I think more could have been done with Sheemie, when the ka-tet meets him outside of Devar-Toi/in Thunderclap. There seemed a bit of potential for more with him and Roland, but things felt almost rushed. The sudden leaving Susannah does also just didn't "feel" right to me, like there needed to be a bigger, more sudden stimulus. And some of the Mia stuff just didn't hold my interest the same way as the rest of the novel did. There's nothing I remember flat-out HATING, though.

Other considerations for this fandom: IF you're going to write a romantic pairing, my preference is for Eddie/Susannah. If, however, you want to pair Roland with Eddie or Susannah, I'd be okay with it, as long as it's not some sappy-lovey relationship. As Jake's under-age, though, I'd prefer if he were kept out of a sexual relationship with the adults. And though I state in my general notes I don't like drug!fic, if you've got something like that with Eddie floating in your head, I wouldn't object, as it is in line with canon. Overall, I love canon-compliant things. I'm not really a fan of AU, as in "here are characters with the same names and basic traits, but set in 1920's France" or something like that. The one exception to that in this fandom, I suppose, is that we get to see that there really ARE "worlds other than these". In that vein, if you wanted to write something set, say, after Susannah goes through the door in NYC, that would probably be awesome. But I'm also totally for seeing "hidden" moments within the timeline of the series. Any combination of the characters from the list are wonderful.

Demon's Lexicon series:

Characters Requested: Nicholas "Nick" Ryves | Hnikarr, Alan Ryves, Mae Crawford, Cynthia "Sin" Davies.

Canon I know: All three books, most of the related short stories SRB's posted on her LJ/website (I mean to read those I've missed soon), plus some of the "deleted scene" cookies (The Anzu!Alan/Nick rooftop scene SRB gave in the read-through for The Demon's Covenant, plus many others) given during the chatzy chats and such with SRB.

Things I love about the series: So freaking much. I love the complicated motivations for things, as well as some of the characters being so aware that there is often a need for representing yourself one way, while being another way. There's dishonesty, desperation, and desire aplenty. I couldn't even list you a favourite character, as I've loved them all, despite their flaws (I mean, for example, I alternated throughout each of the books between thinking "Alan, you bastard!" and "Awwww, Alan! Come here so I can squish and love you!" --sometimes, within the same chapter). I ADORE how multi-faceted everyone is, and that by the end of the series, we see how much characters have the capacity to change (Even Nick! Probably!).

Things I don't love about the series: Um. Tough question. I really can't think of anything.

Other considerations for this fandom: If you've snooped through my own fic master list, you've probably noticed my two fics for this fandom are both Sin/Mae. Believe it or not, that wasn't my OTP—I don't actually think I HAVE an OTP for this fandom. If you're a MarmFish, you already know the phrase, but I belong to the "omnishippers have fever-fruit goggles" school of thought. I'll probably ship absolutely anyone with anyone in the series, with the exception of Jamie/Mae (and anyone with their parents). I'm happy enough with the way the pairings ended up by the end of the series, though I wouldn't have been opposed to Nick/Sin or Alan/Mae, or even Sin/Mae or Nick/Jamie (if you want more information on my shipping preferences for this fandom, you can look here). In my general notes, I've said I don't prefer drug!fics, but you know what? Let's leave fever-fruit in as an option ;) But please, don't feel obligated to include any romantic or sexual feelings within the fic. Gen is also awesome!

I have no preference for relationship/pairing based fic, or just ensemble fic. Set it before the books, or in between, or after, or show a hidden scene within one of them, or show us a scene or mentioned occurrence from another character's POV. There's not a lot of fic at all for this fandom (and I've read pretty much whatever I can find!), so really, I'm open. I'm okay with AU, if you want to branch out/deviate from canon happenings at some point (sort of a "what if" scenario), but I will say that within this fandom, I'm not generally a fan of AU in the sense of "here are people with the same names and a few of the same traits, but in a story that's set in America in the 1980s, where Demons/Magicians don't exist, and by the way, Alan's a banker, and Mae's a prostitute" or something like that.

