#OR THEY WROTE A SHITTY FUCKING KIDS BOOK THIRTY YEARS AGO

[chiefofboatwatsonstittymug]

"nobody outside Tumblr knows jk Rowling is like that"

HER OPPOSING A NEW LAW AGAINST HATE CRIMES IS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE WIDEST DISTRIBUTED FREE NEWSPAPER IN ENGLAND IF NOT THE UK. EVEN IF YOU DON'T READ WHO SHE'S ESSENTIALLY THREATENING WHEN SHE DARES THE COPS TO ARREST HER YOU KNOW SHE'S A PRICK

[eeveenicks]

Having been a gifted kid growing up really wrecked my brain for adulthood. Like, I’m in a pretty good place for my age. I’m a professional with a full time job who can pay my bills and have some money leftover to enjoy my hobbies. Life is objectively good.

But when I was a kid I was like… a super genius and everyone told me how much potential I had. I used to get so bored in school so they’d give me more stuff to do to actually keep me some level of mentally stimulated. And that was great but it really makes you internalize some weird shit about the kind of adult you’re supposed to be.

When I was 8 I came up with this dumb plan to fill Antarctica with lightning rods attached to super thick cables that we would run under the ocean to connect them to the mainlands because I read in one of my textbooks that we were gonna run out of fossil fuels in fifty years and not have anymore electricity. And like… I thought my job should be single handed my solving the global energy crisis?

I was really good at science and thought I was supposed to become some kind of doctor/researcher and find the cure for cancer by myself because I had no idea how medical research or companies worked and thought all scientific discoveries were by some individual trying really hard and being smart and reading books and experimenting. I wanted to go to med school but then in college I was bad at math and then didn’t find out until I was in my thirties that I apparently have ADHD. Go figure.

At one point as a kid I was convinced I had to become President because otherwise I was a failure and not living up to my potential. And like…

What the fuck, tiny me?

It’s not like any adults in my life put weird pressure on me. I think all the comments about my potential and how smart I was just went to my head and my ego couldn’t deal with the idea of not living up to all that.

But the shitty thing is that all that is still in my head. I’m not president or even a measly congressperson. Failure. I haven’t found the cure for cancer. Failure. I haven’t single-handedly negotiated a successful solution to the conflict in Israel and Palestine like my 9 year old self decided I was supposed to do for some reason??? What was I smoking???

Like, law school was kind of terrifying because it was a real reckoning with mortality in the sense of “oh shit, I chose a path. I did this. All the other doors are closed to me” when the thing that had defined so much of my view of myself growing up was this idea that I could be “anything.”

And I hate that I’m not.

I’m thirty-something and tired and hate the days I have to work more than eight hours (except that I also love them because there’s something mentally gratifying about knowing that I have an excuse to be tired). I volunteer for too many community service things and go to the gym and cook and go out of my way to learn skills like house to paint houses and build shelves and shit. And I write fucking novels that I don’t publish because they aren’t good enough for the standard I set for them in my mind. And I’m always studying some language trying to learn more and just…

I don’t know. Those things were all just this summer. And it still feels like I didn’t do enough

I need the constant stimulation, but it’s never enough and I think I really just need to accept at some point that it will never be enough. The books I write will never be good enough for me because they will always read like I wrote them. I could probably be a goddamned CEO and I would feel like I hadn’t worked hard enough or advanced far enough in my career.

I might just be going a little crazy and restless right now because I fucked up my ankle a few weeks ago and my normal stress relief is going for walks and I literally can’t without risking damaging it more.

I think I just wanted to rant about how I’ll never cure cancer in my secret presidential science lab at the White House and how my own existential dread about the ever-dawning realizations of human mortality are fucking with me.

It’s like… fuck. Time just keeps going faster as I get older. I’m gonna die at some point. More than a third of life expectancy is behind me. 2013 doesn’t feel like 10 years ago and if the next decade goes faster and the one after that and the one after that—

I don’t want to be content. I want to squeeze in as much life as possible before I go back to being earth. Because at the end of the day I’m a weird little piece of the universe that woke up to observe itself for what accounts for probably a nanosecond in the scope of deep time and I just wanna like… wanna get all I can put of that nanosecond.

[seasonofthewicth]

nobody does it like you do - act 1

I'm finally back with some more rowaelin! I started this fic in november last year and wrote the first 10k in 24 hours, but from then on this fic was a struggle... Thank you so, so much to @morganofthewildfire for sharing so much of your time to help me with this, this fic would not be here without you 💗 I'm so happy to have finally finished it and can share it on here. I hope you enjoy

CW: past drug abuse, minor character death, violence

7.7k - masterlist - ao3

--

When her agent sends her the script it’s not the first time she’s heard of Rowan Whitethorn, his name is written at the top under the heading director, which itself is under the big red text reading confidential. He’s been at this stuff for a while now, directed a couple of movies that popped up on her radar but that nothing ever came of for her, and he’s well known in the business.

He was even nominated for an Oscar a couple of years ago, and she watched the ceremony with Lysandra, slapping the bills into her outstretched hand when he didn’t win.

