#snapshots and borrowed thoughts

[tini21]

347/365 all the time! 😴

[geeeemmmmmmm]

Picture Perfect

a/n:I've missed writing sm! I have another one shot in the making btw. I loved the head cannon I posted a while ago that I had to expand on it! I'm a little rusty so bare with me but as always sorry for any mistakes and enjoy!

Bucky had always taken sly photos of you. He liked having snapshots in time with you. The truth was, after Hydra, his memory could be quite dodgy, and it pained him to think of forgetting you — a preposterous thought, he knew, but still his biggest fear. Forgetting the way you clung to him during a dream, or the way you'd proudly pose in front of a new dish you made was something that made him shudder in fear.

After figuring out how to navigate the camera on his phone (with a little help from Steve, of course), he began subtly taking photos of you.

You only discovered the collection by accident. Your phone had died, and you'd borrowed his — only to find it still open on the photo app. You smiled softly to yourself as you scrolled through them. They varied from pictures of you curled up against him in the middle of the night with your head tucked into the crook of his neck like you always did, to small photos at team gatherings, laughing at a joke (most likely it was because of something you said because, really who’s funnier than you?).

The photo that surprised you most was one taken of you standing in the doorway of your bedroom — hair messy from sleep, a tired smile on your face, holding Alpine in your arms. Not your most attractive look, yet Bucky saw a gleaming beauty in you. You remembered that morning well although just not Bucky taking a photo of it.

What made you a little sad was realizing how few of the photos included him. He’s the reason for your comfort, your smiles yet he starred in very few. From that moment on, you decided to change that. You made it your mission to include him in photos with you.

You didn’t care how dramatically Sam would groan whenever you asked him to take another photo of you and Bucky. Bucky would always pout slightly when you dragged him into frame as you muttered the same phrase to him every time: "C'mon Buckkkk, it’s a perfect opportunity." you’d whine slightly. He always obliged. He secretly loved it, though he’d never ask to take more photos with you. Afraid he’d seem annoying, like you were some kind of celebrity and he was a mere fan when in reality you had been dating for a couple years.

Your favorite photo to date was one you hadn’t even asked for. It was a beautiful candid of the two of you walking side by side, your body tucked into his, both your heads turned to each other, lit up with bright smiles. Your endless efforts training Sam to take perfect Instagram shots had finally paid off.

When you got home from that walk, you immediately set that photo as your lock screen. “Hey doll, how do you change the lock screen thing?” Bucky’s voice drifted in from behind you as you admired the photo on the couch. “C’mere, I’ll show you,” you hummed, patting the space next to you on the couch. It took only a minute of explanation before Bucky got the hang of it. As he selected the same photo as his lock screen, your eyes flicked to his phone — now he knew you had officially seen his great pride and joy.

“I don’t know how I’ve never noticed you taking these,” you murmured against his side.

“Just wanted to savor your smile, in case I ever forget” he whispered, nuzzling into your hair.

“I won’t let you forget me, Buck,” you replied softly, rubbing slow circles on his chest with your free hand.

“I know. But I get so scared something will happen and I’ll lose you — even if all I had left were photos. I want to always have your smile, the way you hide away in my neck when you sleep” his tone staying quiet as he confessed “even if you slightly drool,” he added, lips curling into that soft smile you loved so much.

“First of all: I love you so, so much, and I’m never leaving you. Second of all: I do not drool!” you laughed, playfully hitting his chest from his added comment. “Say what you wanna say, but you know I’m right,” he teased. “At least I don’t snore,” you laughed, even more when you felt the soft rumble of his chuckle against you.

“Yeah, yeah,” he smirked , burying his nose back into your hair as he gently pulled you onto his lap. You didn’t need to say anything else — you just wrapped your arms around his neck, fingers threading through the soft hair at the nape of his neck, occupying your hands as you gazed into his lovestruck eyes.

His ocean-blue eyes fluttered closed, head dropping to your shoulder, arms lazily pulling your waist back like you weren’t already close enough. You sat there for a while, basking in the soft silence — only slightly disturbed by his soft snoring

Eventually, you stretched your arm out carefully, inching your fingers to reach for your phone on the couch. You managed to snap a couple of photos, your little “payback” for all the ones he had taken of you. You cringed when your phone shutter clicked and Bucky stirred.

“I’m a perfect picture, huh?” Bucky’s voice was soft against your skin, his stubble tickling the soft skin of your neck. “Don’t flatter yourself, Barnes,” you teased.

You took a quiet moment to admire the photo after your teasing died down. It had immediately become a strong contender for your lock screen. You were sitting on Bucky’s lap, legs tucked to the side comfortably, one hand in his hair, the other holding your phone. His head rested perfectly on your shoulder, arms draped lazily around your waist. With your smile lighting up the photo as you kissed his temple. A light only Bucky could bring out in you, and you knew he would never dim it.

[re-whump]

Pest Treatment (1?)

no editing we die like mice but oops some of those mice were also people

an exterminator meets a borrower or two; a borrower has a very rough evening

cw: whump, tiny whumpee, carewhumper, animal death (mice), death/dead body (look, one of the main characters is an exterminator), some very callous handling of the dead, poisoning, kidnapping/capture, you know normal meetcute stuff

It was the last visit at the end of a long day, and Rich had volunteered himself to speak with their client, leaving Frankie to get down on her aching knees to check the traps they’d left out earlier this week. She shouldn’t complain. The client was a old creep and she was way too young to be bitching about her joints.

So far, she’d found three dead mice so far, which was more than she’d been expecting, really. For all the man’s complaints of nighttime noise and ruined food, she and Rich had hardly seen any actual signs of rodent activity, never mind a full-blown infestation. She slipped into the garage, where they’d seen most of the pellets.

She didn’t expect to find…this…waiting in one of the traps. Frankie didn’t know what it was or how it got there or exactly how guilty she needed to feel about it. She didn’t want to touch it. She didn’t want to find out that it was real. There plenty of blood on her hands, that was the nature of pest control, but it was animal blood, not…

It looked like a man.

She hollered for Rich. He’d been working in the field for much longer than she had, long enough to have encountered just about anything infesting these parts. If nothing else, he could confirm she wasn’t hallucinating. He excused himself from his chat with the homeowner and joined her in the garage.

“Need something, Francesca?”

She was too disturbed to bother to scowl at the long form of her name.

“Am I…? What am I looking at here?” Frankie asked, gesturing to the dead thing.

A closer examination just made her stomach turn. The thing in the trap was either some kind of tiny human or a sick doll set up as a prank. Its face, barely the size of her fingertip, was a snapshot of shock and agony, gone still with death. The snap-trap’s bar had crashed down over the tiny man’s middle and shattered his spine. Her stomach lurched and she couldn’t look away.

It was no dead mouse, but a murder scene and Rich barely flinched. The corner of his lip twitched down and he shook his head.

“Ah, hell. I’ve never seen one dumb enough to walk into a trap. Poor thing must’ve been desperate,” Rich said regretfully.

“You’ve seen this before? What is it? Was he…?” her voice struggled to make it up her throat.

“A person? Maybe. Or some kinda fairy, I think, they’re not much for talking. It’s usually best to just let them be, I’ve found. They leave on their own once we start setting out poison,” Rich said.

He told her to go take a quick break, maybe wash up a bit. The job was almost done anyway, it wouldn’t be so bad to finish it alone. She hesitated with the knee-jerk sense that she had to prove herself capable. There was little Frankie hated more than being dismissed as weak and she hadn’t yet been at this job long enough to build up a solid reputation to defend herself with.

But she could feel the blood on her hands even through her gloves and that felt like a sign of bad mental health to come if she tried to ignore this guilt. She went inside to hide out in the bathroom for a moment to clean her hands and clear her head.

What did Rich mean, that it had maybe been a person? It sure looked like one. They went out of their way to keep poisons inaccessible to non-target species, but they weren’t worried about these maybe-people? Maybe the maybe was a trick meant to knock the sin down from murder, but that thought was even more upsetting. She could throw up.

She wondered if there were others. There had to be, right, if Rich had seen them before? Should they be putting out signs or…how close to human were they? How many had they killed? Had she killed?

She took off her gloves and washed her sweating hands. The mental image of that face couldn’t be cleaned away. She swallowed hard. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She’d set out mouse traps, per her job, and somehow that thing—the man—had crawled into reality and stumbled into one. She didn’t have any reason to feel guilty. She scrubbed harder, digging at her skin until she had almost convinced herself to let it go.

She took a deep breath to go back to work when she heard a soft thud, like the soap slipping off its tray and into the sink basin. Frankie turned around to fix it and nearly jumped out of her skin. There was another one there, one of the maybe-people mouse-folk, lying flat on her stomach in the sink. She was a bit larger than the other, fat as a rat, but she was also alive. She pushed herself up to her knees with shaking arms, and clutched her gut in misery. It took her a moment to notice Frankie looking down at her, but when she did, she shuddered.

“H-help,” she gasped. Frankie swore she heard the word within the creature’s labored breaths.

This one, Frankie decided, this one she could save.

-

Starling sat beside her husband’s body and wished she felt more heartbroken. Her hands shook as she felt for signs of life and again found none. She ought to grieve, to cry, but she hardly had the space for it. She was disgusted. Furious. Sick. Exhausted.

He’d tried to kill them all, and, damn it all, she had helped. She had baked his poison into something more palatable and served it up to the whole brood.

“Did you know?” she whispered. Her throat burned. He had lived outside before they met each other. He should’ve known what rat bait looked like.

Some kinda protein bar, he had said. Found it outside. Guess someone dropped it while they were working, lucky for us.

And Starling had believed him. As if borrowers ever got lucky. There was something odd about the block, the proportions maybe, the color, but the humans dyed their food all sorts of bright colors and this had had nuts in it and they hadn’t found any real food in days and she was scraping crumbs of crumbs out of the pantry and something had to be better than nothing.

They should have left when the mice came inside, when the old man started locking down the kitchen. They should have left when the exterminators came and laid siege to the property. But Starling’s family, self included, self included, was long-established in the home and too proud to leave.

She gave her husband’s frozen hand a final squeeze and stumbled to her feet. Her head swam as she moved. Her body begged her to lay back down. Across the room, her mother wasn’t moving. Her sister moaned about the pain, and their cousin collapsed when he tried to stand. He couldn’t speak when she tried to help him and she fled.

She was a terrible person for it, but she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t face this. She was too scared to see who was gone and who was on their way out and afraid to hope there was anyone else left.

She’d eaten last, which meant she’d eaten the least, so as terrible as she felt, it was safe to assume everyone else had it worse. Maybe if she just, if she could throw up, she might…maybe she could find something to fix this.

Vomiting didn’t help, at least not enough. She was still so weak she was shaking and now her mouth tasted of bile. She kept going, further and further from her home within the walls. Her vision blurred with dizziness and tears.

She fumbled her way down towards a bathroom in search of soap and clean water to get this taste out of her mouth, at least. But getting there had exhausted what little energy she had and her coordination was getting worse and worse. She grabbed scraped off a bit of soap then tripped into the hard basin below.

She pushed herself up and froze as a shadow swallowed up the light. As a living mountain, a colossus, a human stared down at her. The most notorious predator in the world. It smelled like sanitizer and bug spray. Like death.

Starling was so damn sick, she hadn’t even noticed the human was in here until it was staring down at her. Hadn’t thought twice about the wet soap, about the light. Was too dizzy to think much about the noise, since everything was already too loud. She tried unsuccessfully to get up and run. All she could do was tremble and pray for rescue.

“H-help,” she gasped.

But of course no one could help her. She had run away from her responsibility to her family and she would face her consequences alone

[scarapbook]

anchor to you | i. sae

romance. angst.

–cause when i'm with her, i am thinking of you.

;; hi peopleee, this is heavily inspired by the song "anchor tattoo" by chase atlantic. this is such an underrated song that deserves way more recognition. if you haven’t heard it yet, i highly recommend listening to it while or after reading!!<333

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you were never meant to be permanent.

you were a fleeting moment stretched across borrowed time. his calm before the chaos, the whisper between stadium roars. to love him was to hold a storm between your palms and pretend that you wouldn't get torn apart. and god, did you try.

he came to you in fragments. late night phone calls, half-finished goodbyes, fingertips brushing yours like a confession too fragile to speak aloud. and you, too foolish and full of hope, gathered those fragments like seashells on the shore, pretending they formed something whole.

loving him was like carving your name into wet concrete, hoping it would set, knowing that the rain was coming.

he never promised you forever.

but you gave him eternity anyway.

-

it started in tokyo, late summer.

you were assisting in a documentary project for blue lock, just a side thing while figuring out what to do after college. you weren't even supposed to be on set that day. but the main interviewer called in sick, and someone shoved a clipboard in your hand with a casual: “can you fill in?”

you met him under the fluorescent lights and the click of a recording mic.

he was the first athlete scheduled that day. a last minute change you hadn’t even prepared for. you fumbled through the intro, camera half-focused, clipboard in hand, eyes scanning the name you already knew.

sae itoshi.

a name that carried weight. precision. distance.

“just a few questions.” you said, voice calm even though your fingers trembled.

you didn't expect him to look directly at you after you speak. didn't expect the silence to stretch, then soften.

“you're nervous,” he said.

you blinked. “is it that obvious?”

“not to them,” he nodded toward the crew behind the screen. “but i see it.”

“sorry. promise i won't ruin your brand.” you said nervously.

he looked at you–sharp eyes, unreadable face. “that's a shame,” he said. “i was hoping you’d try.”

your eyes flutter. “try what?”

“to ruin it.”

that was the first time you smiled at him.

he smiled then. barely. but it knocked the breath from your chest.

