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aye-write · 3 years

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Hi, Aye-write! I'm wondering if you have any advice on preparing contest submissions! (I suppose it could work for publishing submissions too) I've already put out a request for beta-readers, but there are also the jitters to tend to! I wonder if you have any tips to help writers feel more confident in their work so they can accept critiques without abandoning a story out of shame hehe

Hi nonnie! Thank you for your question, and apologies for the delay in getting it out to you, life has been whacking me over the head with a great big stick lately xP

Congratulations for taking the steps to submit for contests/publishing etc! It's a huge achievement and you should be very proud of yourself!

As for dealing with accepting critiques, that's something that I personally had to overcome so I'll share a couple of the things that helped me:

1. You are not the only one going through this Every writer, from the most popular bestsellers to the youngest of the newbies, will have gone through exactly what you are going through. Constructive criticism can be hard to take sometimes, but every writer will experience it. Every writer has had thoughts of "I'm not good enough". Every writer has worried they won't achieve their dreams. The things you are feeling are normal. Read about other writers and how they felt on their writing journey. You are not alone.

2. Think about what you've achieved What do sending to betas, submitting to comps, and querying for publication all have in common? They all require something finished. Don't forget, before you send out your work, you have completed this piece of work*. You have made something from nothing. Something exists in the world because of you. That is a tremendous achievement and is a step that so many writers don't reach. You have already done something incredible by finishing. Be confident with that.

If you can, leave your work alone for a while. A week maybe, longer if possible. Then go back and read it again. You will be reading your work with fresh eyes. You will see it more like the way a reader sees it. Distance is important with your work. Don't put your blinkers on. Take time to experience your work and enjoy it. Read it for pleasure. Gush about it to your friends. Make moodboards and aesthetics, AUs and playlists, just really enjoy it. If you love your work, that is what matters. Rejection and concrit should not have the power to take that away from you.

* - If you have not finished a work before, in any capacity, if you haven't taken a piece of writing from inception to completion, stop what you're doing and FINISH something. You will learn more from starting and finishing one short story than you ever will for starting countless WIPs and never finishing them.

3. Recognise that good feedback is there to help you We all have that little dream of giving something to someone to read and them immediately going "I love it all, don't change a damn thing". But while that's lovely and affirming, is it really helpful? Are you learning anything? Are you growing and developing your skills as a writer by only getting positive things? Humans learn and grow by making mistakes. By trying things. Maybe they don't work, maybe we adapt and try again. So we might not like that little red pen or comment box when we open up our feedback, but it's like manure. It's there to help you grow.

Now, this hinges on the possibility that you get good feedback. And good feedback is like gold dust to writers. If you find a beta-reader that gives you good feedback, for God's sake, hang onto them. If they're someone who can tell you things that you NEED to hear, if they're someone that can explain and back up their reasons for not liking something/suggesting a change, then yes, you want to keep them in your circle. But what about bad feedback? And I don't just mean feedback that is purely negative - "This is awful, this is shit, why would you write that?" - because that kind of feedback can be easily put to one side because that is not constructive, it is not helpful, and it has no bearing on your or your talent as a writer.

Bad feedback can also be about other things. And this is where picking good betas comes in. If your prose is very lyrical and flowery, and you give your book to someone who likes straightforward writing, perhaps their feedback of "make the prose simpler" is not valuable. That's a preference. Not to say that your writing is bad, it just might not vibe with them. It might not be their cup of tea. Picking a beta that vibes with your style is important. So, if your flowery prose lover beta comes to you with a concern that your prose is complex, that may be worth listening to.

And what happens if you get bad feedback? Well, nothing, really. You might lick your wounds a little bit, but here's the thing. You do not have to listen to all feedback. You do not have to do what your betas want. A good beta will work with you to create the story you want. A bad beta will try to turn your story into the story they want.

4. Rejection is not personal Rejection is not personal. Yes, it feels like it is, sometimes, but it's not. Think about it this way. Someone brings you some desserts to judge at a fair. They're all beautifully made, made with high-quality ingredients, look fantastic, etc. But the problem is... one of the desserts is made with apples. You don't like apples. So you might not give that one a prize, no matter how nice it looks or how tasty it is. It's the same with querying/publishing. Being rejected may not be any indication of the quality of your product. It's just that you gave apples and the judge likes oranges.