GENERAL NOTES (kinks/squicks, genre/rating preferences, etc.):

Besides the more detailed bits of information in the notes of each fandom, here's the basics of what makes me super happy, and what makes me run away:

Shipping/Pairings: I am honestly quite content with m/m, m/f, or f/f relationships. Don't write romance or smut? No problem! I also love gen!fic (and it's often hard to find)! Any barriers to the relationship thing are in the details of that specific fandom, and really, there aren't many.

Ratings: Again, I am super-easy to please here. I don't require smut in my fics. I don't require anything romantic or sexual at all, even! I am just as happy with a nice G-rated introspective or buddy/friendship fic as I am with a nice, dirty/steamy smut scene!

Genres: And yet again, I am fairly open! My favourites include angst, flangst, drama, and humour (anywhere from light humour to utter crack). Fluff, action, mystery, etc. are also good. PWP or plotty are both fine (though I admit, I'm the plot-loving sort, but that's probably because, personally, I generally fail at writing short things...as you might have guessed from the length of this letter!). Love character introspection, but don't get hung up on that if it's not what you do.

Things I love in general (tropes, kinks, etc.): snarky/witty banter, small signs of comfort/affection/familiarity (casual touches, being familiar with someone's routines or preferences, etc.), sexual tension (resolved or unresolved). Voice!kink, uniform/clothing!kink. There are a zillion other things I like, but I think many of them are fandom/pairing specific. If it's not on the list below, though, I'll probably enjoy it!

Things that aren't my cup of tea (squicks and such): mpreg, tons of pet names ("baby", "gorgeous", "my love", etc.) used in earnest, daddy!kink, mommy!kink, pornstar/rentboy/etc.!fics, drug!fics (exceptions noted in respective fandoms), plus some of the more common sexual squicks (watersports, scat, necro, bestiality, vomitplay), as well as sounding, felching/snowballing, chan, and incest.

That's about it! If you've made it all the way through (even if you skipped over the fandoms you don't know), I applaud you! Sorry I'm so wordy--I'm just excited! Please don't feel too stifled over anything within this letter. Even if, for some reason, you included things in my squick list, I'd still read the fic and appreciate the effort that went into it. Don't feel bound to include all of the things I said I find awesome (you'd probably go mad trying). If you enjoy writing it, chances are excellent I'll enjoy reading it! Thank you so much for participating in Yuletide :)

Sincerely and with love,

Khas

khasael — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 22:21:21 GMT

Did that post I mentioned in my last, asking for info from some. Later today (before bed, anyway), I must do two other things:

1) SIGN UP FOR YULETIDE, GAH. This includes narrowing down fandoms to my final choices (both offered and requested) AND writing/posting my "Dear YuleGoat" letter.

2) Write/Post my 2011 Wish List, since like 4 of you have poked me to do so.

...I should also send at least one fic off to beta >.<

Speaking of... *scurries off to poke at the current open fic doc*

Still here! Sort of!

khasael — Wed, 16 Nov 2011 02:23:28 GMT

Haven't been on LJ lately. Honestly, haven't really seen a damned thing on here in over a month, closer to two. Comms, friends (even my very favourite people ever), etc.

So, PLEASE, if there's something you think I should know, link me, tell me, whatever. I'm easily reachable via twitter (@replies and DMs go to my phone), and I can check that if/when I get breaks and on my lunch. Those of you who've mentioned holiday cards, no, I'm sorry, I haven't seen those posts. Not a single one. My life has been eaten by fest fics and Real Life.

Brief update on Real Life: It's ridiculous lately.

Slightly less brief:

Work: This is our busiest time of year (next week, omg, I apologise to all of you in advance for flailing about pies and such. Pie Madness starts Monday). To top it off, we're short a person in the kitchen. One of the guys who works the counter just got promoted to the back as of yesterday, but he's obviously still in training. Another coworker called out for 10 days straight due to pink eye, leaving us even more short (another coworker was on vacation for half of that time), so I did things like work from open (6am) to close (~845pm). More than once.