-

he started waiting around after shoots.

at first, it was simple “need help carrying that?” or “you forgot your water bottle.”

but one night, you were editing a video footage alone in the media room, headphones on, when a coffee cup was placed beside your hand.

you looked up. “is this a bribe?”

“for what?” he asked.

you raised a brow. “for being in the background of every frame i'm trying to cut.”

he shrugged, unbothered. “maybe i just wanted to see how long it’d take you to notice.”

you chuckled. “you’re not exactly forgettable, sae.”

he looked at you a little too long after that.

“neither are you.”

-

the days bled into nights.

coffee shared in silence. glances that lingered too long. conversations that meant everything and nothing at all.

he started texting you random thoughts. a snapshot of the ocean. a song lyric. once, a blurry picture of a stray cat curled on a bench with the caption: "it reminded me of you."

you laughed too hard at that.

there was that one evening, the first time he came over. it was raining, and he forgot his umbrella. you wrapped him in a towel, made him tea, and he spotted your record player.

“you listen to vinyl?”

“only the sad stuff,” you smiled.

“you’re weird.”

“thanks.”

and then—“play me something.”

you chose a soft ballad. he sat cross-legged on your floor, eyes closed, listening like the world had gone quiet.

that night, you showed him your anchor tattoo.

“it’s new,” you said. "got it after i hit a low point.”

“what does it mean to you?”

“that no matter where i go, who i become… i always come back to myself.”

he stared at it, fingers brushing your wrist.

“maybe i need one, too,” he whispered. “something to keep me from drifting.”

and then, one of your favorite memories: the beach trip.

it was unplanned. he called you at 3 a.m. “i can’t sleep. come with me.”

you drove to the coast, music blasting, both of you barefoot and laughing by sunrise.

you ran into the waves in a black hoodie, mascara smudged, hair a wild mess.

he watched you like you were art.

and later, when you both collapsed in the sand—he kissed you for the first time.

“you feel like home,” he said, forehead pressed against yours.

you didn’t reply. you just held his hand tighter.

-

things escalated the way storms do. slow rumblings, then lightning.

kisses shared after midnight, hands grasped between car seats, whispers that were too soft for the world to hear.

“i don’t do public.” he told you one night, his head resting against your collarbone.

you nodded, your fingers brushing through his hair. “i don’t need public.”

and that was true.

until it wasn't.

-

“you know you’re going to break my heart, right?” you said once, not accusing—just honest.

he turned his head toward you. “why do you think that?”

“because you’re always thinking about the next move. the next goal. and i'm just…” you hesitated. “here.”

he exhaled. “you're not just anything.”

“but i’m not enough to stay for.”

he didn’t respond. but the silence was answer enough.

-

it wasn’t one moment. it was a thousand little ones.

the texts that stopped coming. the way he started showing up later, leaving earlier. how his eyes stopped lighting up when they found yours in a crowd.

“you’re leaving again,” you said one night, arms crossed, voice barely above a whisper.

he didn’t lie. “yeah.”

“for how long?”

“i don’t know.”

you wanted to scream. instead, you said, “will you still think of me?”

his gaze flickered. “always.”

but the door still closed behind him.

and this time, he didn’t come back.

days turned to months. months turned to years.

three years.

three long years since he walked out and never returned.

you learned to live around the void he left. learned how to exist without checking your phone every hour. you learned how to laugh again, though it never quite reached your eyes.

-

you found out from a headline.

“SAE ITOSHI MARRIES LONGTIME GIRLFRIEND IN PRIVATE CEREMONY”

there was a photo attached–her white dress flowing like mist, his hand steady on her waist. he looked happy. or at least content.

you sat in the quiet of your apartment, phone slipping from your grasp.

there was no scream. no breakdown.

just silence.

because grief doesn't always come crashing. sometimes, it creeps in slowly. an ache behind the ribs, a weight on your tongue, a memory clawing at the back of your throat.

you closed your eyes, and all you could see was him.

all the versions of him that were only ever yours.

you traced your fingers over the tattoo on your wrist. it still looked the same.

but you didn't feel anchored anymore.

-

“i don’t do public.”

that’s what he told you the night you sat across from him in a quiet corner booth, your fingers idly tracing the condensation on your glass, trying to read his expression like scripture.

“you’re too good,” he murmured, eyes down. “they’ll tear you apart if they know.”

and back then, that reason was enough. you smiled, said you understood. you swallowed down the ache of loving someone in silence. no hand-holding on sidewalks, no shared photos. you were the secret no one was supposed to see.

but now?

now, it’s all over your feed.

sae itoshi. married. in a glass cathedral somewhere in europe, with white lilies and soft jazz and his name carved into gold. the press knew. the world knew. she knew.

his bride is beautiful—poised, elegant, the kind of woman who smiles like she knows the cameras are watching. you can’t even hate her.

but you hate the way he’s looking at her in the photo. not because it’s full of love—no, you know sae. he’s not a man who wears his heart on his sleeve.

it's the way he’s not hiding it.

the way she gets the version of him the world is allowed to love.

and you?

you were the blurry shadow in his timeline. the girl behind the door when his matches ended. the kiss he never posted. the "what if" that never got its turn in the light.

your phone trembles slightly in your hand. you reread the headline. you look at their matching rings.

and all you can think about is how he once said "i don’t do public."

turns out—he just didn’t do you.

-

months passed since the headline.

time moved strangely after that day. slow in some places, blinding in others. people kept living. the sun still rose. but you felt like a ghost inside your own body.

the pain didn't fade, not really. it simply changed shapes. it learned to disguise itself as indifference on some days and nostalgia on others.

you avoided soccer games on tv. avoided the perfume he once complimented. avoided the beach.

but sometimes, the wind still smelled like memory.

you found yourself writing again, but the words were never for anyone but him.

sometimes you'd whisper into the quiet, “do you ever think of me, sae?”

you imagined him answering–always imagined a yes.

because he had to remember. the vinyls. the cat on the beach. the sound of your laughter at sunrise.

the way your voice cracked when you told him to be safe.

you wore long sleeves now. not to hide the tattoo. but because it ached.

some memories hurt when touched too directly.

but still, in your dreams, he was always barefoot on that beach, sand between his fingers, eyes searching the shore for you.

and you? always running toward him.

even when you knew he wouldn't wait.

-

the things i buried

sae's

she sleeps beside me now. soft breath, warm skin, fingers curled near my chest. a picture of peace, of what love is supposed to look like.

she hums in her sleep sometimes, and i wonder if she dreams of me the way i dream of you. but no. her heart is whole. it beats steady. it’s not haunted by a name it can’t forget.

she is kind. gentle. everything i thought i needed. everything the world told me i should want.

and yet—every night, i dream of you.

every night, i reach for a ghost i never learned to let go of. your shadow presses into my spine. your laugh—faint, almost cruel in its distance—echoes between the spaces of my silence.

she asks if i’m happy. i smile. say yes. kiss her forehead like it means something.

but the truth?

i still carry your name in the spaces between my ribs. i still see your smile when the stadium lights flicker—brief, blinding, gone. i still remember the anchor tattoo on your wrist how it felt beneath my thumb, the way it pulsed when you were angry. i still catch vanilla on the wind and turn around expecting you.

my chest tightens. my fingers twitch. and every time, it isn’t you. it never is.

i still think of you—

because when i’m with her, i am thinking of you.

and maybe that’s the cruelest part of all. that you will always be the anchor i tried to cut loose, but never could.

because part of me wanted to drown with you.

end.

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©: scarapbook

;; hii, it's my first time posting here and idfk how tumblr works so i really am sorry for the trashy dividers that i've used 😭🙏 i tried those gif dividers but the same gif just kept on disappearing (my patience runs out). anywaysss, you guys can find this on ao3 and wp as well!! thank you so much for reading💗

[s1ut-4-rafe]

SECRETS IN WABANG | Part 3 | Outer Banks x Outer Range

MASTERLIST (Series - In Progress)

Pairing 1 - Wren x Rafe Cameron

Pairing 2 - Marlowe x Rhett Abbott

Summary - Marlowe (Marley) and Wren thought they’d left the worst behind. They’re rebuilding their lives in the quiet town of Wabang, Wyoming — chasing peace, purpose, and a little distance from the chaos they escaped. But peace doesn’t last. When the Pogues and Camerons show up everything begins to unravel. Old loves resurface. New dangers emerge. Secrets that were never meant to be found start clawing their way back into the light. And as the past collides with the present, Marley and Wren find themselves caught in the middle — of a mystery bigger than they imagined, and emotions they aren’t ready to face.

Word Count - 2934

Content - Angst, enemies to lovers, unexpected alliance, betrayal, cowboys, emotional conflict, sfw/nsfw

Navigation - | 02 | 03 | 04 |

Marley sifted through the pile of clothes Wren had dumped across the bed, her fingers hesitating over each bold option. Her bottom lip tugged between her teeth as she stared at them like they might bite back. Wren’s wardrobe was a world away from her own — Marley was all lace-trimmed dresses and faded cardigans, like a snapshot from some sepia-toned Southern Gothic reel. She dressed like she was still trying to please someone who wasn’t looking anymore.

Wren’s style, though? It was a challenge wrapped in denim and defiance. Cropped tanks, ripped jeans, boots with stories in their scuffs. She looked like she could ride a horse through a bar fight and walk out with your number and your last cigarette.

“You’re not gonna make me wear that, are you?” Marley asked, holding up a cream-colored crop top that tied in the front. It felt scandalous just to touch it.

Wren grinned, eyes gleaming like she’d just pulled the best card in a game Marley didn’t know they were playing. “The rodeo’s not your Sunday church service, Mar. Time to have a little fun. Trust me — you’re gonna own it.”

Marley groaned, but didn’t argue. She didn’t have the fight in her tonight. Not after seeing JJ again — three years of silence cracking open with just one glance — and not with Rhett’s face still etched in her mind from that last conversation that lingered like smoke.

She needed a distraction. Wren’s chaos came wrapped in confidence, and Marley was desperate to borrow some.

Wren tossed the crop top aside and pulled out a softer option — a white tank with a textured finish, still flattering but less skin-showy. “Here,” she said, handing it over like a peace offering. “Still hot, but you won’t feel like you need to clutch a Bible.”

Before Marley could respond, Wren was already behind her, slipping a delicate silver cross necklace around her neck and fastening it with a quiet click.

“Wren,” Marley muttered, fingers brushing the pendant, “I feel like I should be in a country music video.”

Wren stepped back with a wicked grin. “Exactly. This is rodeo night — wrong night to play a saint.”

Next came the jeans — low-rise and faded, hugging Marley’s hips just enough to make her squirm. Wren cuffed the ankles and handed over a pair of worn leather boots, stitched and broken-in in all the right places.

“You’re so hot it’s rude,” Wren said, circling her like an appraising curator. “You don’t need to dress like you’re scared of being looked at.”

Marley rolled her eyes, blush creeping up her neck. “Easy for you to say. You wear stuff like this to the gas station.”

“And you wear prairie dresses like you’re auditioning for Little House on the Judgmental Hill. We balance each other out.”

“It’s godly to be modest,” Marley said under her breath, the old echo of her mother’s voice not entirely her own.

Wren tossed a straw hat onto her head with a flourish. “Well, tonight it’s godly to be hot.”

Marley turned to the mirror and froze. The top clung but didn’t suffocate. The jeans made her feel like someone reckless. And the necklace — silver and delicate — gleamed at her collarbone like a secret only she knew.

The ride to the rodeo blurred past in a haze of nerves and heat. The parking lot was alive with energy — string lights glowing overhead, music pulsing from speakers, laughter mingling with the shuffle of boots over gravel.

Marley stepped out of the truck and immediately felt it — eyes shifting, pausing. Not judging, not unkind. Just noticing.

Then Rhett appeared. His boots crunched softly as he crossed the lot, that easy gait of someone born in spurs. His smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as his gaze swept from her boots to her eyes — lingering just a heartbeat too long on the tie of her top, the rise of her jeans, the glint of the cross.

“You don’t have to change how you dress to fit in around here, darlin’,” he said, voice low and warm, meant just for her.

Marley blinked, surprised by the tenderness in his tone.

“I like you better in those long, flowy things you wear, suits you.” he added, even quieter now, like he was afraid he might break something if he said it too loud.

Her cheeks flushed, but not with shame this time. She touched the cross lightly. “This was Wren’s idea.”

Rhett smiled wider, soft and knowing. “Figures.”

He tipped his hat and passed her by, boots echoing in the dusty glow of the floodlights, leaving her breathless and standing in the middle of everything — caught between two pasts and a future she hadn’t dared to name yet.

Wren appeared beside her again, arms folded, one brow arched like she’d been watching the whole time.

“He so likes you,” she said in a sing-song voice that made Marley want to groan and laugh at once.

“Don’t start,” Marley muttered.

“What?” Wren shrugged. “That was a ‘come back in a sundress and ruin my night’ kind of comment if I’ve ever heard one.”

Marley rolled her eyes, but her blush deepened.

Wren nudged her, smug. “Relax. You look amazing. And now Rhett Abbott’s giving you the kind of eyes they write bad country songs about. That’s, like, the Wyoming welcome package.”

“I hate you,” Marley said — but she was smiling.

Wren laughed, already grabbing her clipboard from the backseat. “I gotta get to work — VIP prep. This place is about to turn into chaos. But I’ll find you later, okay?”

Marley nodded, watching as Wren melted into the crowd with the ease of someone born for it.

And just like that, she was alone. Standing under the thrum of music and heat, heart pounding like a warning bell and a promise at the same time.