It is important to remember that this is just one opinion. Sticking with the dessert metaphor, next year, the judge on the panel loves apples. You submit your same apple dessert and they love it. First prize. Remember, if you are rejected, that is one opinion. And it is not about you, the writer. It is not personal. Agents/competition hosters see hundreds, if not thousands of WIPs in a year. Rejection can't be personal because they don't know you. They are judging your work - and at that, only a tiny percentage of your work.

5. Don't give up! If you are rejected, if you do get bad critique, if the voice in your head tells you that your writing is worthless, allow yourself to feel those feelings. Allow them to exist. And then pick yourself up and keep going. You are the only one who can tell YOUR stories. It is 100% okay to be sad/mad/etc., if you get a rejection but use those emotions to motivate yourself to keep going. Remember the growth mindset. It's a no this time. It's not yes yet. Every no is one step closer to a yes. It might be a no this time, but next time could be yes.

Remember: it only takes one yes.

#writing #writeblr #writing advice

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twokinkybeans · 3 years

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Company - Chapter 1: Samhain

Moodboard made by Kim <3

“I know you need a miracle right now to help with all of this and- well, I don’t really know anyone who’s good at that kinda stuff, but... “ MJ scoffs an awkward laugh before continuing. “I mean, the help of a Fae would be nice, but it’s not that those just show up if you ask them to.” “A Fae?” Peter chuckles, though his eyes don’t spark. “Like Puck? From the play we had to do at Summer camp?” “Sort of,yeah!” MJ grabs Peter’s other hand and places both of them on his knees, resting her own on top. “But I’m playing with you, Pete. It’d be a stretch to find one willing to help,” MJ says. Lucky for Peter, he is quite flexible. Or: May's health is deteriorating fast and Peter is running out of options (and money), so he goes into the woods at night on Halloween to find a Fae willing to help him out. ____________________________________________

Warnings for this chapter: Mentions of chronic/incurable illness, blood, etc. Magic and folklore. Slow burn with resolved sexual tension. Lots of mischief, a bit of spooks and of course fluff, angst and smut.