His movie had been far too fucking raw for him to have won, she knew that, a tale about a group of kids who witnessed a murder and how it stayed with them and fucked them up into adulthood, but it had stuck with her nonetheless and she’d put her money on him anyway.

She reads the section of script Dorian has sent her, tucked up in bed with a glass of sparkling water and her most comfortable sweater, leaning back into the mountain of expensive pillows she had Elide buy for her and pondering how so much money could end up so uncomfortable, and she knows it’s something special.

She realises she wants this role, almost to an uncomfortable degree, when she’s about five lines in. The heroine is bratty and rash, but serious and pained in a way that makes her completely fleshed out and Aelin wants to play her, wants to be her and embody her in a way that takes her out of the pit she’s in.

She hopes this could be what gets her out of it.

Aedion had tried to pull her out, gods bless him, dropping by her apartment every morning for weeks to check up on her with a coffee in his hand, topped with cream and two sugars the way he knows she likes. Each morning he let himself in with her spare key, the one she gave to him the day she moved in, wanting him to be able to let himself in whenever he wanted but also knowing there was no one else she wanted to give it to.

She would have given it to Sam, would have given everything to Sam, but he’s gone and she’s left sitting here, wondering how to salvage what’s left of her reputation.

What reputation she had even managed to build after starring in one mediocre TV show and a handful of low-budget movies. She knows deep down, and in a way her brain likes to remind her of when she’s at her lowest, that the main reason she isn’t a complete nobody is because she’s Evalin Ashryver’s daughter. Her therapist tells her every time she bothers to go to a session that having a famous mother doesn’t mean she’s a failure and that she has to recognise each of her successes as her own. She nods along every time, but she doesn’t believe her. What has she managed to accomplish truly on her own?

It hasn’t been made public yet that Rowan Whitethorn is involved in the film, she only knows because Chaol wrote the whole script himself and texted her to let her know when he signed on to direct. She’s known Chaol since she was eighteen and took her first solo trip to Rifthold, drawn to the lights of the big city and the almost magnetic pull of the heart of the industry. He’d stumbled upon her in a club she was far too young to be in and had pulled her out, sending her home in a cab that he paid for. Looking back she was grateful for his attempt to avoid what she knew later was an inevitability.

She had cursed him when he told her she’d still have to audition, but she gets it. She hasn’t exactly behaved in a way recently that makes people want to take a chance on her.

Stumbling out of clubs, eyes as wide as saucers and high as a fucking kite isn’t the kind of star casting directors are desperate to hire, but she’s trying to be better. She’s promised those around her that she’ll be better, and she knows that the only reason she hasn’t ended up in rehab is that she has an incredible therapist and a highly persuasive manner of dealing with her friends and family. The only reason they’ve taken that chance on her is time, and she’s grateful for that mercy.

She turns the page, hitting the final line for the third time. Chaol’s script is so good she’s read the few pages she’s been sent over and over.

She only reads scripts in physical copies, takes the time to print them out using her shitty printer that belongs right back in 2008, and she knows it’s wasteful but she allows herself that small luxury of the crisp paper in her hand as she delves into each new world. Her character is in the middle of a teary monologue that she knows exactly how she’d do, the way she’d halt her breath and choke out the words-- it’s not her character. Yet.

The audition is next week, and she’ll work her ass off to make sure she’s ready. Her usual pre-audition ritual involves taking up far too much of Lysandra’s time to practice reading the lines and filming herself time after time, take after take, and watching it back in the unholy hours of night until she’s happy she’s made an improvement.

Or at least that’s how she used to do it, nothing has made her want a role like this in a long while. She worries as she bites her lip, that wanting something this much means she’s getting over Sam. That maybe one day she won’t think of him and hear the pounding in her ears, won’t feel the lightheadedness that comes with a memory of their time together. Worries that if she forgets the sounds of his screams she’s failing him somehow.

She takes another sip of her sparkling water. It’s poured into a wine glass so she can at least pretend she’ll get the relaxation she craves. Alcohol was never one of her vices but she finds it’s better to be safe than sorry. It’s unhealthy as far as coping mechanisms go, but she’s been worse so it’s going down as a win.

Chaol told her some guy called Brullo is casting this one. She’s never heard of him, which is kind of rare. She’s been on the periphery of this bubble for pretty much her entire life, following her mother around her own movie sets and sitting on the wooden directors chair when her legs still dangled off the side, but if he’s like any other casting director in Adarlan she knows how to impress him.

When she reaches the last line of the part of the script she’s been sent, her mind wanders again to Rowan Whitethorn.

He’s the kind of director up and coming actors can only hope to one day work with, even though she’s pretty sure he can’t be much more than thirty, he’s built himself to a level where he can be choosy with his projects.

It's a well deserved privilege. Each of his works has stayed with her after watching, his style is gritty and dark, but grounded in a way that leaves her empty each time after finishing.

She wants this, and she buries the guilt she feels for that. Sam would want her to want this. She deserves it, or at least she hopes she can come to.

Dorian books her a mid-morning flight so she doesn’t have to wake too early before the audition, he’s a damn good agent and one she definitely doesn’t deserve with his seemingly endless patience, but she’s continuously grateful for him.