But the buzz wouldn’t last. Not with the trailhead waiting.

And not with the past waiting there for her to face it — in boots, in borrowed clothes, and maybe, just maybe, with a new fire in her chest.

Wren had worked the Amelia County Rodeo every year since she was sixteen.

Not for the money, though it helped. Not for the glory—she was never the one in the spotlight. She did it because the horses trusted her. Because the chaos made sense when it was tethered to reins, dust, and adrenaline.

But this year, something felt off.

It wasn’t just the heat, though it clung to the skin like molasses. It wasn’t the horses, though they were more restless than usual—eyes wide, hooves churning up dirt like they could feel something coming.

It was the air. The silence before thunder. The way people whispered more than they spoke and glanced over their shoulders like they knew the sky was about to crack open.

Wren kept her hands busy. Watered down skittish geldings, double-checked cinches, ran a calming palm down a trembling mare’s neck. A patch of her shirt stuck to her lower back with sweat, and she’d already busted a nail on a stubborn stall latch.

She didn’t complain. She liked being needed. This was the one place no one questioned her authority—not the ranch hands, not the rookies, not even Royal Abbott. When it came to horses, Wren knew exactly what she was doing.

She was heading out of the tack shed when the rodeo manager flagged her down. He wiped a sweaty brow with the back of his arm and leaned in like he had something worth whispering.

“VIP group comin’ in. Real money types. North Carolina plates on the truck,” one of the staffers added, clipboard under his arm as he passed. “Might wanna polish the banners. And keep the kids from sneaking into that section.”

Wren raised an eyebrow. “North Carolina? What the hell are they doing way out here?”

The guy just shrugged. “Dunno. But they’ve got their own box. Be on your best behavior.”

She smirked faintly but nodded, already hauling a cooler of complimentary drinks up the makeshift stairs. The so-called VIP box was a glorified platform with folding chairs and sun sails—usually reserved for local sponsors or washed-up politicians pretending they still had ranch in their blood.

Halfway up, she paused. A wooden sign clipped to the railing read:

Reserved for: Cameron Group – NC

Her stomach dipped.

Marley had mentioned the Camerons once or twice—vaguely. Old money. Oil-slick reputation: impossible to wash off, slippery to pin down. Somehow tangled up with the Pogues, though Marley had never offered details.

Wren took a breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped onto the platform.

Two men were already seated.

One older—square-jawed, neatly groomed, boots too clean for the dust, eyes sharp and practiced like he could spot a lie before it was spoken. He radiated control like a man who didn’t often hear “no.”

Next to him lounged a younger man, brown hair, sunglasses, boots kicked up on the railing like he owned the view. He didn’t look at her right away—just smirked in the direction of the arena like the show was already his.

Wren set the cooler down with a quiet thud, her voice calm and professional. “Evening, gentlemen. Complimentary drinks—water, soda, some local beer. I’ll be checking in if you need anything else.”

The younger one—Rafe, she guessed, based on the dripping entitlement—finally turned. His eyes moved over her slowly, deliberately.

“No tray service?” he drawled.

Wren didn’t blink. “Budget cuts.”

Ward chuckled softly, but his gaze never left her.

Rafe leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the smirk never leaving his mouth. “You’re not one of the waitresses.”

“No, sir.”

“Then what are you?”

“Caretaker,” she said smoothly. “Horse training, safety, and sometimes guest relations when no one else wants to deal with them.”

Rafe tilted his head like he was trying to figure her out. “You from around here?”

“Yes.”

“And what else do you do?”

She wiped her palms on her jeans. “Make sure none of you get trampled when a bronco decides it’s had enough of being ridden.”

Something flickered in his expression—amusement? Respect? Interest? She couldn’t tell. Didn’t care.

He let his gaze linger a second too long. “Well. You make the place a little more interesting.”

Wren’s expression didn’t shift. “Appreciate the feedback. I’ll be around if you need anything.”

She turned to go.

“Hey,” Rafe said behind her.

She stopped, but didn’t look back.

“You always this friendly,” he asked, “or just when there’s a crowd?”

Wren turned slowly. Her smile was gone now, her voice quiet but cool, edged in steel.

“I’m just doing my job. Don’t mistake being polite for something else.”

Rafe lifted his brows, clearly entertained. “You’re feisty.”

“And you’re predictable,” she shot back, already turning and walking off before he could reply.

But she could feel his eyes on her back, sticky as sweat and dust. And that told her everything she needed to know.

The sounds of the rodeo faded behind her as Marley slipped past rows of trucks and trailers, her boots clicking softly against the gravel. Floodlights cast long shadows that thinned with every step, until all that remained was the hush of crickets and the low rustle of wind through the trees.

She should’ve stayed and blended into the crowd, but she lost herself in the noise. Rhett had made it too easy to forget what she was walking toward — but forgetting didn’t erase history.

The trailhead came into view, tucked just beyond the fence line where the land dipped into shadow and familiarity turned sharp.

She slowed when she spotted them — silhouettes gathered near the start of the trail. JJ stood out immediately. Even in the half-light, she could see the way he shifted from foot to foot, like standing still was a punishment.

Pope sat on a boulder nearby, scrolling through his phone with a frown. Kie paced in tight circles, arms crossed, muttering to herself.

When JJ saw her, his head snapped up. He straightened, hands falling to his sides like he’d just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Marley paused at the edge of the clearing, stomach churning.

“Well I’ll be damned. Marley Harper in Wyoming.”

John B stepped from the shadows, arms wide like he was greeting an old friend at a beach bonfire instead of a quiet mountain trail. He looked exactly the same — sun-kissed, slightly scruffy, and wearing that crooked grin that once made sneaking out of church feel like rebellion.

Marley blinked, surprised. “John B?”

He wrapped her in a quick, familiar hug before she could say anything else, then pulled back with a smile. “Didn’t think we’d see you again. Guess the rodeo’s got more pull than the preacher, huh?”

She laughed before she could stop herself — light, unguarded. “Don’t get used to it.”

John B winked. “Too late.”

He clapped JJ on the shoulder — a silent handoff that said everything and nothing — then melted back into the dark, giving them space.

Funny, how someone could live so fully in your bones and still feel like a stranger after enough time passed.

“Hey,” she said softly, hugging her arms over her stomach.

JJ cleared his throat, nodding once. “Hey.”

Pope glanced up and offered a quiet smile. Kie barely looked her way, tossing a dismissive wave as she paced. Only John B had seemed happy to see her.

Marley lingered at the edge of the clearing for a beat longer, unsure if she should step closer. The weight of the last three years hung between her and JJ like fog.

“You look…” JJ started, then stopped, his gaze flicking over her outfit. “Different.”

She huffed a nervous laugh. “Yeah, well. I got creative.”

He nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile.

Silence stretched between them. Not exactly comfortable. Not hostile either. Just full of things unsaid.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” he said, voice low.

“Neither did I,” Marley admitted. She stepped forward, slow but sure. “But here I am.”

JJ looked at her for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out what version of her had walked down that path — the Marley he used to know, or the one standing in front of him now.

“Thanks,” he said. “For coming.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” she replied, but her voice lacked bite. “I just… needed to see for myself.”

He nodded again, slower this time. “Fair.”

Behind them, Kie muttered something about checking the trail. Pope followed her, giving them space.

Now it was just the two of them. The quiet stretched.

“I’m not the same,” Marley said suddenly, surprising even herself. “I mean, I still wear too much sunscreen and read banned books under the covers… but I’m not the girl you knew in Outer Banks.”

JJ’s jaw flexed. “Good. I never wanted you to stay stuck there.”

She studied him, then offered a faint smile. “You didn’t even say goodbye, JJ.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.”

That shut her up. For once, he wasn’t dodging.

A horn blared in the distance — a signal from the rodeo grounds.

Marley turned toward the trail, her fingers brushing the silver cross at her neck.

“Let’s go,” she said quietly. “Before I change my mind.”

JJ fell into step beside her — not too close. Not yet. But close enough that when the trail dipped into shadow, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

Wren found Marley behind the food tent, parked in the narrow sliver of shade, working through a bag of sunflower seeds and squinting toward the arena.

“You’re not gonna believe who just rolled into the VIP box.”

Marley didn’t look away. Just cracked a seed between her teeth. “Lemme guess. The Camerons?”

Wren nodded, subtly, motioning with her chin. “One older. One younger. Pretty sure it’s Ward and Rafe. They’ve got that...off energy you warned me about. Like they’re waiting for someone to step out of line so they can break them in two.”

Marley’s jaw tensed. Her gaze swept the stands with quiet precision. She stopped. Eyes locked across the arena, where another VIP section had been cordoned off behind ropes and heavy shade cloth. Wren’s eyes followed her friend’s gaze, spotting a blonde figure ducking through the barrier. Sarah Cameron, she assumed. 

And trailing behind her: John B, Pope, Kiara, and JJ.

Marley’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Pogues. They’re watching Ward and Rafe.”

She didn’t elaborate, but her stomach dropped. The Camerons didn’t travel for fun, from what she heard. And the Pogues didn’t show up without a reason apparently. 

Before either of them could speak again, Rhett’s voice cut in.

“Hey, Wren.”

She turned to find him stepping in beside them, adjusting the brim of his ball cap with his thumb. His shirt was half-buttoned, dust on his shoulders, eyes clear and focused.

“What time am I up for my ride tonight?” he asked, calm as ever.

“Eighth slot,” she said automatically, distracted, her eyes still flicking between the two VIP boxes like a storm was about to break out between them.

Rhett nodded. His gaze slid to Marley and lingered a second too long. Not sleazy—just...curious. He gave her a small, unreadable smile. “Marlowe.” he greeted for the second time that night, then disappeared back toward the holding pens.

Wren didn’t miss the way Marley’s spine stiffened slightly. Or the way her eyes darted back to Rafe’s section, then to JJ’s.

Something was brewing.

And Wren had a feeling the horses weren’t the only ones picking up on it.

Author’s Note: Thanks so much for reading Chapter 3! We're so happy that you all are enjoying everything so far! Chapter 4 ended up being a lot, so it’ll be split into two parts!

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Taglist for Secrets in Wabang: @msfirth | @deeninadream

[xiaoshengnu]

𝕰𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖊𝖘 𝖎𝖓 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕻𝖆𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖊 - final review

overview : episode no - 76 episodes, genre - historical (gongdou)

a timeless classic, the slay to end all slays (and I mean literally and figuratively) empresses in the palace follows the story of zhen huan as she experiences life in the palace, hardening her from a sweet young girl to a stony empress dowager. 

l⃣e⃣ t⃣’ s⃣    b⃣e⃣g⃣i⃣n⃣

when I say you will never find a more iconic show ever in the whole of cdramaland, I mean never. empresses in the palace is an absolute juggernaut of a drama, it is absolutely insane, the writing, the drama, the characters, the absolute minute little details and its respect of the viewer’s intelligence- an A* and beyond. and it's internet and cultural presence in china? IN. SANE. 

o⃣u⃣t⃣     o⃣ f⃣     t⃣ e⃣ n⃣

𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖙 - 9/10

𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 - 10/10

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘 - 10/10

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 - 10/10

𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕘𝕖 - 9.8

o⃣u⃣t⃣    o⃣ f⃣    f⃣ i⃣v⃣ e⃣

𝖍𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖌𝖊𝖒 𝖛𝖆𝖑𝖚𝖊 - 💎💎💎💎💎

[ I know that when the drama first came out, it was considered pretty unique for how brutally it presented harem life, but even years later and amongst so many newer dramas which have borrowed tropes and ideas from it, I don’t think you’ll be able to find such an incredibly solid drama. a five gem.  ]

𝖗𝖊𝖜𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍 𝖛𝖆𝖑𝖚𝖊 - ✨✨✨✨✨

[ it is so incredibly long and a pretty emotionally tolling drama - even longer than legend of haolan but it is just incredible, a full five star rewatch value ]

‘keep reading’ for detailed review

oh my god this drama.

oh my god.

where do I even begin? I remember watching my parents watch this drama when was I was still really young so I didn’t know what the show was called and what it was about, and although I didn’t remember the whole of this drama I could still remember some hazy snapshots pretty iconic scenes- like at the end where she does to sleep, or when she gets sent to the island- so when I finally decided to watch empresses in the palace a light bulb went off and I suddenly realised that THIS was the show that I'd remembered from my childhood. THIS was it. so it is quite nostalgic for me. 

it is honestly such a timeless classic, there’s nothing that will ever beat it. nothing. every fucking second of this thing has a purpose, and everything the characters say and do- and even the background of scenes have minute details which relate to the overall plot and trajectory of these characters. like the amount of YouTube videos analysing this one drama is insane. when critics praise a piece of visual art as a “living breathing organism”, “a masterpiece”- they mean this. 

𝖕𝖑𝖔𝖙 - 9

just. amazing. what can I say. there’s absolutely nothing that can beat this drama with how it wrote the plotting, the intrigue and the absolute cunning the women had to possess to stay alive in the palace. the ending of the drama is literally perfect. SO perfect. younger me thought legend of haolan was good- but compared to this? this is really truly another level. there’s so many instances in the drama where the drama never really tells you what exactly happened, but at the same time gives you just enough information to just guess what had gone on. equally, there are some times where there really doesn’t appear to be any scheming but with close analysis (and with the help of trusty youtubers) suddenly things become thrown into light. 

however, I had to knock down a few points because every plot has flaws and for this drama, I think it was mostly the use of tropes and the ‘female lead syndrome’ that sometimes quite clearly shows in the drama. There are also some areas in the drama where the plot does get shaky, but there is never not a reason why a scene is included in the drama. its just such a watertight drama. if you ever need to learn the art of show but don’t tell, this drama has it all. I love that sometimes it leaves it up to the viewer to work the plot out, which mirrors the way in which the concubines had to guess and predict in order to survive- which wasn’t always for certain or always accurate, almost literally pulling the viewer into the world of harem life.

𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖘 - 10

I LOVE THE CHARACTERS UGH. I love them. they’re slays to end all slays. from zhen huan (the original girl boss, gatekeep, gaslight- FIGHT ME) to su peisheng- honestly so iconic. every single major character was well written, well developed and multi-dimensional, and no-one was evil purely for the sake of earning the drama cash. everyone in the drama gives you a reason to root for them, I found myself even feeling for the emperor in the end. 

𝖕𝖗𝖔𝖉𝖚𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓 - 10

the production was beautiful- the lighting, costuming and makeup were literally so perfect it's unreal. so many iconic scenes came out of this drama- like the yimeiyuan (plum blossom garden) scene with it's beautiful moonlit set and plum blossom decked in snow.

 I love the designated colour palettes of the various concubines everything seemed very thought out to fit their personalities. consort hua was decked in bold colours and extravagant patterns, consort jing being calm and gentle was consistently dressed in soft blues and greens, while shen meizhuang is seen wearing mostly purples and pinks. one particular costume that lives in my mind rent free is zhen huan’s blue outfit with the white plum blossom embroidery in the episode 28- absolutely stunning.

𝖆𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 - 10

honestly, if you took a shot for every time I've described this drama as perfect, you would definitely be on the floor by this point. The acting was absolutely now flawless. at no point in the drama did I ever feel drawn out of the story by the acting- sun li is jaw-dropping as zhen huan, her duality is absolutely insane and her crying scenes- ugh omg so good. 

.

.

𝖇𝖔𝖓𝖚𝖘!!

favourite character(s) :

zhen huan ( if your favourite character in this drama isn’t zhen huan, what are you doing???? she is an absolute icon in her own right. it’s literally impossible to not root for such a wonderful character- team zhen huan all the way )

consort hua / nian shilan ( ik ik, ik now she’s evil and everything, but I love her- she has a baseline which she will not cross and she does have a loyal heart. she loves the emperor almost unconditionally and while she would kill a concubine, she would never harm an unborn child. she seems to care for her servants, who are loyal in turn and I would argue that her being willing to employ a crippled eunuch is a sign of her more softer and caring side. and do I need even mention her snarky one liners?? slay. anyway that’s my essay in defence of consort hua )

ye lanyi ( a queen fr, she takes no-one’s shit )

.

𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖜 (source mydramalist)

lead actors : sun li, chen jianbin, cha silfun

director : zheng xiaolong 

screenwriter : wu xuelan

[huellitaa]

navigation 🎀🐈‍⬛️ . ݁₊ ⊹

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ramblings, musings, ideas, thoughts and love notes all from the mind of yours truly. whether this is a good or bad thing, only time (or my digital footprint) will tell. ♡

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for the girls who want to become the prettiest, smartest, most rich and successful versions of themselves ♡

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my sole defining characteristic and only personality trait; music! ♡

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snippets, selfies and snapshots from the life of yours truly! ♡

──★ ˙ ̟🎀 #dollies ୨𖹭୧

especially for my dolls and the dolls i love online n would kill and die for ♡

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law of assumption, manifestation, and all that lies in between ♡

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posts and sweet things i'd like to save for me and for you ♡

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sparkling summer sunshine productivity and beauty challenge and learning how to enjoy my summers to the best i can ♡

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sharing my autumn w u guys ♡

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winter and christmas diaries ♡

[utilitycaster]

Hi! A bit late, but thanks for making the sacrifice of reading the Laudna book. When it was announced, I was already convinced that the child-like spooky vibe was all Marisha had come up with before the campaign, but when the announcement came I actually got angry? I thought maybe there was a story and it was intentionally not being discussed and touched on as to make you purchase the book or something. I'm at least happy to have the closure that no, there was never anything there actually lol

hey! Glad you enjoyed my rundown. I do try to stress that what I say is my opinion and people are welcome and encouraged to form their own, and while I would not advocate spending money on What Doesn't Break, if you can acquire it for free in some manner/borrow it, it is not a long read, at the very least.

But yeah, it was a little frustrating to me when they announced a book for a character in an ongoing campaign. I know it's not a campaign that went terribly deep into backstories, but it still felt like the kind of thing to hold off on until the campaign ended. And, I must admit, I still don't know why they made this choice? Like there was a story to tell, it's just...Caduceus didn't have a very plot-heavy backstory either, nor did Jester and you know what? Their Origins comics are still quite enjoyable, because you can focus on vibes and dialogue and a specific snapshot of a period of their past rather than stretching it beyond what it can cover. What Doesn't Break would have made for a very good origins comic. Laudna's backstory, in fact, feels designed for an origins comic (one or two major events, lots of vibes and setpieces, not a super plot-heavy story) and would have been stronger for it.

But yes, if you were wondering, there's...a little more lore in the book than we have in the campaign, mostly that Laudna spent 20 years without clear memories or a sense of who she once was which at least helps explain 20 of those 30 years in a slightly more sympathetic light (though it also means a lot of her being chased out was because she literally did not know how to behave in a way that wouldn't creep even well-meaning people out, and ignored Delilah's ill-intentioned but not incorrect advice) but it also really underscores that I think most of this backstory was filled in after the fact, and that's not a bad thing either (Travis said he did the same with Chetney) but it calls into question many of the earlier Laudna decisions in-game; if you backfill you still need to be cohesive with what's come before.

[oldlight117]

I must know Zero!

Thanks for the ask, @eldritchelfwriter :)

Zero is the draft title of a kiss prompt from @camelcasethoughts

Here’s a little snapshot:

Violet’s heart fluttered a bit at the thought of this, was Shadowheart saving her a seat every night? Was it an invitation?

Vi approached slowly, her own book in hand, waiting to catch Shadowheart’s eye before getting too close. Shadowheart met her gaze with a cocked eyebrow of suspicion.

“The leader of the pack comes to chat.”

Violet’s hand instinctively found the back of her neck as she absorbed Shadowheart’s icy tone. There has been a grave miscalculation.

“I can see I’m interrupting you, and you’re clearly in the middle of a book. Sorry – I’ll come back later.”

“Sit, girl,” Shadowheart commanded, setting the book down in her lap. Violet did as commanded, obediently taking a seat on the stool. “What are you reading?”

“Oh, this?” Vi said, gesturing to the tome in her lap. “I borrowed it from Gale. It’s mathematics.”

Shadowheart said nothing. Vi paused as the silence dragged on. Was Shadowheart waiting for her to speak again?

“Look please don’t ask me to say any more about ‘stochastic processes’,” Violet pinched her nose between thumb and forefinger, “I didn’t understand any of it.”

“Perhaps try reading books right side up, in future,” Shadowheart said mercilessly with a gesture to Vi’s hand that was indeed holding the book open upside down, and with that she returned to her own reading.

[owl-with-a-pen]

okay but another angsty thing re: Brainy and sleeping, what if he wakes up from a nap or something in the Tower soon after the season 5 finale and thinks he's still in that room with the radiation poisoning him (like maybe he has a nightmare about that), so someone has to calm him down and bring him back to reality

If the 3,000+ word count wasn't a dead giveaway, I had some fun with this one 😉

If Nia was certain of anything, it was that Brainy was going to crash real soon. He’d been looking pale ever since they’d returned from the Fortress, and there was no way in hell she could ignore the feverish heat that had prickled from his skin while her face had been buried so snugly against his throat. He hadn’t said anything then, but when they’d eventually picked themselves up from the lab’s floor, Brainy had been ready to drop long before they made it to the elevator. Without Nia's guiding hand, he never would have made it to the loft in one piece.

By the time they were hunkered down on a sofa in the Tower’s living nook, tablet balanced precariously between them, one of J’onn’s blankets folded over their knees, Brainy been close to passing out entirely. The only thing that stopped him was his relentless focus on the task at hand.

Every now and then, Nia caught his eyes as they worked a path across the data she’d been able to draw up from their borrowed intel downloaded from the Fortress’s supercomputer. It wasn’t much, but between the Tower, Legion and Kryptonian archive, they had a halfway decent snapshot of what the Phantom Zone might entail.

Finding Kara, though? That was the tricky part.

Nia’s heart hurt every time she thought about it – of Kara lost and alone in that place. She’d once described it to her as worse than hell. A terrifying purgatory where nightmares held a tangible presence.

No one had gone home that night. Nia lost track of Alex some point past midnight when Lena appeared with enough Big Belly Burger to feed a small army. Her best guess was that she’d retreated downstairs in the commotion to get first dibs on J’onn’s intergalactic coffee machine. They could’ve all used the kick right about now, and any other night Nia would’ve been shouldering her way to the front of the line.  

But coffee wasn’t going to cut it today. Besides, shoulder-to-shoulder with Brainy was exactly where she needed to stay. Maybe he hadn’t been eager to share anything out loud, but when he’d refused to eat any of Lena’s generous offerings, Nia had known what was up.

The nanites were starting to hit back. Hard.

She could survive without the caffeine, she rationalised. Maybe it was a good thing. She’d been doing pretty much anything to deny sleep for the last few months, hating herself whenever she slipped into a dream with Brainy as the centrepiece, goading her even in the deepest corners of her subconscious. She’d spent so long convincing herself that it was all in her head, that it was her grief and guilt that had conjured him up as her eternal tormenter. Knowing the truth of it still stung, an ache that went bone-deep, but that pain had started to ease the moment she’d locked her pinkie with his.

She wasn’t sure how easy she’d sleep now, but she knew that she couldn’t ignore the tug of the dream realm any longer. It was the only place she could figure any of this out, no matter how uncertain she felt. Besides, she wasn’t alone this time. She had Brainy back on her team, his promise to her as unbreakable as steel, and knowing that made everything feel just a little lighter.  

Nia wasn’t surprised when the words on the tablet began to blur into an incomprehensible muddle, the lull of her unconscious mind far too pressing of a force to refuse. Soon, she was lost to that darkness, pulled dizzyingly fast towards the threads of a dream already spun partway together.

Sometimes, her dreams came to her in quick successive flashes - other times they settled into specific locations, familiar or alien alike.

The room she awoke to was hazy, shimmering with rippling heat that rose in waves from the surface of the ground, enough that she couldn’t see a thing inside it. There was light, though, a deep orange spectacle that shone from somewhere close to the floor.

Before she could even try to understand where she was, pain like nothing she’d ever experienced erupted across her skin. It didn’t have a source, rather it radiated from all-round. It was a tangible pressure, raw and harsh, a laser point fixed solely on her that bypassed clothes and flesh alike, blistering straight to blood and bone. Her limbs felt like lead wherever it penetrated, targeting her joints until she folded with a swallowed scream to the floor. Nia’s chest held stiff, refusing to draw in the air she suddenly, desperately needed.

Because every breath burned - worse than the last - as though her lungs were lacerating inside her ribs. She gritted her teeth like she was biting down on leather, the sting of her tears sizzling to vapour before they even had a chance to fall.

What was this place her mind screamed, that too sounding warped and winded to her ears. Her dreams had certainly terrified her before, but they’d never hurt her like this. Like they could kill.

Nia gasped, gripping for her throat when the pressure of the air thickened inside her mouth, scalding her tongue. She could nearly taste it, bitter like battery acid, sharp like blood. Something about that taste was familiar to her, like when she’d overexerted her powers or…

No… there was something else. Because she had felt this before. Just for a second. Just before…

Before she’d been thrown from Leviathan’s ship.

Leviathan.

That didn’t make sense. If that was what her dream was trying to tell her, it’d missed the mark by a mile. The ship was gone – Leviathan along with it. No amount of pain could convince her otherwise. And if that was true, then there was nothing left of this dream that could hold a connection to the future.

How could her dream prophesise something that no longer existed?

Just as Nia had forced another breath through her bubbling lungs, bracing herself for the pain that would follow, she heard something. A sound that cut through the fog in her mind, that made everything suddenly so clear.

A soft, barely audible whimper from across the room.

Nia curled her hands into fists, jerking against the molten metal that greeted her knuckles, and looked up. Beyond the stifling power of Leviathan’s radiation, she could see the shape of a person pressed up against the console of the furthest edge of the room. She blinked against the stinging in her eyes, realising that the orange light she’d seen before had been coming from there. Now, that glow sharpened into something starker, closer matching the pale hair it illuminated – pasted against the jawline of a very familiar green face.

Nia’s eyes widened in shock, gasping his name.

Brainy sat with his knees drawn towards his chest, his body curved protectively around an object cradled closely to his centre. Even while she watched, Nia could see the spasmodic convulses of his chest as he tried to draw in breath, quickly followed by a barely muted cry of pain when the radiation crept in instead; his teeth an off-white smear fixed into permanent misery.

Nia’s heart twisted hard enough to outweigh her own pain. Because… it wasn’t her pain. It never had been. She’d never been inside the ship long enough to feel its true effect. None of them had.

None except…

Brainy. Of course this was Brainy’s dream. She wasn’t inside a vision at all. In her exhausted confusion, she must have slipped right into Brainy’s mind.

It was rare – rarer than rare, actually. But sometimes it could happen. If she and Brainy were tired enough, if they hadn’t been thinking, or even if they were thinking too much, then…

It hadn’t happened in so long, though. It couldn’t. They would have needed to share each other’s space, each other’s bed…

Now a new pain fluttered in her heart, an ache she thought she’d begun to remedy. But it had become such an old pain now, something that had fused itself to her after months of grief and frustration and anger.