Go to the Masterpost Read Company - Chapter 1: Samhain on AO3

HERE IT FINALLY IS AAAA, I hope you enjoy! <3 -Lien

... “If it makes you feel any better, I could do a ritual for her?” MJ’s words struck a chord with Peter. He knows she’s always reserved about her Paganism, aware that it’s not a conventional religion. So, this came as quite the surprise. “I-” Peter is at a loss for words as he sinks down into the sofa, eyes locked on the dried, bloody patch in the cushions. This means a lot to MJ, which, in turn, means a lot to Peter. Her connection with her beliefs is strong and deep. She doesn’t say something like this to just anyone. “Yeah…” he sighs, absentmindedly tracing the stain with his index finger. “I’d appreciate that.” Peter hates how formal his reply sounds but MJ smiles encouragingly anyways. She sits down on the floor in front of him and grabs his hand away from the patch of blood and the sour memory attached to it, to make him look down at her. Her hair is up in a messy bun, the flyaways frame her face playfully and she grins up at him. MJ’s been helping him clean the apartment the last few weeks with zero complaints whatsoever. All she said was: “One day, I’ll need your help and then you’ll be there for me too.” It’s true. He’d do anything for her, as he would for Ned. And May . About two months prior, May had suffered a hypo so severe she had to be taken to the hospital. She recovered enough that she could spend the rest of her time at home, but the damage had already been done. Not just physically. Peter had to sell pretty much everything worth anything that he owned in order to cover even a quarter of the bills. Both his and May’s savings had gone into the treatment and now they had next to nothing left, which posed another issue: the insulin. They wouldn’t be able to afford her medication for a while, which meant May was at a constant risk. She wasn’t strong enough to go back to work, but the fact that the meds weren’t there to help her with her recovery meant that it wasn’t going fast. On the contrary. She was deteriorating. But she also decided to keep that from Peter for as long as she could. She didn’t want him to worry about her, nor did she want him to take any other measures in order to get her her meds. Peter noticed, though. May always hated wearing her prescription glasses. But a little over four weeks ago, while Peter was studying at the dinner table, she asked him to fetch them for her. And even as the glasses were on her head, she still squinted- still brought the book further and closer, further and further. Her eyes were getting worse, but she blamed it on her age. Peter knew better. May knew Peter knew better. With the lack of money, good food was out of the picture too. Everything May would need to recover and live a healthy life was figurative miles away- out of reach. It was difficult to determine her body’s needs without the right equipment and she felt lifeless and tired most of the time. She started dropping stuff, accidentally. And her walk became stick-like. Her hands and feet were ice-cold, and she had to wear her mother’s old compression socks to keep her circulation under control. It became increasingly more difficult for her to run errands, though she tried. There was no way she was going to give up. And there was no way she was going to let Peter in on it, regardless of whether or not he noticed. He’d experienced enough loss, she wasn’t going to burden him with any more anxiety. However, the fact that she didn’t talk to him about it, even when he asked or confronted her, only increased his fears. His nights were sleepless. Restless. His mind ran with doom scenarios. What if. What if. What if. A few days before MJ first helped him with the cleaning, Peter found May on the sofa again, casually reading a book when he noticed her leggings around her ankles were a deep red colour. Not the khaki shade he’d seen when he left for uni that day. “May, what’s that?” He’d asked. When she lifted the book - which she was now reading with a magnifying glass - to follow Peter’s glare, she exclaimed a surprised: “Oh!” May aimed to get up from the sofa, but ultimately lost her balance and dropped back into it again. The sofa cushion was stained, just like her feet were. Peter immediately ran over to her and helped her compose herself but she broke down. Tears streamed down her face and the only words that she could utter were unneeded apologies and heavy-weighing regrets. She sobbed against Peter’s shoulder and it took him every inch of willpower not to lose himself to his sadness as well. Apparently, May went downstairs to grab the mail and on the back way up, she tripped, hitting the lower part of her ankles on the steps. She thought it was okay- that she was fine, but she couldn’t feel the wounds underneath her clothes. She hadn’t noticed the blood seeping out from them, not even when she sat down on the sofa and blurred her sight even further with the book. When she was calm again, after taking in all of Peter’s encouraging, hopeful words, he told her to stay seated so he could patch her up. He carefully took off one of the compression socks and tossed it onto the coffee table. It’d be easier to get the stain off of there than the light rug he was now sitting on. Her foot was freezing and he swallowed when he saw the damage on her ankle. He grabbed the first aid kit and cleaned her up. After her first leg was all ready, he moved on to her other. Gently, he pulled at the hem of the other compression sock, but before he could toss it onto the table, he spotted her pinky