Aelin styles herself for it, ties her hair back and leaves the makeup to a minimum in a way that she hopes shows them she’s right for the part, that she can be the insecure little girl who experiences far too much. She knows she doesn’t have the sheltered innocence the character has, but she’s an actress and this is what she does. Aelin pretends for a living.

He’s also booked her a room in a pretty nice hotel for the night, she’s not sure whether he’s used her meagre acting funds or the funds from the account she knows he mom throws money into every month. It’s an argument she and Evalin have had repeatedly, she wants to stand on her own two feet, but she never protests too hard. The account kept the roof over her head when she was too busy snorting her life away to consider where her next paycheck would come from.

Aelin throws herself backwards into the crisp white bedding on the hotel room bed and takes a deep breath. The only luggage she brought with her is a carry on slung somewhere by the door and the room feels too empty to sit here and wait for the car that’s arriving to take her to the studio in just over an hour. If she sits here and waits the nerves will only build, and then she’ll itch for something to take the edge off.

She picks her phone up to text her cousin.

Jet lag from a 2 hour flight. Who would have thought?

Aelin waits two minutes for a reply, locking and unlocking her phone as she sits there, but one doesn’t come. Aedion’s probably at a training session and not checking his phone. Aelin runs a hand through her hair, careful not to dislodge the pins she placed carefully in it this morning, she needs to stop using him as her crutch. She knows he doesn’t mind, but it’s not right either way.

She needs to get out of this room.

The streets of Rifthold are busy and crammed as she meanders down them, clutching the takeout coffee cup she bought from a vendor with a stall at the side of the road.

People pay her no mind as she walks, the oversized shades hide her eyes that she knows are a dead giveaway for her membership of the Ashryver line. Even if she didn’t wear them, everybody else here wants to be someone, and so far she can still blend in if she tries.

She sends a text to the assistant organising the audition, it’s kind of shitty of her but she keeps it brief because she can’t remember their name, letting them know the car isn’t needed anymore and that she’ll make her own way there. She needs the stroll through the streets to clear her head.

Aelin needs to nail it. She hasn’t felt the twisting of desire so sharp in her stomach for a long time and the only way she’ll manage it is with a clear head.

She alternates her breathing with sips of her coffee, the taste is bitter but she keeps drinking. She pulls her phone out to check the directions to the studio.

Spontaneous isn’t a word Aelin would use to describe herself anymore, any longing to go with the flow died the minute she lost control. It’s safer now to plan, to make sure she won’t lead herself astray.

Brullo is a man in his mid forties, with dashes of grey seasoned through his muddy brown hair, and kind lines around his eyes as he smiles and shakes her hand. Aelin wipes the sweat off her palm on her jeans before clasping her hand in his.

The audition goes about as well as she can hope for, she remembers every line, and the other casting director is fairly natural reading the lines for her to act against. Aelin swallows back her tears after she finishes, trying to keep what dignity she can to end the audition when there’s snot threatening to run down her upper lip. It was a brutal scene to start with, but if she can pull this off she can surely manage the rest.

Brullo’s expression is carefully guarded as she leaves, giving nothing away, but Aelin thinks she did a good job, which is all she could have ever hoped for.

She’s staring at the tiled floor, mulling over Brullo’s parting words, thanks Aelin, our people will be in touch, when she hits something hard and warm.

She’s too busy dissecting those eight words to register exactly who it is with their hands clamped around the top of her arms, steadying her as she stumbles, but she looks up and her gaze meets that of a pair of striking, green eyes.

The man gripping her is easily over a head taller than her, broad and strong enough that she fights back the shiver that wants to roll through her at his touch. He’s staring down at her, the strong planes of his face drawn into a deep frown, with his strangely coloured eyebrows pulled in.

They’re a kind of silver that matches his short cut hair, and it shines in the fluorescent light of the hallway in a way that it can only be natural, but she’s never seen a shade quite like it.

“Sorry,” she manages to stutter out, still thrown from the vulnerability of her audition.

“It’s alright.” His voice burns through the words, his accent rolling in a way that raises hairs down the back of her neck. He flashes her a dangerous grin and she steadies herself. She knows what that look means. She’s used to the male attention, and as much as she hates to acknowledge it, she knows her looks are an element of how she’s got as far as she has. That and her family’s name.

The decision of whether to register in the guild as Aelin Ashryver or Aelin Galathynius was one she had spent hours deliberating over. Did she want the level of independence Galathynius would give her, or the reputation being an Ashryver would bring?

The man releases his grip on her shoulders, but not before running his hands down her arms until he reaches her wrists which he releases with a light squeeze. She takes an almost imperceptible step back, leaning back to breathe some air into her lungs. All she ends up doing is filling her mind with this man’s smell, inviting and intoxicating, a delicious combination of pine trees and snowy winter mornings.

“I don’t usually go around slamming into people like this,” she tells him, letting some of her snark slip through. He’s said two words to her so far but she knows he can take it, and she wants to play.

His grin becomes even more wicked and it truly is a sight to see. This man is built like a god; broad, muscular shoulders stretching the white button up he wears and she spies the dark lines of a tattoo threatening to slip past his collar.