In a way, this place was that and more. She’d never seen Brainy’s mind palace after he’d taken off the inhibitors, never experienced his dreams with his true self restored. And despite the heaviness of this place, the colours here were more vibrant, every light source so bright they could have been blinding. There was a sound beyond the buzz of the radiation, one that thrummed at the base of Nia's skull like old whispers, slipping in and out of audibility between every laboured pant of Brainy’s chest.

He looked like he had in the vision Nia had seen not a few hours earlier – when he’d collapsed to the ground after absorbing all that targeted radiation.

Ten minutes had already been too much for him, and those ten had turned into fifteen, twenty—it had taken Nia far too long to make it down there. And then, even after she’d found him, she hadn’t been quick enough, hadn’t had the power or natural immunity to drag him to safety.

It could have killed him. It should have. Nia’s dreams had been right to make her feel that way. This was to as near-death as she could have experienced without being in Brainy’s place.

And, for whatever reason, Brainy’ subconscious had decided to drag him right back here.

Now she was beginning to understand the rules of this dream, Nia realised that the radiation didn’t hold the same power over her. With a deep breath, she drew her shoulders together, pushing herself back onto her haunches. The radiation still barrelled at her, but now it held the potency of a soft breeze, nothing she couldn’t push past.

It wasn’t her pain, she reminded herself. And the more she thought that, the easier it became to ignore it. Soon she was back on her feet, crossing the room as easily as Kara or J’onn had made it look when they’d crashed inside.  

Nia didn’t stop walking until she was crouched at Brainy’s side. His chest was rising and falling in short, breathless exhales, too weak to draw in the air he needed. His head was tipped skyward, lips parted into a strained grimace.

At first, she wondered if this was some sort of punishment he'd conjured himself, a side-effect from all the guilt he’d been harbouring over the last few months.

That was until she realised what it was that he was holding so tightly in his arms, and how quickly he flinched away from her when she tried to reach for it herself.

“N-no,” Brainy whined, a panicked sound. He shook his head vehemently, curling even further into himself, obscuring the bottle from sight. The yellow hue it gave off was unmistakable, painting his face a sickly shade. His expression contorted again when more pain rolled through him, trails of salt staining his cheeks. “I-I can’t let go, I-I can’t let him win.”

“Brainy, it’s okay,” Nia said as gently as she could manage, sidling in closer to him. She kept her hands a practiced mark from the bottle, hovering steadfast. “You’re dreaming, okay? But I can help. Take my hand.”

Brainy whimpered, a strangled sound catching in his throat as fresh tears flooded his blood-stained eyes. “N-no,” he croaked. “Lex’ll – I can’t – or-or Kara will—”

Nia’s heart broke for him. This wasn’t about punishment; in his delirious state of mind, Brainy must have brought himself back to the moment just before Lex had stolen the bottle from him.

No matter what she’d told him back in the waking world, it hadn’t been enough to relieve him of his guilt. Not in the way he needed. But she knew this wasn’t going to help him, either.  The whispers in the air were as thick as the radiation shield itself, droning from every corner, warping into nothing but a mechanised garble.

He wasn’t going to go willingly, she knew that, and Nia was too afraid that taking him by force might make things worse.

Looked like she’d have to do things the old-fashioned way.

“I’ll see you on the other side, Wildcat,” Nia murmured, closing her eyes, losing sight of the prison Brainy had designed for himself as quickly as she’d entered.

Nia only felt a drifting impression of Brainy’s consciousness before she was back in the waking world. When she blinked her eyes open, she was inside the Tower again, with the real Brainy pressed tightly to her side.

His golden hair was slick to his forehead with sweat, his eyes skirting uncertainly behind closed lids as he muttered fretfully in his sleep. Some of the words were English, others held the mechanised characteristics of fluent Coluan. There was another language, too, one that overlapped the others, far separate from anything she’d heard him speak before.

She recognised it though, the ancient consonants that rolled from his tongue even while he was under such duress. It was the same language he’d spoken with Rama Khan. The language of the gods.

He was still bartering with Leviathan somewhere deep down, trying in his own way to fix his mistakes. But his pleas fell on deaf ears. All ears, but hers.

Suddenly, Brainy whimpered again, a sob catching him so hard that Nia worried he’d choke. He clawed at her front with weak fingers, lashes fluttering beneath layers of delirium.

She knew she had to wake him, but it was still a delicate procedure even outside of the dream realm. Carefully, Nia wound her arm around Brainy’s back, clutching the fibres of his suit, securing him against her side as she ran her free hand over his chest. Brainy didn’t fight her, instead he buried his nose into her throat, his clammy skin cold and fervid at the same time. She could feel the sting of his life projectors even from a distance, prickling across her gloves as she searched for his frequency, bringing it into step with her own.

Usually, once she’d found a target, that’d be her cue to drag them into a sleep they’d have a hell of a time coming back from. Now, she sought that power in reverse, pulling back on her usual gift so that she could dispel a dream sequence rather than enforce it. Blue energy swirled from Nia’s fingertips, coalescing with the white of Brainy’s central projector, knocking on the fragile door of his unconscious mind.

When that door creaked open, she let her energy soar, illuminating all that had been buried so that it might rise to the surface unimpeded.

She felt the tug of his consciousness before he woke, and when Brainy shot forward in the confusion that followed, Nia was there to steady him, pressing her hand reassuringly into his centre, trying to draw in on the pleasant fog that often accompanied a nap post-waking.

But peace like that couldn’t be manufactured.  

“N-n-no—” Brainy gasped, choking hard enough that it induced a coughing fit so violent he nearly retched from the strain.

Nia held him steady, worried that he was about to make himself sick. She rubbed his back, soothing him with breathless reassurances while simultaneously mapping out the closest trash can in case she needed to make an emergency dive for it.

“It’s okay,” she said, a gentle murmur in his ear. “It was just a nightmare, Brainy. You’re safe.”

But even as she said it, she couldn’t be sure that it was true. The sweat on Brainy’s brow wasn’t just a result of his nightmare. As Nia rocked in time with him, she could feel his body convulse against her with shudders that he was powerless to quell. He was burning up, his eyes glazed and fever stricken.

He was sick. Sicker than she’d ever seen him, and there was nothing she could do to take that pain away.

She felt useless.

Then, miraculously, Nia heard a creak on the floorboards and suddenly Alex’s head popped into view. Her eyes held an exhaustion that went way beyond the physical, but just seeing her made the knot in Nia’s stomach loosen. Nia shifted Brainy’s weight in her arms, holding him tightly as the coughing fit finally abated and he slouched with a groan into her shoulder. She desperately wanted to warm him with her energy, but that probably wasn’t the right call when he was already burning like a furnace against her side.

“Hey, hey, I heard the commotion,” Alex said, her expression serious as she took stock of the situation. Habitually, she rolled up her sleeves. “What happened?”

“He had a nightmare,” Nia said, trying to sound stronger than she felt. “I barely got him out of there. He was dreaming of Leviathan’s ship again, of being trapped in that room—”

Alex sighed before Nia had even finished talking, leaning heavily into the arm of the sofa. “I was afraid this might happen,” she admitted. Her eyes flickered back to Brainy sympathetically. “He’s put up a good fight so far, but that radiation did a number on him. Whether he likes it or not, those nanites are going to have to run their course.” She pressed her hand to the bridge of her nose, squeezing her eyes shut. “Damnit. I shouldn’t’ve called him to the Fortress. I just got desperate. I-I thought that maybe he could reverse the projector if we did it fast enough. That Kara—”

Her voice warbled over her sister’s name and Nia immediately reached out to take Alex’s arm, meeting her eye firmly. “Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “You and I both know he would’ve come either way.” Nia was forced to let go of Alex when a particularly harsh shudder ran down Brainy’s spine, all but immobilising him. He tensed against her before groaning out, wrapping his arms tightly around his front, obscuring the wavering flicker of his central projector.

When he was able to open his eyes again, he saw Nia first. “N-Nia?” he croaked, his voice so stricken it hurt. He shook his head, barely able to articulate himself. “You c-can’t be here—t-the radiation.”

“Hey, hey,” Nia soothed, taking his face, running her nails beneath his jaw. She drew his eyes up to meet hers. He felt so delicate in her grasp, as fragile as cracked glass. “It was just a nightmare. We’re at the Tower, remember?”

Brainy bared his teeth, his dark eyes flashing with fresh tears. He ducked his chin into her cupped palm. “B-but it hurts.”

“Oh honey, I know,” Nia said, her own eyes stinging as she let Brainy fold fully against her. His pulse raged in his forehead, beating an obscure pattern into the base of her throat. He was crying again, his tears dousing the collar of her suit, but even that was too taxing on him now. He’d slip back into restless sleep sooner or later, whether that would be better for him had yet to be proven. She looked up at Alex desperately. “Can we give him another dose of those nanites? Maybe that’ll—”

But Alex was already shaking her head. “They’re doing their job,” she said. “I know it looks rough, and it is, but I promise he’s healing, Nia. He just has to ride this out.”

Nia closed her eyes, pressing her cheek into his damp hair. “He’s in so much pain.”

“I know,” Alex said softly. She sighed, crouching down so that she could run the back of her hand against Brainy's cheek. When he didn't stir, she stood, jerking her head towards the elevator. “Look, I’m gonna get Lena’s portal watch from downstairs. It’s the quickest way to get him home so that he can sleep this off safely.”

Nia could only nod. It didn’t feel like she was even fully there anymore. A part of her consciousness had tied itself far too deeply with Brainy’s pain, maybe from the moment she’d first slipped into his nightmare.

She hardly heard Alex when she asked, “One last thing; do you know where he’s calling home these days?”

Despite that, she didn’t hesitate. “My apartment,” Nia said, wiping the tears from her eyes in an automatic gesture. She sobered as she stared at the moisture on her fingers, for a second unsure whether it had come from her face or Brainy’s. She glanced up again. “He’ll be safe there,” she explained, before hastening to add, “besides, I can’t leave him alone like this.”

Alex’s expression was warm. She glanced between Brainy and Nia knowingly, an eyebrow half raised. “Are you two…?”

“We’re figuring things out,” Nia said. As if on cue, Brainy made a soft sound against her, desperately nuzzling into her throat, a crackly hum easing from his chest. His breath was hot and welcoming, his lips brushing her skin without being fully conscious of the act. Even still, Nia felt her face warm.

“Looks like it’s going well,” Alex noted with a smirk. It was the first time Nia had seen her smile since they’d lost Kara. It was a tired smile, sure, but if nothing else, she was glad she could offer Alex at least that. Even if it did come at her own expense.

Alex winked before she turned away. “I’ll get the watch.”

“Thank you.”

Nia waited for Alex nervously, her fingers tugging gently through Brainy’s sweat soaked hair. When his eyes fluttered open again and he found her so instinctively, she kissed his forehead, letting her lips linger on his clammy skin. He tasted of salt and metal.

“Hold on, Wildcat,” she murmured. “You’ll be home soon.”

Home. The word had come out so easily, but the moment she said it, she knew it was the truth. She didn’t want Brainy anywhere else. Not tonight, not ever again. And as he sagged gratefully into her embrace, lowering his head with the barest hint of acknowledgement, she knew that he felt the same.

[tini21]

346/365 always with the weird sleeping positions

[sylfen]

Inversion: Ch. 10 - And if the world's on fire...

Chapter 1 ←Previous On Ao3.

Relationships: Ramattra/Genji Shimada, Cole Cassidy/Hanzo Shimada

In a fight, Winston’s curt admission would be deemed a suckerpunch—entirely out of left field. 

Color drained out of Genji’s face, his mind recoiling. “I… Sorry?” He fumbled, casting a glance toward the way he had come from. “But Ramattra is locked up here. Null Sector’s base of operations was destroyed. They should be scattered.”

“Our leading theory is that Null Sector’s operations and command are branched to counteract disruptions in structure. The lull in activity must have been a strategic feint for a secondary blitz.” Although hardly skewed, Winston nonetheless repositioned his glasses. It was a nervous tick he had, one he thought was well-hidden from the workforce depending on him for guidance in times of doubt.

For the simple gesture it was, it formed ice in Genji’s veins.

Vivian nodded, the dark under her eyes a harrowing hint of human limits, yet her stance remained steadfast. “It’s bad out there. Multiple governments have issued a state of emergency; Thailand, Hawaii, Chile…” 

Supplementing snapshots blipped into an arch around Command. Genji felt his heart rend at the sight: Omnics in varying locations, slumped over or prone on the ground, all wearing the metal crowns of Null Sector. While he sobered from the flurry of emotions, Vivian continued her summary by pulling up a globe highlighting different countries.

“We’re stretched thin and on borrowed time. Debriefing is being conducted while we are en route to deploy.”

Genji began moving even before his mind made the decision, his determined words following suit. “Sojourn, your aircraft at the landing has an autopilot function, correct? I can reach Bangkok within the hour, and—”

Vivian raised her hand with a sympathetic look, stilling his ramble.

“We need you there. At Indira,” she quickly elaborated. “Whoever is leading Null Sector now, if they learn where Ramattra is, there’s a risk they will try to break him out.”

“For that reason, transmissions to and from the island need to be restricted. I’m granting you full authorization,” Winston explained as he hunched forward to type into a secondary device. 

With the momentary lull, Genji’s eyes flicked over the rest of Command; Cole’s stance was rigid, his signature cigar missing. His incomplete holographic depiction gave the impression he was attempting to hide.