toe. It was darkening. Dying. That’s when Peter broke. “I know you need a miracle right now to help with all of this and- well, I don’t really know anyone who’s good at that kinda stuff, but... “ MJ scoffs an awkward laugh before continuing. “I mean, the help of a Fae would be nice, but it’s not that those just show up if you ask them to.” “A Fae?” Peter chuckles, though his eyes don’t spark. “Like Puck? From the play we had to do at Summer camp?” “Sort of, yeah!” MJ grabs Peter’s other hand and places both of them on his knees, resting her own on top. “But I’m playing with you, Pete. It’d be a stretch to find one willing to help.” Peter smiles, but he makes a mental note nonetheless. Not that he thinks Fae are real; that’d be kind of insane. “Anyways, what I wanted to say is that… Well, whatever happens, I’m here for you, ‘kay? And for May, too.” “Thanks, MJ.” Peter’s expression softens as MJ stands up. “Now, let’s finish up so I can go home and perform that ritual.” She winks and helps Peter to his feet. He’s not sure how to express his gratitude any further. Should he ask to be there? Or is it private? It’s not like he knows much about Paganism anyways. He’s interested, though. Peter is desperate, sure, but he never imagined he would be this desperate. As soon as MJ is out the door, he grabs his notebook to scribble down everything he thinks he knows about Fae. Fairies- whatever. He even re-reads Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream , the play he had a part in last Summer. Puck’s lines- his lines- were still marked. “It’d be a stretch to find one willing to help,” MJ said. Lucky for Peter, he is quite flexible. … Peter knows it’s ridiculous. Fae can’t be real. It’s folklore. A story. Yet… Peter still finds himself seated behind the library computer that still runs on Windows XP, somehow. Every day, he tells himself he should stop looking up information on Fae. That he should study. Regardless of his attempts to set himself straight, his fingers still type the wrong things into the search bar. To say his obsession is bordering unhealthy is an understatement, to be honest. He just wants May to live a full and happy life. He wants May to live. And at this point he’s willing to try anything. He can’t lose her too; she’s all he has left. It’s nearly Halloween, or Samhain in the Pagan religion. On this day, the border between the world of humans and Fae should be relatively thin, which means the odds would be in his favor if he were to look for a Fae then. Samhain’s in two days, so there’s no time to lose. Every trick, every single thing that could harm Peter’s safety has to be ingrained in his brain. Yes, he would do anything to save May, but it’d be nice if he got to spend some time with her after. The most important things Peter noted for himself are “don’t accept anything from a Fae, especially not food,” “don’t listen to their music and definitely don’t dance with them,” and the one that Peter knew he would most likely slip on: “don’t give them your name. Under any circumstance.” Peter quickly decided that if any Fae asked for his name, he would just say his name is Ned, for a lack of creativity. … Samhain’s Eve, or Halloween. Peter squeezes his way into the train. He’s very grateful that the New York council had decided that students get to travel the subways for free. Otherwise, he’d have no idea how he would’ve gotten out of the city and into the suburbs. Towards the woods. May is with a friend tonight to give Peter some breathing space, but the opposite is true. The anticipation has knocked the air out of Peter’s lungs. Peter manages to sit down next to a few kids, dressed up for trick or treating. He offers them a nervous smile, clutching his backpack against his chest. The journey out of New York seems to flash by as much as it takes an eternity. After about two hours of travel, Peter steps out of the last possible station and breathes in the cold October air. With an old fashioned map of the area and a thrifted flashlight, Peter finds his way into the woods. He knows he has to get off the paths at some point, but the mere idea frightens him to the core. He’s suddenly not so sure anymore if this was a good idea in the first place. Maybe… Maybe he should turn around? Settle on the couch and watch some bad horror movies? That’d surely be a lot safer than whatever he’s doing right now. Peter’s feet don’t stop, though. He keeps going forward, his mind telling him to go back, but his heart cannot refrain from reaching out for May. For answers. For hope, no matter how little he may have left. He can feel his blood pump through his body, experiencing how it grows heavy with every step he takes. The distinct ache of loneliness in his chest grows tighter and tighter. It’s cold, it’s dark, he’s alone. Utterly and indescribably alone. His eyes are fixated on the path in front of him. So much so, that he doesn’t realize he loses track of his map. Worst of all, he only gets back to his senses when the flashlight starts flickering dangerously. “No,” Peter whispers, shaking the tool. “No-no-no-no-” “Need a hand?” Peter yelps and turns, stumbling backwards until he trips over himself and collides with the harsh ground. He looks up at the man, now towering over him, hand outstretched. The flashlight is on again, lying next to Peter and illuminating the fallen leaves, creating a pattern against the trees just off the path. The stranger has a kind smile. He seems to be in his forties, hair still dark and crow’s feet enunciating his smile. Peter sighs exasperated, reaching forward to take the man’s hand