It’s been a couple of months since her last mindless hook-up, and this man would more than do. The mischief glimmering in his eyes tells her he’d know how to make her gasp and beg.

“Slam into me anytime.” His words are a sensual croon and her mouth drops open slightly, but he sidesteps her before she can manage to speak again, nodding towards the door she’s come through. “Good luck with whatever you were here for.”

With that he’s gone, leaving her to turn and watch the way his grey slacks pull against his thighs as he walks away from her.

Aelin tries not to think too much about the outcome of the audition, and flies back to Orynth in economy class with a sleep mask tucked over her eyes lest she be recognised when all she wants to do is curl up in bed and be alone for a bit. That or get fucking wasted, and she can’t do that.

She tries far too hard to forget about the man from the hallway, forget about the way his voice had rumbled deep in her chest and the tug in her belly that his words had sent through her.

She begs Elide to come to a bar with her, and she agrees. Aelin needs to pay her more, maybe change her title from publicist to publicist-come-part-time-therapist-and-life-saver. Aelin’s not sure she has the budget for that really.

Elide would smack her if she knew Aelin’s thoughts. Would scold her for looking at Elide just like an employee as if they weren’t childhood friends and Elide hadn’t been there holding her hand through the whole Sam thing. As if she, Lysandra and Aedion hadn’t been her only reason for being here now.

A bar might be a risk, but she can sip her sparkling water while she browses the small selection of men that Orynth has to offer.

She enjoys the easy conversation she has with Elide, chatting about what their friends have been up to, even though most of them are mainly Elide’s friends at this point. After Sam she stopped speaking to everyone but those who were necessary. She couldn’t manage any more than that.

“You should come with us next time,” Elide is saying as she sips her own lemonade. Aelin knows Elide would normally choose a crisp glass of white wine over a lemonade and her sobriety solidarity touches her heart.

“Maybe,” she shrugs, noncommittal.

The look Elide wears tells her she’s debating pushing the issue for the millionth time against the risk that Aelin would pull back again. She hates that she does this to her friends so she sighs.

“Text me next time,” she tries. “I’ll see if I’m free.”

Elide offers her a thankful smile, and Aelin returns it, trying to tell herself this is what she needs and that she shouldn’t just stay locked up thinking about Sam.

There’s a dark haired guy at the bar catching her eye, his jeans are far too tight and his shirt is ridiculous, but she can see the body beneath and his face is striking. Elide notices her stare and smirks.

She likely knows why Aelin invited her out tonight, but doesn’t mind. Lorcan’s probably waiting for her at the home they share, waiting for her to come back so they can be in love. Aelin hates the bastard, except she doesn’t. She introduced her friend to the tall, dark and grouchy hockey player at the wrap party for the shit teen movie she did a couple of years back, and she’s big enough to admit she wants what they have.

She had what they have.

What’s left in her glass slips down her throat easily in one mouthful and she promises to text Elide tomorrow before slipping out of the booth and over to the guy at the bar.

“You going to just stare at me all night?” She asks with a sly smile. “Or did you plan on doing something about it at some point?”

His smile makes him look even more attractive.

“Maybe I was waiting for you to make the first move, a beautiful girl like you can be intimidating.”

It’s a shit line and she rolls her eyes, but tugs him into a cab back to her place anyway.

“Please.” Her voice shakes as she begs. “Please don’t do this.”

The man in front of them scoffs and Sam squeezes her hand, his palm rough against her own.

“Aelin, baby. It’s okay, just do what he says.”

He lets go of her hand and turns back to the guy in front of them. His face is covered by a black mask, only two slits show her the dark brown of his eyes. She can barely look away from the knife he holds out in front of himself, it’s pointed at Sam but that doesn’t make her feel any better, it makes her feel worse in fact.

“Your wallet,” the guy demands.

Tears are rolling down her cheeks, fat and hot, as she fishes around in her bag for her purse.

“Just dump the whole thing,” the guy growls, irritated, but she’s pretty sure she’s going into shock and she can’t focus. Can’t breathe.

Sam’s voice is steady by her side as he throws his own wallet onto the street in front of them.

“Alright, man. We’re doing everything you say.”

“Hands up.” The mugger’s voice is sharp. “Don’t fucking move.”

She raises her arms straight in the air, trying to control the way her hands are shaking and the attacker ducks down to grab their things.

She lets out a tiny whimper and feels Sam spin to her, his eyes begging her to trust him. No, she shakes her head.

“I said don’t fucking move,” the guy yells and lunges for Sam.

His scream cuts the night air and she whirls, hands dropping into the air between them as he drops to the ground. The mugger takes off, sprinting down the empty street and she falls to her knees by Sam’s side.

In the dark, the pool spilling out across the floor by Sam’s side just looks black, but she knows that really it’s red. She’s not stupid. His face is twisted in pain and her hands flutter around his torso before she manages to pull back the flap of his jacket.

There’s a hole in his white t-shirt and now her jeans are wet where she kneels.

She needs her phone, needs to call someone who can make this all better, but her phone is gone.

She presses her hands against his side and his eyes shutter closed as he gasps. His breathing is stuttered and uneven.