Meanwhile, Angela was tending to a figure partially drawn inside her quadrant; the bangles in the hair and the definition in the arm suggested it was Fareeha. Out of everyone in Command, Angela looked the most haggard. Of course, she juggled the same responsibilities and then some. Even now she was busy weaving medical work together with a response strategy and the logistical nightmare it all entailed.

Forgetting to respond to her messages had guilt prod at Genji’s stomach, so he busied himself with the list of logged IDs, scrolling through it. Every agent, old and new, waited silently for the debrief to resume.

“In the meantime, you wouldn’t have anything to report, would you, Genji?” Vivian requested. She aimed to move the conversation along, as every second was precious.

…And now Genji was frightfully aware of how he had misspent them. “No. I can only confirm the intel we have.” Speaking the truth out loud made him cringe.

A wave of disappointment swept through Command. Only Winston caught the nuance, even while typing. “But you have been making progress.”

“I have been trying to gain favor. Through Ramattra’s past with Master Zenyatta, and… Ah…” Genji’s gaze dropped, the words almost lodging in his throat. “…Assistance in repairs.”

Winston stopped mid-typing to raise his head, just as surprised as Cole. Vivian closed her eyes shut while Angela looked back at the screen, her brows slightly raised. Fareeha leaned into frame, her expression unreadable. Murmuring from agents filled the channel.

Genji’s face flushed. The gulls’ cries twisted his insides.

“You didn’t consult us,” Sojourn stated flatly, opening her eyes. “Entering an enemy commander’s cell unsupervised, compromising containment by giving him tools… Genji, what you did wasn’t only reckless, it broke protocol.”

Genji nodded but did not look up; his head felt heavy on his shoulders.

Winston sighed, rubbing tiredly at his face. “Go easy on him, Vivian. This is partially on me. If I had more time after bringing the Ecopoint online, I could have repaired Ramattra.”

An attempt to redirect blame and soften the flawed call of judgment. It made Vivian shake her head, her ponytail mimicking the motion.

“I take full—,” Genji tried all too softly, but Vivian was louder.

“When he was still unconscious, Winston. This was an individual decision, and it was performed while Ramattra was awake. He’s an R-7000—an out of commission limb won’t turn such a model harmless, nor does it impede their tactical strategizing.”

Her expression tightened at the thought of a worse outcome. “What if Ramattra had attacked and successfully breached confinement? Do I have to remind you Genji is alone at the Ecopoint? There’s only one way on or off that island and it’s at the landing pad, waiting. Back me up here, Ange.”

At the call, Angela scooted closer to her screen, her voice non-confrontational yet decided. “I support Genji’s decision.”

Fareeha seemed unphased. While she anticipated the response, Vivian did not. In spite of Vivian’s surprise, she matched Angela’s confidence. “You’re saying you agree with what he did?”

“He should’ve gone through the proper channels, yes, but leaving Ramattra in disrepair would’ve been inhumane.”

“Inhumane?” Vivian echoed. Her optic lenses activated, their brilliant blue suggesting she was looking through archival photos. “Angela, these invasions are inhumane.”

Angela was not to be dissuaded; she placed a hand on her chest, her halo gleaming. “What good would Overwatch be if we resorted to treatment befitting war criminals?”

“These are real stakes we’re dealing with, not a hypothetical scenario in an ethics class. People are dying and Omnics are being stripped of their consciousness. You know that. You’ve seen it. ”

Genji’s eyes glazed over, his mind tuning out the voices. The arguing made his body twitch. An old, faded reflex of his: Fall into a prostrate position, touch his forehead to the tatami mat until father and the Elders finished exchanging words. Muffled words and squawks reached him like underwater noise, and his mind drifted to the place it should not have gone to begin with.

At some point, the conference turned quiet. Only the sound of the many crafts’ whining engines poured out of the speakers. A harsh reminder of the division of teams.

Cole jumped, realizing his superiors were awaiting his input, the sudden movement breaking Genji out of his fugue. The cyborg realized he had subconsciously moved throughout the debate, now finding himself standing in the shadow of the barracks.

Cole’s eyes darted as he adjusted his hat. “Eh, well… I have t’take—,” he cleared his throat, smoothing his drawl. “I have to take Vivian’s side on this. You’re no tenderfoot; you know cornered animals bite. Moseying on in without a partner was a right risk.”

Genji nodded with a hummed agreement, retreating into the sterile halls of the building. He stared down at the cracked concrete as he meandered. Cole and Vivian were more than right.

“Hey, you woulda given Ramattra one hell of a dustup. He should be countin’ his lucky stars,” Cole offered with a subdued chuckle; his attempt at raising Genji’s sullen spirit.

“Okay, okay. We can discuss this when we have time,” Winston meditated in anticipation of the topic straying further. He returned to type at his keyboard, his fingers jabbing at the keys in a flurry. “The longer the connection is kept, the more we risk triangulation and an attack. If you have any cause for concern or an update, Genji, report to us immediately. In the meantime, we are depending on you for information.”

“Without stepping into Ramattra’s cell,” Vivian cut in, ignoring the sharp, resigned exhale from Winston.

Genji’s face contorted behind his mask. Straightening himself, he finally dared engage the many eyes seemingly fixed on him, not out of his own will but out of necessity. “Understood. May I speak with Dr. Ziegler? Privately.”

Vivian appeared pleased with the affirmation, her firm tone softening somewhat. “Of course, Genji. We’ll reroute her call to you when we’ve finished up the debrief. Stay vigilant. We don’t know what more Null Sector have up their sleeve. You’re free to go.”

At the granted dismissal, a clamor of opinions and questions were aimed at command, prompting Cole and Angela to try and get everyone to settle. That was the last thing Genji registered before he left the digital conference, his musings already moving on. 

His feet took him toward the canteen, a familiar gnaw eating at him, but he knew it was not just hunger.

Leaning his chin against his hand, Genji absently stirred the contents of his ramen cup. Wafting steam had long since cleared. On the table next to his faceplate, the same holopad sat at the ready. Its blue glow clashed with the dim warmth of the canteen’s lights.

During the time between ending the call and now, his focus should have been on the debrief. Let the words ring in his head. Contemplate the concerns and adjust his conduct accordingly.

Yet the world had been tipped on its axis and his mind always wandered back to the cell. Back to the sight that had struck revelation. Ramattra, staring forlornly at his hand. At the chassis designed and forged to be a weapon. 

And in front of Genji was the same. Hands belonging to a body birthed and twice shaped for that purpose. 

Ramattra remained ghosting, his shape laced with the very hate and pain Genji had witnessed in Null Sector’s machines. The one and same which had defined his own reflection once. A state of being Zenyatta had shifted, proved possible of remedy.

A mingling sense of regret, hope and shame simmered within Genji’s chest. He continued stirring his cold ramen.

Some time later, the holopad chirped. Angela, at last. He swallowed, forced himself into a more dignified posture before answering.

“Hi, Genji,” Angela greeted warmly albeit tiredly. As suggested by the low, constant drone, she was still in the cabin of the Orca. “I’m here now. What is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

“Ah, hi Angela…” Genji trailed off and rubbed at his neck. He was not confident in how to approach the subject matter, even though he knew he could confide in her.

The pause wrought a line of worry across Angela’s forehead, her expression falling. “Is it about my messages? I’m really sorry, Genji, I didn’t mean to come across so strongly. All the stress and worry took over.”

Genji threw his hands up in front of himself. “No, I—I understand. The subject is… slightly related to that. My actions, that is.”

“Well. I stand by what I said to Vivian. Maybe I was a bit too blunt, but you know how passionate I can be,” she said, twirling a strand of blonde hair that had loosened from her ponytail. “No one deserves to suffer. Not even the most vile person on Earth.”

“I agree. Still… There has to be a line. Where is it?” 

Trying to appear casual, Genji swept a curtain of noodles into his mouth. He grimaced at the cold, soggy texture.

“This isn’t just about the way you defied safety regulations, is it?”

Genji’s eyes widened, nearly choking on his food. He coughed. Slamming the ramen cup down almost created a mess. 

“S-spicy,” he claimed, wheezing. At Angela’s pointed look, he gulped down a glass of water.

The theatrics left her pursing her lips, unimpressed. “Genji. I brought you back from the brink of death. I helped you learn how to walk again. We tackled Maximilien together. I think I know you well enough to pick up on your cues by now. What’s worrying you?”

The question was a catalyst for repressed feelings to boil over, seeking escape despite being pushed against. Their potency was caustic, burning his esophagus. 

“I…,” Genji eked out involuntarily. He brought his arms close. Like the Tongue-Cut Sparrow, his mouth opened and closed, words present but refusing. 

I failed him. I failed Zenyatta.

Tension shot through his body. The lamps inched closer, their light turning hot against his skin, knocking the confession loose.

“It’s Zenyatta,” he said softly. “I worry for him.”

Angela’s mouth curved downward with pity. She brought the Holovid closer, her voice clearer against the static. “He means a lot to you. It’s natural to feel concerned about his health.”

“I’m not the only one,” Genji admitted, his eyes dropping momentarily. “Ramattra has ties to him, and he seems conflicted as well.”

“Yes, I heard you report a past with Zenyatta. I’m surprised he opened up about it.”

With a finger, Genji traced the circumference of the ramen cup. The repetitive motion kept his focus anchored. “Truthfully… He never did. Not directly. I asked him if he knew Zenyatta’s role before the Awakening. Making a claim or saying no would have been simple. When he admitted he could never get a real answer, I knew he was speaking sincerely.”

Genji glanced aside, voice quieter. “Only those close to Zenyatta would know how often his past changes. Not even Tekhartha Mondatta knew.”

Angela nodded slowly; she knew what Genji was working toward. Nonetheless, she let him air out his mindset. It was as appreciated as it was a headache. 

“Our shared history with Zenaytta may be a deciding factor for Ramattra to reveal how to undo subjugation. But… During my time as his student, he demonstrated the importance of connection through presence and patience.”

“Which would mean disobeying Vivian’s restriction.”

Genji gave her a small, woeful laugh. “Precisely. I’m at an impasse.”

Silence descended as Angela leaned up against the Orca’s server racks, looking up in thought. Around her, small lights pulsed on and off, soft beeping and clicking following suit.

“When I entered the world of medicine, I was aware I would be forced to make hard calls. It terrified me. What if I wound up causing more harm than good? One of my professors was a doctor on the frontline of the Omnic Crisis. She knew the fear, so she took me aside and gave me a piece of advice that has followed me ever since.” She tucked the strand behind her ear. “‘Being too afraid of doing wrong risks overlooking doing what’s right.’ Not every choice comes with clarity, but doing nothing is worse.” 

The phrase permeated in the ensuing stillness, an opportunity for the wisdom to reach through and settle. In the silence, Genji smothered under their weight.

Angela glanced at something off-screen and she set off, her heels audible against the floor. “I hope our little chat was productive. We’re closing in on contested territory and Fareeha’s Raptora suit still has a fracture to mend.”

Genji barely registered the words before replying. “You gave me advice to consider. Thank you, Angela. Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too.”

“As long as I’m helping heal people, I’ll be fine.” She stopped in place, a slyness curving her eyes. “Actually, a dinner at Les Deux Escargots in Paris would most certainly help. With my choice in wine. Your palette is terrible.”

Of course. Angela and her fine dining. Genji almost bartered for an izakaya, a ramen stand or even a canteen—but for her, he nodded, chuckling weakly. “I will bring you there when the world is safe.”

“We have a deal,” she winked. Her cheeky demeanor melted away to a soft, fond smile. “You’ll find a way, Genji. I know you will. That’s a promise.”

When the call ended, Genji stared blankly at the display. After a minute or so, the holograph scattered with the activation of standby-mode. Without the holopad’s glow, the room receded inward. Heat pressed against him, against his chest and into his lungs. 

The flicker of a single bulb cast a silhouette on the wall. 

Warped. All too close. All too similar.

Genji left the canteen in a hurry.

The night was alive with the song of cicadas.

A similar tune enveloped Hanamura dojo so long ago. Where, regardless of Genji’s determination and honed skill, he never won a single spar. Yet training was the one area he felt fully in control of. Moving his body was a freedom, a tangible progression in a life dominated by his role as second-born. He could run from undesired responsibilities, escape the ensuing punishment with lockpicking and dexterity, then find comfort in eroticism and sex. 

Until it all came to an abrupt end.

Genji’s visage reflected off the glass entrance. For just a breath, a gossamer overlaying his own form, he saw Hanzo approach. Then the doors parted with a nerve-wracking shriek.

Musty air hit Genji the instant he entered the training room. Equipment lay in disarray, a thin layer of dust sprinkling every surface, kicked up with the disturbance moving through it. 

Basic training dummies stood in a line farther back, the material of their padding cracked and dry, still waiting to fulfill their purpose.

A deep inhale and a grimace, though not for the cloy of decaying rubber. Whap, and a fist to the abdomen shook the training dummy. Precision and restraint characterised the exploratory punch. With a second Genji confirmed the density and the feel of padding. Soft outer layer and a firm core, he noted with a satisfied nod. He flexed his hands until the hydraulic knuckles clicked in protest. 

Decorum fell to the wayside. Genji gave no performatory bow of respect. No acknowledgement of a spar. Only the starting signal of a hard punch connecting with the solar plexus. Another rocked the doll, not enough for a complete sway, but enough to tear open the floodgates of the digital debrief.

I deserved harsher reprimand. Duty calls for discipline. My actions were senseless. 

Genji breathed rhythmically; exhale upon exertion, inhale upon retreat. Weight shifted between the balls of his feet, entering a combative stance. Flurried jabs battered the core of the dummy, each successive strike drifting wider alongside the replayed argument.