until… No, wait, who is this man? Peter turns his head to grab the flashlight and when he shifts back to the man, it flickers again. Peter loses his breath when the man’s irises seem to light up in the short dark moments. The man’s smile doesn’t falter, even when Peter’s expression drops. On the contrary, the smile turns into a smirk and all that’s left for Peter to look at when the flashlight finally dies is a pair of intense, golden glowing eyes. “What’s a young sprite like you doing in these woods? At this hour?” The man’s illuminated eyes lower and lower until he’s at eye level with Peter, who’s still staring at him. “I-I... “ Peter takes a deep breath. “I’m looking for someone.” The man leans in closer, near-hovering over Peter’s body. Peter tries to move back, but the man follows. “Are they lost? Like you?” His voice is strangely beautiful. Deep. Close. “No, no- It’s... “ “Do you have their name? If you give it to me, I can find them for you.” Peter’s nearly laying down now, the man’s hands caging him at his sides, but not touching him. In a flash of half confidence, Peter replies: “Are you a Fae?” A dark chuckle rumbles below the golden eyes that now squint with glee. “I am many things.” “I’m too, that doesn’t answer the question, though.” Shit. Shit-shit-shit, why did Peter’s sassy side decide to show up when he’s in the clutches of someone who is definitely not human and could probably kill him without thinking about it twice. Instead of getting angry, the man laughs yet again. “Fair enough, boy.” The eyes pull back and Peter quickly scrambles until he stands, so that he can look down at the man this time. “I am what you say I am.” The man pauses as he stands up too. There’s a short shuffle and suddenly, a small fire appears in the man’s palms. The way it lights up his face is an odd combination between warm and creepy. “Does that frighten you?” “N-no.” “Your stutter betrays your lies.” Peter wants to protest, but the man suddenly raises his hand, eyeing Peter curiously. “Were you looking for me?” The man’s words send a chill through Peter’s entire body. He presses his lips on top of each other and fiddles with his fingers. “Maybe.” “So, yes.” “Yes.” The man smiles again. “And why were you looking for me?” “I’m not looking for you specifically.” “Ouch,” the man chuckles. “You’re looking to use my power.” Peter’s jaw tightens. It almost feels like an accusation. Like it’s hurtful to the Fae that Peter’s only there for that. Peter swallows. Now that he puts it like that, it does sound a little mean. “Why?” “It’s… It’s a long story,” Peter says as he looks down at his feet. The light of the fire in the Fae’s hands creates a bubble of light around them. They’re still surrounded by utter darkness, save for a few faint silhouettes of the trees around them. “I have all night.” The man nods, but stops halfway down, seemingly mulling something over. “What did you say your name is, again?” “P-” Peter barely catches himself. Simply saying the first letter of his name already makes him feel a strange, otherworldly tug at his heart. He can’t say Ned now. He already started the word. What name could he possibly give to the Fae? Peter composes himself quickly as the gears in his mind turn fast. Fae. “Puck.” “Ha!” The man laughs bombustuously. “Fitting for a sweet and pretty young man as you. Though, you are not a Fae.” The man wiggles his eyebrows. “Or are you?” Peter opts to ignore the flirtatious compliment. “Am not. You and I both know I shouldn’t give you my real name.” Peter takes a deep breath, relatively pleased with himself for talking back. “You may call me Puck.” “Puck.” The Fae breathes in the name as he closes his glowing eyes. “I’ll call you Puck.” “And what should I call you?” Peter asks carefully. A playful smirk creeps up on the Fae’s face. “I go by many names in these woods. Some call me Inventor. Others call me Iron Man. You may call me Tinker.” Peter can’t help himself and bursts out laughing. “Tinker?” he repeats. “As in Tinkerbell?” The Fae sighs exasperated. It seems like he’s heard that before. “No.” He rolls his golden eyes. “I make things. I tinker. But I suppose you deem the nickname unworthy?” The flame in his hands grows bigger for a split second. “If you’ve got anything else, I’ll gladly call you that,” Peter chuckles. “Inventor… Iron Man. Wait, isn’t iron a Fae’s weakness?” The man laughs softly. “It’s why they call me it. I am one of the few who feels no effect from iron, or technology, for that matter.” The man nods at Peter’s pants. “So, the screwdriver in your pocket is quite a lousy weapon against me.” The playful smirk returns on his face. “Or are you just happy to see me?” “I- I-” Peter takes a step back, wide-eyed, and looks at the tool in his pocket. The man knew he had it on him. Peter shivers. “I like you, Puck,” the man says suddenly. He takes a step closer to Peter, who is stuck in place. The warmth of the fire in the man’s hand now reaches Peter’s skin. It’s… Nice. Comforting, somehow. “There is something about you that I can’t quite put my finger on.” “I’m nothing special, sir,” Peter says politely, breaking eye contact and looking down again. “I’m just here to help my aunt.” “Your… Aunt?” Peter tells him the entire story. About May’s diabetes, without mentioning her name, and the inevitability of amputations and likely death if things keep going the way they are. The Fae listens thoughtfully, not breaking eye contact with Peter the entire time. The man doesn’t flinch, not even when Peter’s voice starts breaking and tears threaten to spill from his eyes. “I shouldn’t