“Sam. Sam, no,” she cries. “I’ll get help. You’re okay.”

“Aelin.” He raises a hand to press against her cheek, and the blood on it is sticky and warm.

“No, Sam. No, stay with me.”

The scream that tears through her throat will hurt tomorrow but now she barely feels it. “HELP!”

His breathing becomes much quicker as she presses on his side and screams again.

She knows abstractly that she’s crying, tears and snot streaming down her face as she desperately presses her hands against his side.

There’s a strong arm around her waist, tugging her back and away from Sam, and she screams one word over and over.

“No, no, no, no.”

There are people here now, leaning over Sam, leaning over his body.

“NO.”

Aelin gasps as she launches up in her bed. The sheets are stuck to her clammy skin and her head flies to the side. The guy is gone, the side of the bed he occupied when she fell asleep now cold. Good.

She lives it over and over in her dreams, sees the dark street more often than not, feels the phantom warmth of his blood down her legs. Wakes screaming herself hoarse just as she did that night. She doesn’t normally let people stay the night. Even when Aedion tried for the first few weeks after the fact, she couldn’t sleep, couldn’t turn her brain off for even a second. Every time she closed her eyes she was back on that street, begging and pleading for him to open his eyes.

She grasps at her side for the switch of her bedside lamp and flicks it on. Her room is cold and empty and she hasn’t had it in her to decorate past the basics so it’s plain and impersonal when she looks around, trying to calm her breathing.

She checks the time. 6:25am. Not bad, she must have managed about six hours of sleep last night, and it’s more than she usually gets.

There're a few texts waiting in her inbox, including one from Elide, and she expects it to be a request to let her know that she got home safe but it’s not.

Call me as soon as you wake up.

Sent at 6:02am. Elide is a chronic overworker, no matter how much Aelin begs her to stick to a 9 to 5 schedule, but she couldn't imagine her friend any other way. The smiling emoji at the end of the text lets her know it’s nothing she needs to panic about, so she takes a moment to scroll through her other messages. It’s unusual for her to wake up to so many.

She clicks on her conversation with Dorian, the only message she can see, his most recent one, just says Aelin. He has sent her nine messages while she slept, and she scrolls up to reach the first one.

Aelin, you did it. You booked the Rowan Whitethorn movie.

Her heart pounds in her chest, running into overdrive as she processes the words on her screen.

She got the part. She fucking did it.

This is one of those moments she knows she’ll remember.

Dorian has forwarded over a number of contracts and official things but she ignores them in favour of dialling Elide’s number.

“Aelin!” Her friend’s voice is breathy when she answers. “Congratulations, I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks, El.” A pause where she takes a deep breath in. “I can’t believe it.”

She falls back onto her mattress, pressing a fist to her lips as she smiles, eyes closed, almost giddy as she listens to her friend talk.

“They’re putting a press release out today at 12:30, announcing you and the male lead, who I haven’t found out yet but I will.”

“Oh my gods,” she sighs, covering her eyes with a clammy hand.

“I know,” Elide laughs.

She allows herself one tear as she stares up at the white of her ceiling.

This is big, she can feel it.

Later her phone buzzes as Elide sends her links to two different articles breaking the news.

Fenrys Moonbeam and Aelin Ashryver to star in new Chaol Westfall drama. More to follow.

Rowan Whitethorn signs on to direct The Crescent City, the latest project from Chaol Westfall (Throne of Glass, The King’s Hand & more).

She presses the phone to her chest as she lets out a sigh of relief.

It all moves pretty quickly from that point.

She’s on a plane back to Rifthold the next day and Chaol has sent over the whole script for her to read on the plane, bypassing Dorian completely even though that’s how it normally goes and she knows the two are like brothers.

Chaol was the one to introduce her to Dorian, and they kind of took her under their showbiz wings in the first few years she began to get really serious about acting.

They gave her the inside scoop, having been in the industry for a few more years than her. Chaol writing and making movies and Dorian doing all the background stuff like contracts and negotiations and exposure. They took her to their wrap parties that everyone knows are just networking events and introduced her to some of the big names in the industry without so much as batting an eyelid, and she knows she owes them a lot.

The script is phenomenal, and she has to try and hide the tears that form when she reaches the end, it probably wouldn’t be the best start to the project, being photographed crying on the plane on the way to start shooting. It really is some of Chaol’s best work, and she sends him a text when she lands that says fuck you, I hate it, but his reply lets her know he knows she’s joking.

It tells the story of her character, Feyre, and how she’s dragged into selling drugs to pay for her mom’s hospital bills. Along the way she meets Fenrys Moonbeam’s character, Rhysand, the glowering bad-boy who’s well established in the gang and together they see some shit and do some shit but manage to get out together. The topics are kind of cliché and over done, but Chaol has managed to add a level of originality to it that makes it really special.

It’s heavier on the romance than Rowan Whitethorn’s previous projects, but it’s gritty enough that she can see why he’s signed on. It’s going to be hard, she knows this, and it will really push her to her limits trying to embody the range of emotions her character goes through. But she wants it, and she will make her performance incredible if it fucking kills her.