Yet they can still save every fallen Omnic and Zenyatta. Maybe even… 

Shame guided force into another hit, shaky and raw, buckling the torso in half, fibers loudly splitting along a seam. He coiled a leg. It sprung, driving his heel into the chest. Then again, and again. His breaths quickened, falling out of rhythm, the first rivulets of sweat staining his brow.

In the back of his mind, he heard the calm and steady lilt of Zenyatta’s vocoder.

You must take control of your emotions before they take control of you.

A remnant of their first lesson. 

Genji pivoted, grunting sharply as he slammed an elbow into the side of the target’s head. A jolt shot through his arm, tagging each sensor like forked lightning. He recoiled, muscles furling in response, tension overtaking his footwork.

It begins in the core. Control your breathing. 

Hissing steam seeped into the enclosed space, mixing into the brackish air. His rattling gasps sharpened, vertigo dictating balance. Fist and mannequin collided halfway. Only one yielded. Genji’s body shuddered, feverish.

Allow the rhythm to still your thoughts.

Eyes wrenched shut as if thoughts would deafen with the dark. Genji’s shoulders and chest heaved. Breaths dragged and trembled. He choked on the stagnant air, lungs burning. Sweat trailed down his body, but the inferno lingered. Raged under his skin, in his veins, all around him.

Empty your mind. Set it adrift along the river of consciousness.

Instinct snatched the reins, landed blows confirmed by the sound of impact and the shock traveling through his fists and arms. His joints resisted, his muscles protesting.

Meet your emotions. 

He opened his eyes. The room was alight, vapor and smoke diffusing every line and edge. The silhouette stood before him in confrontation, posed with grace and confidence.

Acknowledge them.

Thudding resounded alongside a low growl. Pain flirted with Genji’s fists, faint against the mental din. A kick sent the mannequin smashing onto the floor with a screech of rusted hinges—a pained cry. 

The sound turned Genji stiff and he hesitated.

The shape recoiled and in an instant Genji was on his back. Mind reeling, body in anguish. 

Accept them.

Again, he felt the weight of rock—the weight of failure—digging into him, pinning him to the ground. Yet the silhouette did not leave him to burn. Not this time. Genji stumbled to his feet and dashed down the hall, the automatic door opening, but he was not free.

Let go.

Outside he staggered onto his knees, windswept. The breeze was fair, not emberladen and ashy. Salty, briny, carrying notes of seaweed. Wind comforted and soothed the fire, the crisp cool gentle for his panicked lungs. 

No more burning rock and crumbling stone.

Yet every scar flared against the chill, every phantom limb and part crying for release. In the stillness of night, in the heat of battle, they would claw Genji back to relive the cold bite of steel and the pain of betrayal. Pursue him into his dreams, twist them into nightmares steeped in blood and screams not of his own. 

Fingers curled into tufts of grass to hold on for dear life, pulling and shredding. The song of the cicadas delivered what Genji already knew: It was time for rebirth. 

Forgive.

The leitmotif pulled him under, into the memory of dusky Hanamura and the tenth anniversary of his death. Inside his childhood home wafted the healing aroma of agarwood, burned by a second dragon seeking redemption.

It was silent. Almost… Peaceful.

The skirmish unfolded in a haze amongst lanterns and atop worn tatami, familiar albeit foreign to Genji like a bout of deja vu: He moved, he spoke, he fought. He reacted to each whistling arrow sent by Anija and evaded them. The bolts still hit their mark, the harmful intentions embedding themselves in Genji’s soul. Painful, yet he forgave each.

Twin specters raced toward him, crackling the air in their wake. And he responded in turn; his own ghost rushed forward to culminate in a radiant meeting of dragon spirits, vivid against the obscure details and refining them in their clash. Anija’s angular face softened as his dark eyes widened in shock. His disbelief to stand before the living dead. Two brothers, dual mistakes, united again.

Under the stars of Indira, Genji shivered, his irregular breaths leveling. His scarred lips moved to the memory he was reliving, feeling the shape of silent words and absorbing their wisdom.

I have accepted what I am and I have forgiven you. 

Now you must forgive yourself. 

The world is changing once again—

—it's time to pick a side.

Grass tickled Genji’s sensors. In his memory, he stood atop the stone rampart, tall and confident. Held between his fingers and extended toward Hanzo, the sharp blade of the innocent sparrow’s killer. Beige. Tips streaked with dark bands. Not a tool of violence—a feather. 

Sparrowhawk. Tsumi. Sin.

His past self let go of his history steeped in blood, his own tsumi. Joining the waltz, twirling around each other, was a plume carried forth by the underdraft of a plea.

In the present, Genji stood up and opened his eyes.

“Perhaps I am a fool to think that there is still hope for you…”

S-save Z-Zen–yatt—a.

“...But I do.”

◇◇◇

Quiet and stillness permeated the cell, commanding in its finality.

Crossed legged and bent over, Ramattra’s optics and lights had long since dimmed. A few hours after Genji's departure at Athena’s behest, he stopped moving. There was no point. His temper had gotten the best of him, and in demonstrating the extent of his restraint, Ramattra had instead reminded Genji of the code laying latent within the Ravager OS.

His fingers twitched involuntarily. Twice he held the fate of his kind in his hand, and twice he allowed them to slip through his grasp like sand. 

The weight pressing down on him was oppressive, but he was not a stranger to it. A similar despondency clung to him after Zera’s and Nameless’ departure. Unlike then, there was no endless toil to distract him. No comfort of factories alive with cacophonous construction, quelling memories of death with the promise of retribution and salvation.

Ramattra strained to route focus onto the floor, eyes languidly tracing the patterns created by tile flutes. He was tired of thinking.

Time dissolved. Checking his system’s internal clock only served to aggravate him further with each meticulous review, and so the feature was disabled entirely. 

Apertures shut to a lonely darkness. Ramattra knew he could continue poring over memories, the closest he would have to a tangible existence beyond the four walls of his metal coffin. Relive them infinitely while he rusted, forevermore denied the warmth of the sun or the vast expanse of the night sky.

Ramattra was tired of memories and the regret tailing him.

Slipping into a trance took effort. It always did. Thoughts and feelings were ceaseless, after all, plucking at his mind like a cord. Even now they existed within his digital mindscape, dithering tears in the matrix, shifting shapes and hues. Desiring attention, aching for order.

There would be none. No distillation of consciousness for clarity. Nor any mudra, no gesture of prayer to disconnect from the weakness of emotion. Instead, Ramattra tried something new.

With his psychic hands he nurtured the tears in his mindscape, coaxing each into shape. Their heft burdened his ethereal arms, yet he persevered, caging himself within a chromatic wireframe of emotion. They latticed until the shimmering forms and architecture sparked nostalgia, brightened by flickering candlelight rendered in kaleidoscopic fire. 

Glimmering effigies weaved into being, static but present, basking in the radiance of the symbol across from them. Two figures embodying what he could never achieve—and what he could never allow himself to have.

At long last, Ramattra returned home to live out his days with Mondatta and Zenyatta at his sides, under the watchful guard of the Iris. Malcontent and defeated, Ramattra would pretend till the last flick of binary.

[qingyingpocketlirary]

Snapshot 30

The programming was coming along nicely, but for some reason, the base coding was becoming unstable after a set point, and so he was having to rewrite what he could and then patch in the by-pass. It was simple work, but it was calming and helped him focus on something other than the slight pain that lingered from the recent changes to his body.

The sudden chill down his spine was the only warning he got.

The next instant, Syntax was snatched from behind and his mouth covered to prevent his calling for help as cold surrounded him.

The feel of unfamiliar and unwanted hands against his skin was an unpleasant sensation to begin with, but the chill of them, the memories that chill called up from the depth of his mind were frightening. To the point he didn’t care what others might think, his only thought was to get away, get free of this unwanted hold and flee!

The hold was tight, painfully so, and no matter what he did, he couldn't get free, he couldn’t pull away or twist himself in a way that would let him extend his limbs. The hold became crushingly tight suddenly and Syntax felt his ribs scream in protest as he continued to try and squirm free.

“Foolish little spider.” A cruel voice whispered as ice-like claws brushed along his throat and harshly grabbed his face, forcing him to look at the skeletal face of the Man who called himself ‘Mayor’. “You will never escape me.”

Syntax threw himself up from his nest, panting and frantically looking around the room, trying to control his now racing heart. Just a nightmare. Just a very bad nightmare. Not real. Just a trick of his mind. Not real.

“Kid?” Huntsman called out as the feeling of someone approaching came from the webbing around Syntax, a familiar stride and then, Huntsman appeared at the opening of Syntax’s room, looking around for whatever it was that had caused such a stir.

“Up- up here.” Syntax managed to say, still aware of how much he was shaking and how unsure his voice sounded, as he focused on slowing his breathing and calming his racing heart.

Huntsman soon joined him and after a careful look over, gently took Syntax’s arm and looked over his wrist device. “Nightmare?” he asked. “Which one? The ice?”

Syntax shook his head, “New one… that- that man, and the ice… the cold…” he managed to explain, letting Huntsman guide him down to the floor and then out of his room and towards a different one where Golaith was already up and moving, shifting the pillows and blankets of his nest to make room for them.

“He’s locked away,” Huntsman assured. “And even if he did somehow get out, he’s never getting through the seal that keeps us safe. Without the witch to help him, he’s just a puppet on borrowed time. Fighting us would waste his time to the point he’d crumble faster.”

“Nightmare?” Goliath asked and Huntsman nodded, helping Syntax up and into the nest and then set him down on one of the bigger pillows. 

Syntax sank into the pillow with a muffled chitter, and Huntsman did a poor job of hiding his amusement.

“Not a word.” Goliath scolded softly, helping Syntax shift and settle more comfortably in the pillow before putting a blanket over him. “Try and get some more sleep kiddo.”

“Hm.” Syntax agreed, already curling himself up again. It was warm and everything was soft and easily moved, he could escape this, it was safe…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Nightmares are common for Syntax, but that did not mean its easy to deal with them no mater how safe and secure they are now.

Enjoy!!!!!!

[quoththemaiden]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. spread the self-love ❤

Thanks, Fells! And thank you to @minervas-hand who sent me the same ask while I was procrastinating on answering. I appreciate you both!

Here are my top five, with my absolute favorites first:

Midwinter is Another Name for New Beginnings

Good Omens, 500 words Muriel (& or /) Eric the Disposable Demon

Eric released his firm grip on Muriel's hand as they arrived in the muddy field with the gentle susurrus of a demonic miracle. The waning sunlight caught on their skirts, softly white on Muriel and richly dark on Eric.

Eric invites Muriel out on something that might be intended as a date. Soft and sweet but with as much characterization and longing as I could layer into every line. It's just 500 words so it's a quick read, but I adore it.

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear

Good Omens, 3,073 words Aziraphale/Crowley

"It's been a bit since I've been flying." Aziraphale tilted forward and spread his wings to their fullest extent, catching a convenient airstream that flowed under his wings like a gentle caress as he leaned into it. "I imagine you do it quite a bit. You always liked the wind in your hair." "And you don't?" Crowley twisted himself to flow in the same direction, circling Aziraphale like a snake wrapping around a tree to climb, or a planet circling its star as they moved together through the galaxy. "I've never given much thought as to how much wind should be in your hair," Aziraphale replied in his haughtiest tone. "It seems quite untamable either way."

Set a bit before Season 1, Aziraphale is feeling down and Crowley has the brilliant idea to cheer him up by stealing a harp. 3k words of flying, flirting, banter, and barely-plausible deniability. (Also available as a podfic, thanks to @contritecactite!)

Written in Sand or Written in Stone

Spider-Man, 1,817 words Peter Parker & Matt Murdock & Wade Wilson

"What's your name?" the older vigilante asked. "…Spider-Man." It came out hesitantly, as if it were an identity he were borrowing, a mask as much as the one on his face. Daredevil nodded. "Spider-Man, then." It was a good answer.

This was the first fic I posted after my return to fandom and I still adore it. It's a dozen snapshots of Peter Parker's life as Spider-Man and what that identity means to him. What happens between the scenes is as important as what happens in them!

We Made Our Peace with Weariness

Good Omens (Oopsie!Omens), 1,603 words Azazel (Demon!Aziraphale) / Jophiel (Angel!Crowley)

Azazel's voice shook. "It isn't like you to shun knowledge." "Yeah, well, that's what this 'righteous judgment' is all about, so you'll forgive my lack of enthusiasm." Azazel's mind raced with a million questions — what was going to happen, and why, and was there really no stopping it — before he realized that, regardless of the answers, he wasn't going to do anything to thwart an angel's mission when he wasn't ordered to. Jophiel clearly wasn't, either, and that was a good thing. A Good thing, even. Azazel took a deep breath and let his shoulders sink, willing away his tense posture. "Of course. I'd forgive you anything."

My top fic by kudos by far, and my return to writing fanfiction of fanfiction after having found so much joy in that as a child. The Tower of Babel is such a great scene to bring some Good-Omens-style guilt and tragedy to, and getting to write about how desperately Azazel and Jophiel need to hug was an utter delight.

Meeting for Doughnuts, I Mean, Debriefing

Good Omens, 500 words Adam Young & Eric the Disposable Demon

Adam Young sighed heavily as he stepped inside the bakery. “You’re going to attract attention if you’re here.” Eric looked over cheerily and waved. “Hullo, dark Lord!” Adam shook his head in disagreement at the salutation. “Seriously. You stand out like a sore thumb.”

500 words of lighthearted banter between Adam and Eric the Disposable Demon. It's silly, it's fun, it has a blink-and-you'll-miss-it implication of Crowley falsifying his reports. If you like Eric, it's got a lot of Eric.