be this vulnerable with you,” Peter suddenly interrupts himself, attempting to swallow away the lump in his throat. The Fae finally changes expression. A kind smile spreads on his face and he nods. “A wise assumption.” The man cocks his head and rolls his shoulders, still looking down at Peter. “Though, I am not interested in tricking you right now. I prefer my catch on guard. I like a challenge.” “Good to know,” Peter sighs, tightening his jaw again in an attempt to stop his emotions getting the better of him. “Company.” The Fae’s voice is soft, nearly melancholic. “What?” Peter takes a small step back and frowns, quickly wiping away his tears with the sleeve of his shirt. The soft breeze glides between the trees and tickles his face. It makes the flame in the Fae’s hand dance. Peter blinks once. Twice. “I’d much appreciate it if, in return for helping your aunt, you keep me company.” If Peter knew any better he’d say there was a hint of desperation seeping from Fae’s words. Is he lonely? The spark of hope grows brighter in Peter’s chest. May might just survive, if the Fae doesn’t screw him over. Peter takes a second to ponder his words. “How long?” “Bargain for it, boy.” Peter sucks at his teeth and takes a deep breath. He has no idea what kind of price he has to pay. What’s normal. Though, about a week ago he didn’t even think Fae existed, so everything was a wild guess at this point. “I- I don’t know… What would you ask of me?” Peter fumbles, wrapping one hand around the index finger of the other and pulling at it absentmindedly. It’s a nervous tick he couldn’t seem to shake and it betrays his uncertainty. Suddenly, the Fae pushes into his space, making Peter stumble backwards again. He barely keeps himself from tripping over and the Fae cocks his head playfully. “You and I both know I’d rather have your name, but you won’t give that to me, would you?” His tone darkens and he orders. “Bargain.” “Two days. Consecutive. So, 48 hours?” Peter tries. A bargain means the Fae will start with a higher price. If they’re going to work to a middle ground, 48 hours might be a good starting point. “Two days?” The Fae sighs dramatically and raises the back of his hand to his forehead. “You wound me.” The Fae stands up straight again, putting the same hand on his hip and puffing his chest. The flame in his hand grows brighter and brighter. “Eight. Consecutive.” “Mh, three.” “Six…” The Fae’s tone is threatening somehow, but Peter won’t give in that easily. “Four, separate meetings, not consecutive.” The Fae’s laughter shakes the trees and there’s a mischievous glint in his eye before he continues. “Is that all you think your aunt’s precious life is worth, Puck?” Peter jolts and immediately shakes his head. “Y-You told me to bargain!” “Hmm… So I did.” The Fae steps closer to Peter, refraining from touching him, but Peter can feel his hot breath on his skin. The Fae smells of pine and Peter has to set his mind straight to look away from him. He didn’t realize he’d been staring straight into the Fae’s golden eyes. “I really do like you.” Peter shudders. The Fae then pulls back again and nods approvingly. “Four days it is. How about we meet every upcoming celebration up until Beltane?” Peter doesn’t know how to reply, so instead, he keeps quiet. His silence isn’t taken kindly, though. The Fae clears his throat and looks at Peter from behind his long lashes. He smirks. “Have we come to an agreement?” Peter isn’t sure whether or not he should say yes straight away. There’s something that’s still missing from this contract and the last thing Peter wants is to be tricked. “Your medicine has to work completely, otherwise the deal is off,” he states resolute. The Fae chuckles. “Clever boy,” the Fae sighs as he circles Peter. Goosebumps spread over the young man’s entire body. “I cannot cure an illness like hers, but I can ensure she does not suffer. I will help your aunt live a long, full and healthy life, regardless of the ailment she carries with her.” The Fae sniffs once and cocks an eyebrow at Peter’s reply. “Whatever means necessary?” “Whatever means necessary.” “Deal.” The Fae grins and tilts his head slightly. “Good boy.” Peter shivers and takes in a deep breath. That voice . Those words . They shouldn’t do as much to Peter as they actually do. He should be scared. Yet, this whole thing is kind of… Exciting, in a way… Invigorating. “Do you think you can find your way back?” The man asks, snapping Peter out of his thoughts. He looks around and into the darkness, which causes his heart to sink. “I’m not sure.” “You can say no, Puck. It’s alright,” the Fae jokes. “If you are comfortable with following me, I can lead you back to the nearby town.” Peter eyes the Fae cautiously. “A human town.” “With a train connection into New York?” “If I knew, I’d tell you. But a town is better than infinite darkness, isn’t it?” The man grins cheekily and gestures around. Peter looks into the dark, realizing that if he doesn’t agree, the Fae will leave him here alone. Without light. “Please, take me there?” His voice is smaller than he hoped it was. “Only because you asked so nicely.” Peter isn’t sure how long they’re walking. The man doesn’t say much, but Peter can’t help but notice he tries to keep the flame close to Peter to keep him warm. He’s kinder than he thought Fae would be, but there is a small weight of dread in Peter’s stomach. What if the Fae did trick him? What if he’s being led somewhere else? His worries fade when he spots a brick house in the distance. He releases the breath he’d been holding and turns to look at the Fae.