There’s a niggling part of her brain that reminds her that she’s surrounded by some big names on this project, names that are big for a reason, and she can’t let them hiring her be a mistake.

She sends Chaol a follow up text, wtf are these names btw???

He ignores her.

When she’s in the car taking her to the apartment the studio is renting out for her while they film she decides to take a little trip through Instagram and look up her new co-star. Fenrys is a household name by now, a couple of years in after his debut, but it can’t hurt to know a little more about her leading man.

f.moonbeam01 comes up as the first option when the types the three letters f e n into the search bar and he has over eleven million followers.

Shit.

Not that she needs a reminder but it slaps her in the face that this is actually big. Aelin only has a few thousand followers herself and Elide has already told her to prepare herself for that to rise.

His Instagram is a mixture of mostly photos of himself, some selfies and some professional shots, and he’s obviously gorgeous. His deep brown complexion playing well against his golden curls with a straight strong nose and flawless white teeth. He’s definitely leading man material, and she can tell just how charming his grin is even through a screen.

There are also promo pictures for all the movies he’s involved in at the moment, there are at least three projects he has coming out this year. Damn.

His most recent picture is a screenshot of the article announcing their casting, and he’s actually tagged her in the photo along with Rowan himself. She hasn’t seen the tag until now, it’s normally Elide’s job as her publicist to tackle the professional side to her social media, but there’s 6.4 million likes on the photo.

Again, shit.

She can’t help herself from clicking onto Rowan’s account, rowanwhitethorn is a pretty simple handle. He only has 27 posts, most of them are behind the scenes shots from projects, one with his classic director’s chair that has his surname printed across the back in thick white lettering, and a few pictures of different cameras and pieces of equipment.

There’s only one picture of him on there, and it’s from 2017. He has his back to the camera and the sunset behind him lends a shadow that covers all of his features. Very artsy she muses to herself as she double taps the screen to like it, he probably won’t see anyway, the notification will probably get lost in the ones his account no doubt gets from his 2 million followers. The only thing she can gather from the photo about his physical appearance is that he has pretty broad shoulders.

She’s tempted to google him, wanting to know what he looks like, but she feels a bit too much like a stalker, and she knows she’ll meet him in a couple of days anyway so she leaves it and pulls up her emails to reply to the seemingly endless list of forms she has to fill out and send back to Dorian.

The apartment she’s living in for the next few months is modern and airy, with clean lines and bright decor. Aelin likes it, and while it’s not hers in the same way as her home back in Orynth, it’s far better than a hotel room that lower budget movies tend to shove actors in. Another reminder that this time is different, there’s a bigger budget than she’s used to, bigger names than she’s used to, and she can’t fuck this up. There’s more eyes on her now than ever before.

She sends Elide a picture of her new bedroom and her friend just replies with a bunch of exclamation marks and she forwards the picture across to Lysandra too. Aelin wanders through to the kitchen, wondering if anyone bothered to stock the kitchen, not that she can’t do groceries herself, it would just be nice. She’s delighted to find a fridge full of fresh produce and gets about making herself a dish of pasta and veggies.

She tucks herself in front of the big television, munching away as she watches some National Geographic documentary about whales and it helps to take her mind off the fact that this is her last night of peace for a while. She’s trying not to get too in her head about it, there’s a fine line between knowing it’s a big deal and freaking the fuck out about it, and she needs to stay on the right side of that line, needs to keep herself in check.

If she allows herself a moment to relax, a moment to sink into the situation and bask in the opportunity; she’s excited.

And depending on how well this movie does, she knows she may not have another night like this one. Somehow the thought doesn’t seem to scare her.

Lysandra calls her as she’s waiting for the car to arrive to take her to the studio, it's day one of their table read today and she’s tired. She spent all of last night tossing and turning, unable to shut her mind off and panicking over every single detail of how this day could go.

She’s lucky it’s only a table read, she’s not sure even a professional make-up artist would be able to cover the dark circles under her eyes.

“Hello, you.” Lysandra’s voice is cheery through the phone and Aelin smiles, she’s really missed Lysandra and hasn’t taken nearly enough time to seek her out during her recent whirlwind. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

They had texted since the news dropped, but with Lysandra shooting a campaign for a brand she can’t remember somewhere over in the Southern Continent they haven’t had time yet for a call.

“Thanks Lys,” she says as she gets into the back of the sleek black car that the studio has sent for her, tucking her small black backpack onto the seat next to her. It’s all she can use at this point, any other bag just makes her think of that night.

“How’s it going? Have you met everyone yet?”

Lysandra runs in these circles of A list celebrities and Aelin wouldn't be surprised if she already knew Fenrys. She met Lysandra when they were teens; years before her first show for Victoria’s Secret, years before she was walking for people like Gucci and Prada, and they stayed close when they were both living off cheap ramen and thin strands of hope. Aelin likes to tease her about hanging with a lowly C-lister like herself but Lysandra is always quick to quip that she’s maybe a G-lister at a push.

That could change.

“I haven’t met anyone so far, but I’m literally on my way to meet everyone now.”

“That’s exciting, you’ll have to let me know if Fenrys Moonbeam is really that good looking in person.”