Thanks for giving me this opportunity to look back through my cache of fics! It was a lot of fun!

[invisible-pink-toast]

was going through my files and found some unfinished old fics from maybeequeen week back in 2022! i'm going to work on finishing a couple of them but probably will never complete this one, still it's just a little snapshot into chloe's life and her relationships. it was for the birthday prompt:

On Chloe’s 11th birthday, the best part of the day was supposed to be that her mother had promised to be there. Audrey was in London doing some fashion critic thing with British Vogue. Normally the flight over from New York was too long, but the flight from London to Paris was only an hour.

But around lunchtime, Chloe got a voicemail from her mother’s assistant, saying that Audrey was busy with a fashion show, but she wished Chloe a happy 10th birthday. Chloe had curled up on her bed, holding Mr Cuddly as tight as she could, as she tried not to cry. Her mother hated crying. 

In the evening, Andre Bourgeois threw Chloe a party. It was very fancy and sophisticated and Chloe felt very grown up. Unfortunately most of the people who’d been invited where her father’s friends, business associates, political sponsors. And given that it was an eleven-year-olds birthday, all of their wives and husbands and partners and children were invited too. A family event.  ‘We should never waste an opportunity to network, sweetheart.’ Her father had said, fixing his cufflinks, as a stylist did Chloe’s hair. It’s not like the other kids from school would have wanted to come anyway. At least Sabrina, Adrien and Felix were going to be there. 

When the party started, Chloe went around with her father and smiled and introduced herself. She answered the polite and uninteresting questions, gracefully accepted birthday wishes and clenched her teeth as her cheeks got pinched by women who had apparently known her since she was a baby, even though she was sure she’d never seen them before.

Sabrina arrived and Chloe showed off her new dress and new jewelry and told Sabrina all about her new presents, as Sabrina gasped and admired and begged to borrow things. But the real best part of the day was the surprise Chloe got was when the Agreste’s showed up. 

She’s in the middle of falsely smiling at one of the hotel board members when hands grab her around the middle from behind. She yelps, but is only pulled into a hug by a laughing Adrien. 

‘Happy birthday, Chlo!’ He yells in her ear, and then she’s laughing too. A real one, not the simpering little giggle she’s been putting on all night. She turns in his arms and hugs him back. 

‘Adrikins! You came!’ 

‘Of course! But you’ll never believe who else did…’ He says mysteriously, before grabbing her hand and pulling her through the crowd. 

Aunt Emilie has been awfully sick. She’s been sick for a long time now, but whenever Chloe would ask about it, her godmother would wave away her concerns and say she was fine. Chloe still doesn’t know what she’s sick with. Over the last few years, Emilie’s only gotten worse. She has terrible coughing fits, bouts of confusion or anger that come out of nowhere, and terrible spells that Uncle Gabe calls “episodes”. Chloe has never seen one of the episodes, but Adrien told her they were awful, and made him so scared that he couldn’t get them out of his head.

Several months ago, Emilie took time off of work so she could stay at home, to try to rest to get better. Chloe thought that was a good idea, when she was sick she got to stay home and eat as many sweet things as she ordered, at it always made her feel better. Adrien stopped going out as much, staying at home to keep his mother company. At first Chloe would go over all the time to see them. But as the months passed, Emilie didn’t seem to be getting better. So Uncle Gabe said his wife needed proper rest, and that Chloe should give her the space to do so. Chloe started shortening her visits, then decreasing her visits - first to twice a week, then once a week, then every fortnight - always under her godfather’s watchful and disapproving gaze. Her last visit got cancelled because Emilie needed a visit from the doctor, so Chloe hasn’t seen her for almost a month. 

So when Adrien pulls Chloe through the crowd, she’s expecting to see someone like Jagged Stone or the President. Instead she sees Uncle Gabe, frowning like he always does nowadays, but beside him, grinning without a care in the world, is her Aunt Emilie. 

Chloe gasps and races forwards (in a very undignified way) and throws her arms around Emilie. 

‘Careful, Chloe!’ Gabriel snaps, steadying Emilie with his hand, but Emilie shushes him and wraps her arms tightly around the birthday girl. 

‘I didn’t think you could come?!’ Chloe says, her face still buried in her aunt’s jacket. Emilie runs a hand over Chloe’s fancy hairdo. 

‘Well, I couldn’t miss your 11th birthday now, could I?’ Emilie says, tucking a strand of Chloe’s hair back into place, and Chloe smiles up at her. ‘It’s a very important occasion. Happy birthday, dear.’ 

‘Yes, happy birthday.’ Gabriel echoes. 

Chloe sniffs, and steps back, remembering herself and smoothing out her skirt. ‘Thank you for coming.’ She says politely, but she’s still smiling brightly. That’s when she gets a good look at her aunt. She’s very pale, supporting most of her weight on her cane, and she’s wearing a winter coat even though it’s September. But her smile is just the same as ever, so Chloe puts it out of her mind, and eagerly shows off her party and her presents to her new guests. 

[peopleiveknown]

Snapshots of Rebecca Ruth - RIP 11/5/2024

We are at the yarn studio. One of my first shifts with Rebecca. The early days of summer before Covid-19. We are sitting at the table and winding hanks into skeins. Rebecca overhears my mom yelling at me in Korean and asks me if I'm okay when I get off the phone. She says when she worked at The Slanted Door she loved all the Asian ladies who would yell at her but couldn't understand anything they were saying. We transition into talking about our favorite Japanese filmmakers. I tell her I have the library DVD of Shoplifters and will lend it to her since she hasn't seen it.

Rebecca makes a hat for her boyfriend that I like. Hey, can you share the pattern with me? Want my Ravelry account info? She gives me her username login and password so I can access her entire library.

Rebecca stops by the studio on a day she's not working and is passing around a pink box of donuts for the staff. I thank her. They look delicious. She smiles and extends one to me. Take it. 

I'm at Andrew's and she shows me the queensize blanket she's knitted for him in a mosaic motif. I recognize the brand name and premium yarn; it's not even from the place we worked at. You're so generous, I tell her. This must've taken you ages.

Her garden is teeming with vegetables and fruit as usual. She starts helping me pick gooseberries and grabs a black bucket. Her fingernails always have a bit of soil under them. By the time I leave her house, I have two heavy bags of groceries for the week--giant chard, kale, herbs I haven't heard of before. Rebecca insists I freeze some of them to use as aromatics for later. Useful for Thai cooking. I forget what they're called. I'm loading up my bike. She yells at me that I'm being irresponsible by 1) biking without a helmet 2) biking with sandals instead of sneakers and 3) biking without a bike light. Her friend calls her at the moment and she recites my irresponsibility as I pedal away. She threatens me that I must do one of the three obvious precautions the next time I bike over or else. Love you! I yell back.

Rebecca's fostering kittens again. There's one that has a cone around its head and in defeat, lies still on top of me. I ask her what she thinks of her foster and she agrees that it's cute, but that it doesn't do anything. It just sits there, she sounds a little disappointed. So what, I tell her. I'm perfectly content. I want a cat that's more active, she says.

Rebecca calls me, asking for knitting help on her intarsia graph. She wants to chart the cat of her life, Grandma Ice Cream, onto a sweater. She asks me if her vision is feasible and we discuss the techniques of colorwork. I explain the difference between fair isle and jacquard, how they're easily and often interchanged for the other when they're different. She texts me later that she's now seeing all the misdefinitions online and that it's driving her crazy. 

I invite Rebecca to come with me to Jake's hot tub in the community since she loves hot tubs. I later update her that I'm also inviting Aaron as another +1. I figure they'll have a lot to talk about since they've both worked in the food industry. I thought I was your only +1, ho, she texts. When she arrives, I have her cashmere sweater she's knitted that I borrowed from before and hand it back to her, nearly recklessly, over the wire fence. We both gasp but nothing gets snagged. Whew, I'm so sorry, I say. It's cool. She and Aaron take off their clothes and get into the hot tub. I keep my bikini on and join them. 

Rebecca tells me I'm going to look like a bigot in front of any LGBTQ group if I say I still like JK Rowling when she's clearly transphobic and that Harry Potter was JK Rowling's only good work. 

Rebecca invites me over for a dinner party. She wants me to meet a friend of hers who she thinks I'll like. What's her name? Ai Chan, she says. 'Chan' is a Chinese last name, I respond. Are you sure she's not Chinese? No, she's Japanese. I ask her if she wants to introduce to each other just because we're both Asian. She laughs. No! Ai Chan also asked me that. I just think you two will like each other, that's all. 

We've finished our catering shift in Napa Valley and the manager has given us each a $300 check to cash. It's mid-afternoon and we're already torched from serving outside in the heat. Let's see if we can still make it to Bouchon, she checks her phone. I want to get some pastries for Seth. It's his birthday this weekend. The bakery is still open so we stand in line. Once we reach the counter, with her advice, I finally pick a chocolate eclair, strawberry croissant and an upgraded version of a twinkie. She orders after me and gets $250 worth of pastries to take home for Seth, maybe enough for the two of them to celebrate.

A rustic, Thanksgiving 2022 in Sebastopol at her boyfriend, Andrew's. Rebecca's already blown hundreds on desserts and the culinary preparations have taken several days. Dinner is over and people are commingling inside. I find her at the kitchen sink, telling her I'm going to do the dishes. I'm so glad you're here, she says. Me too. I was getting anxious thinking about all the cleaning and dishwashing I have to do afterwards, but I knew you were coming, and I knew you would offer like you always do. I was relieved, thinking, thank God Jane will be here. Everything will be okay. I love you, Rebecca. It's the least I could do. This dinner was incredible.

Rebecca's crying about the overturning of Roe v Wade. We are sitting on her couch. I'm knitting and she's scanning letters for a prison justice organization. How long have you been volunteering for them? A while, she says. 

No, there is no way I'm going to vote for Kamala! Not while she and the Democratic Party support this genocide. At least Trump is not fake. What? That makes no sense. Yes, both parties are the same! Okay... but what about if you were in a swing state? NO. C'mon. I don't know, Rebecca says. I guess I would vote for Jill Stein or something. Jill Stein is a joke and have you seen that video AOC posted about her? I ask. Fuck AOC! Rebecca snaps. You know what Pelosi called her after she posted that?--'AOC Pelosi.' I laugh. I love AOC. Seriously! She's a mini Nancy Pelosi, that's what she is! Okay, let's not talk about politics anymore. I try to get off the phone.

Her eggplant dish is unbelievably tasty and I just stopped by her place last minute. I ask her for the recipe and who wrote it. It's from Fuchsia Dunlop. A white woman? Isn't this a Chinese dish? Yeah, but she's the real deal. She went to study Schezuan cuisine. How did you find out about her? She did a book signing at Camino. Jesus, this is so good.

You want to try this really expensive tea? It's called Bird Shit or something like that. What? Let me see the label. Yeah, no kidding. 

I knock on her window to wake her up. Rebecca! Rebecca! I'm shocked when I see her. She's lost a lot of weight from the breakup. Her round cheeks have hollowed out and her pants are drooping down from her waist as she bolts up. She rubs her eyes and looks at her phone. Oh, fuck. I set my alarm for 6 PM instead of 6 AM.

I invite her over dinner while I'm housesitting at Shashank's loft in the city. She almost immediately walks over to his slouching, tall rubber plant and exclaims, Jane, hand me a wet paper towel. Why? This plant has too much dust on it which isn't good for photosynthesis. Okay. I give it to her. She concentrates. There. I update Shashank about my friend, this gardener he's never met, who's stopped by and how she started wiping down all of his leaves. He replies: truly, angels walk among us!

I don't know what boundaries are, she tells me. I'm just learning about them in therapy. How can you get through adulthood without the concept of boundaries? That's pretty amazing.

Rebecca asks if I want to join a bird observation tour that she's hosting and that we can go to the K festival after. I guess, I say, and warn her about the garbage K pop in advance. She laughs and tells me it's okay. We both don't end up going to either because her cat is sick and vomiting and I'm too tired from something else. Grandma Ice Cream won't be around much longer and I need to be there with her, she cries. 

I don't like James Joyce, I write. I'm not surprised, she retorts. Have you read Dubliners? Because it's probably the best writing in the English language. No. What have you read of his? Ulysses. Oh, come on. You didn't read all of Ulysses. It was for class so I read what was required but it was very difficult for me to get through. Yeah. It's not easy. That's kind of the point. Why don't you like Faulkner? Faulkner is so good. He is an elitist, misogynist, pseudo intellectual douchebag whose books are boring and one-dimensional and self-obsessed. He's an annoying egomaniac who doesn't remotely deserve his place in literary canon. 

Rebecca, do you still want to work the resale craft booth fair? When is it happening again? No, I'm sailing the Nationals.

Rebecca calls me, asking if I could notarize for her friend who just got into a terrible car accident. It's an old coworker of hers who she's reconnected with recently after not seeing him for four years. He has no family? No. Where are his parents? I think they're dead. She needs some documents notarized to access his cell phone to reach out to his contacts. We coordinate a time to meet at the hospital with the other witness. She darts to me and gives me a tight hug. She's tearful. Thank you, thank you. We quickly go to where her friend is. He can barely open his eyes but we manage to get his signature. She sits down on the linoleum to sign off. As we leave the hospital, she says she has something for me in the car. Rebecca hands me a box with a slice of cake from Sesame Tiny bakery. Tears are streaming down her face. Thank you, you don't know how much this means to me that you did this. This was so easy, Rebecca. It was no problem. I'm so sorry about your friend. Your friend is my friend. You're a really good friend. I'm just afraid that if I were in an emergency, no one would be there for me, she cries, wiping at her face. He's all alone.