“Thank you.” “Of course,” the Fae replies. He seems lost in thought. “Are you okay?” Peter asks quietly. The man seems surprised by his question. “Yes, eh… It’s just been a while since I’ve… Well... “ The man frowns and looks away. “Nevermind.” He leans back on his heels and uses the hand that still carries the flame to point at the path ahead. “If you take a right after the first house, the road you’ll be on should lead you into town.” Peter stares at the man and the sad expression that is still on his face. It confirms Peter’s earlier thoughts. The man is lonely. Peter bites the inside of his cheek. The Fae obviously doesn’t want to talk about whatever is bothering him, and since Peter doesn’t want to push him over any edge, he decides to leave it. For now. “Thanks.” He starts walking away from the Fae, but halts after a few steps. “Is there something small you want in return?” Peter replies. The man blinks a few times, confused. “You did help me.” Peter shrugs. “I... “ The man stops his sentence, purses his lips and frowns. “Ahh,” Peter smirks. “There is something you want.” “You’re a cheeky little thing, aren’t you?” The man’s eyes giddily light up for a split second. “Only with people I’m comfortable around.” Peter replies without thinking. A soft “oh” falls from the Fae’s lips. Peter tries to lighten the mood. “Bargain for it,” he says. The Fae looks at him dumbfounded, but collects himself. It’s odd to see him suddenly turn shy. “Is a hug too much to ask for?” “A hug?” Peter repeats surprised. The Fae looks away rejected, so Peter continues quickly. “A hug should suffice.” Peter smiles as he steps towards the Fae. He opens his arms, but pauses. “Do… Do you want me to give you a hug, or do you want to… Take one from me?” Peter doesn’t know why he asked it. Obviously, he should be giving the hug in return for the directions. But something about how the man stood there, tells him differently. “May… May I?” Peter nods encouragingly and before he can even blink, he feels the Fae’s arms wrapped around his body. It feels strangely… Cold? One of his hands finds its way into Peter’s curls. The other presses Peter against him tightly. Peter is completely enveloped in the man’s presence. It’s comforting, somehow, to feel the Fae’s warm breath on his ear. The flame the Fae held has disappeared, but his hands are still tingling with heat, even though the rest of his body seems so cold. “Thank you,” the man whispers quietly. Peter has no idea how long he had been held in the Fae’s embrace, but he had to admit, he kind of didn’t really want to leave. He hasn’t had a hug like this since Ben died. He should let go, obviously. There’s still a small voice in the back of his head, telling him that this is a trick to make him stay. To make him say or do things that would result in him never being able to go home. But Peter can practically feel the man’s sorrow aching against his chest. “Of course,” Peter replies, once again mimicking the man’s words. The Fae finally pulls back, but he doesn’t yet let go of Peter. He seems to be looking for something in Peter’s eyes, but he can’t find what he searches for. Eventually, he clears his throat and lets go. “I’ll see you when Yule graces us.” “When’s that?” Peter asks innocently. The man smiles and cocks his head. “Around your Christmas.” “Ah,” Peter says with a nod. “Well, see Yule then.” Peter wiggles his eyebrows and finger guns. He’s about to hit himself in the head to condemn his stupidity, but what he doesn’t expect, isthe man bursting out laughing. The sound fills Peter’s heart with warmth. The Fae‘s laughter eventually dies down and then he nods at the path ahead. “I will visit your aunt soon, before this week ends. Thank you, Puck.” Peter grins and turns towards the town, continuing his journey home. After about ten feet, he stops again, though. There was a question nagging at his mind that he hadn’t yet gotten the answer to. “What do I call you?” The Fae looks down at the ground between them and starts walking backwards. “Oberon,” he says softly. He smiles one last time before retreating into the dense woods. “You may call me Oberon.”

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