“So you don’t already know him?” she asks, teasing. Maybe Lysandra doesn’t know quite everyone.

“Oh you know, apart from every week-end when we hook-up, we’re not really that good friends.”

Aelin laughs, mostly to herself, knowing that somewhere out there that probably is a story that’s cropped up in some cheap tabloid. She knows there’s probably some dating rumours about herself and Fenrys already even though she’s still yet to meet him. It’s just how it is, she knows this, has known this since she was old enough to read the stories about her parents’ messy divorce.

“What does Aedion have to say about that, hm?”

“Oh, he joins us obviously!” Lysandra’s laugh is bright and loud through the grainy speaker.

No-one is more desperate for Aedion to propose to Lysandra than Aelin, not even the magazines, desperate for a scoop of the golden couple, quarterback for the Rifthold Ravens and the world-famous supermodel.

“I think I’ve heard enough, thanks,” Aelin laughs as the car pulls through security checks at the studio. “Lys, I have to go, I’ve just got to the studio.”

“Okay, good luck! Promise you’ll call me later though and let me know how it goes.”

She needs to make sure she puts aside a minute to catch up properly with Lysandra, she’s been slacking recently and she knows her friend misses her. She misses Lysandra too, and Aedion. Maybe she’ll stay with them for a couple of days when she gets a break from filming, she can probably see them far more often now that she’s in Rifthold too.

“I promise,” she agrees. “Tell Aedion to make sure he spoils you from me.”

Lysandra snorts, “Oh he does, I’ll pass it along anyway though.”

“Means a lot. Love you, got to go.”

Lysandra’s returning love you is sincere, but she cuts off the phone as the car comes to a stop outside the plain brick building.

She readies herself in the back of the car, pulling down a deep breath to center herself, she can do this.

The girl leading her to the room doesn’t speak other than to tell Aelin to follow right this way, and she’s grateful, she’s not sure she could speak right now without vomiting all over the dated linoleum flooring.

She needs to get a grip, and fight the urge for a hit that strikes her when she’s nervous like this. It could make her fears disappear, at least for a moment before they all came crashing back down ten-times worse the minute the high faded. There is a reason she packed that shit in, and she knows her nerves will pass. It’s been a while since she’s done any of this, her last movie read was pre-Sam and no matter how hard she tries to push it down, there’s a lot of pressure on her for this to go well.

The girl pauses outside an unassuming white door and holds a hand out to gesture for Aelin to go in. She rolls her shoulders back, holding her head high before she steps into the room. If all else fails she’s still Evalin Ashryver’s daughter and to some people that is something to be proud of.

Fenrys Moonbeam is the first person to catch her eye when she steps into the room, and it seems he’s done some stalking too because he ends his conversation by the food table with some others she doesn’t recognise and bounds straight over to her with a grin.

“Aelin Ashryver,” he says, his voice deep and smooth like velvet. “I’ve heard of you. It’s a pleasure.”

“You have?” She’s both surprised and not at the same time as she holds a hand out for him to shake.

He bypasses the hand she holds out and tugs her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and knocking her backpack off her shoulder.

“I have,” he says as he bends down to pick her bag back up. “Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. She needs to stop acting like a bewildered school girl meeting the Queen, she needs to remember that she has second billing for this movie thanks to Dorian.

“Don’t worry about it.” Aelin finds a smile and plasters it on.

Someone calls for everyone to take their seats and she notices the name placards spaced out in front of each chair. She locates her own and it's surreal to see her name printed there, Aelin Ashryver, between Fenrys and another actress playing her sister called Manon Blackbeak. She’s even less known than Aelin, and she only feels slightly guilty for how much that relaxes her.

Aelin knows how this goes down, they sit opposite the production team, the director and all the executive producers and she realises that she’s opposite the sign that reads Rowan Whitethorn.

She slides into her seat, Fenrys and Manon chatting over her head as she does, and she spots a male slipping into the chair opposite her. He’s wearing a slim-fit forest green henley and dark jeans, his shoulders are just as broad as they were in his Instagram photo and here there’s no shadow across his handsome features.

She can’t deny that he’s attractive, she knew it the first time she saw him. Her stare locks onto the man from the hallway after her audition and he smirks at her as if they have a secret. And maybe they do, but now she’s realising that he’s her boss, and a little voice in her head that sounds suspiciously like Elide is whispering to her that opportunities like this don’t come around everyday.

She owes it to Sam and she owes it to herself not to fuck this up, but the look that Rowan Whitethorn is sending her across the table makes her think she could risk it all.

It takes them three hours to run through it in full, and she’s happy to see she’s not the only one with a tear in her eye at the end. Rowan doesn’t cry, but he hasn’t looked at her since before they started and each time she read a line she avoided looking at him. She knows there were a couple of times where he nodded along with her expression of the lines. She’s ignoring it.

This is what she lives to do, they’re not even filming yet and she feels like she’s right where she needs to be. It’s cliche but she breathes easier when she acts, the air feels lighter when she takes on a new personality and feels all the things she’s told to feel.

It takes away the restlessness she feels when it’s all just down to her, being told how to feel is far easier.