Non-work: Husband managed to catch pneumonia, but gave in to my nagging and saw a doctor about 24 hours before they would have admitted him to the hospital. Husband also (as in, a couple of days ago), managed to throw out his back from all the related coughing. As he can't move, I end up doing a lot to help, including giving up my day off to come to campus and lug high-priced film equipment around for either his student job (photographer/editor/occasional reporter for the student news show) or one of his advanced broadcasting classes. Also, I ended up randomly helping half of his coworkers with script-related things this last week, as it was their up-for-Emmy-consideration show. Gah.

Other: Writing like mad, as always. 3-5k fest fics here, 20k+ fest fics there, and ONE DAMN FEST FIC THAT ATE MY LIFE. Seriously. The thing I wrote for hd_canon_fest was a fic that I'd thought, originally, would be 8k, maybe 10k, no more than 12k. You know where it clocked in? 47,700 words, give or take. Seriously. WTF.

That's really all I have time for. Sorry it's so short, but husband has a conference to attend in New Orleans, and he leaves early Thursday morning after dropping me off at work, so I need to finish laundry so he can pack tomorrow after work/school.

Will be doing a f'locked post here soon enough (tonight, maybe tomorrow, Thursday night at the latest), and fairly heavily filtered. If you're not included in that filter, please don't be offended--it has nothing at all to do with how much I like you, and everything to do with a particular practicality. It's just a logistics/administrative thing, and has nothing at all to do with general privacy or what you will/won't see on here. It's the only time I'll ever use that filter, and seriously, the post is like 1-2 sentences long and not at all informative. I'll just be asking some of you for something, if you can manage it, and I know not everyone can provide the info.

Love you all! *smishes everyone*

...If you don't hear from me after, oh, Monday, it's because I was buried underneath an avalanche of pies at work D:

just a quick little thing and thank you before I dive back into this fic...

khasael — Sun, 16 Oct 2011 15:13:14 GMT

There has been much panic/whinging/flailing over the current fest fic on my plate, because it is (surprise, surprise) longer than I'd planned. Like, significantly longer, OMG. But the mods have been awesome and understanding and granted me a very generous extension, and I REALLY like how this is going, even though there is only ONE scene currently in the fic-plan that was in the original concept.

Anyway.

I have a couple/few people I regularly turn to during my planning and/or writing process, for feedback on ideas, or particular bits of narration/dialogue, not to mention general hand-holding and shoulders on which to sob. Sometimes, they make suggestions, sometimes they approve, sometimes they talk me out of truly awful ideas, sometimes they let me vent and lean on them and get petted, and sometimes, they respond in such a way that makes me want to go through my computer and give them ALL THE SQUISHES.

Like this (via chat):

Me: [outlines newly-thought-of catalyst for character to do dramatic thing necessary for plot propulsion]
Awesome person of awesome: THAT SOUNDS LIKE AMAZING
WRAPPED IN AWESOME
WRAPPED IN WIBBLE
WRAPPED IN CHINHANDS
LIKE A H/C FIC VERSION OF TURDUCKEN

Seriously, I could not do some of this stuff without my absolutely AMAZING friends, who will put up with my plottiness and lack of (or seriously delayed, eesh) smut, and who, for some reason, do not complain when i ambush them in chat/on twitter/via text message with fic woes or random-no-warning texts/IMs of smut or UST, or general, incomprehensible-to-most-actual-humans flailing.

Okay. Back to the writing, which is actually happening this morning, in the 2.5 hrs before work. Just needed to share, and found this while I went to look up a detail I'd plotted for said scene.

I love all of you, really. Every reader/commenter/fellow writer/lurker/anon AO3 kudos-giver. But extra love to those of you who contribute to my process in some way, and have never once told me to shut the hell up (except when it was to stop my babbling and make me listen to a point) or go away! ♥ ♥ *squishes* ♥ ♥