Her therapist tells her she has both anxiety and PTSD, but she feels like giving it a name doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. She knows a diagnosis can be a relief for some, but to Aelin, what she feels is far too messy to be summed up in four letters. Her life has simply become the before, and the after, even though what each of those contains is a complete fucking shit show.

There are two Aelins; pre that night and post that night.

The Aelin from before that night doesn’t exist anywhere but in her own memory.

Once the run through is completed and basic notices are given by the producers, things like call sheet distributions and health and safety, the occupants of the room begin to mingle. She sees him make a beeline for her, and she swallows. She’s not ready for this.

“You look surprised to see me.” His voice is as hot as it was the last time she saw him, the slight rasp in his throat and his accent. Gods, the accent.

“You don’t look too surprised to see me.” She tilts her head at him because she feels way thrown off, like he has all the power here. Which he does. But like, she can play it cool. Fake it ‘til you make it, right? “Maybe had a little google search?”

He shakes his head at her, biting his lip kind of like he wants to laugh, and she bristles. She needs to level the playing field.

“Says you.” He’s definitely laughing now. “I saw you liked my photo last night.”

“What about it?” She shrugs, hoping her acting skills are up to it. He only tilts his head to the side as he takes her in.

“Do you think I didn’t know who you were in the corridor? I’m the director.” And fuck him for saying it like that, full of an easy confidence that in any other situation would have had heat pooling in the floor of her stomach. “Brullo discussed the casting with me.”

Right. Of course.

She’s not sure what to say next. Honestly? She kind of wants to flirt with him, but fuck.

Instead she hums a laugh, not really caring whether he thinks it’s sincere or not, and looks absentmindedly around the room instead of back up at him. He reaches a hand out to brush his fingers down her arm, looping them round the bones of her wrist and squeezing slightly like he did the last time before letting go. Her eyes snap back to his.

“Just between you and me?” he asks and the smile he wears is far too hot for her to deal with right now. “I think we made a good choice.”

“Thanks,” she says, but it’s a little too breathy. A little too dazed for having spent such a short amount of time in his presence. She’s aware that she needs to be careful, they are very much not alone in this room right now, and she doesn’t need to start any rumours that would destroy her chances of escaping this without a scandal.

She’s here to do a job, and she’s going to do it well. She doesn’t need any distractions.

He leaves her soon after that, and his parting remark of “have a good first day, Aelin” sticks with her, and she tries not to replay the way his voice had wrapped around her name.

Manon Blackbeak is watching them from across the room, and she arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow at Aelin. She ignores her; let her think what she wants, she’s surely professional enough not to gossip to any press, and stomps over to where Fenrys is chatting with one of the producers. It seems like a good enough place to start.

[mydearesthrry]

places we won’t walk (chapter one) || peter parker

summary - the doors at midtown seem a little boring, but when you get introduced to someone you seem to remember, what happens when they seem to remember you too?

word count - 2.9k (wow shes gettin better!)

pairings - peter parker x fem!reader

warnings - like mild mention of s*xual assault, angst if you squint really hard, mj being a softy for you, mj being a lowkey bi, peter being stupid as always, y/n calling peter a colonizer.... thats it ok enjoy

a/n: so i know i last updated in october, but as u all saw i have a 25 days of xnas thing going on (PLS I WROTE THE A/N LIKE A MONTH AGO PLUS I FORGOT ABOUT THE XMAS THING DISREGARD) so pwww updates will be slow (as if they werent already omg) but the next chapter will be arriving hopefully, fingers crossed, on xmas eve or xmas! also, are you guys watching the new euphoria episode? also, i’ve stopped using the word ‘stuttering’, as it may be ableist, and i’d never wanna come off as insensitive. anyway lmao, enjoy chapter one, the trials and tribulations of hitting someone in the nuts.

also side note psa: biggest thank you to @blossomparkers for helping me so much w this chapter. i owe it all tooooo u lani yani. thank u for everything !!!!!

series masterlist | regular masterlist | series playlist

(gif not mine!)

when y/n y/m/n stark was in her early years, she was never aware of the impact her father would and did hold over her life, and in turn, the whole world. for the longest time, you’d always assumed that your father wasn’t real, and everything that had been told to you by malicious family members who were jealous over your father’s “successes” had been lies, and you had it believed yourself. no one would even think that you were tony stark’s daughter until it had been mentioned. tony’s snarky attitude had been a character trait that you’d gotten, and you always took pride in your humor and attitude.

the story of your mother and tony had been messy and all over the place. from a drunken hook-up followed by multiple days of morning sickness, to a surprise pregnancy test, the storyline of your parents had been.. well.. interesting to say the least. you never focused on your family’s history, solely based on the fact that you didn’t have two fucks to give about your family history, but you also never knew your father which was-- bizarre. 

when tony had found out about you, he claimed it was a drunken accident, a mistake, and one he made when he was “less responsibly a stark”, which was actually just some fucking bullshit, but he didn’t wanna admit that he hooked up with some random chick at a bar that he thought was hot.

since you had been raised by a mother who was barely there, you had to raise yourself. you were kinda street smart and book smart, and you were always smart when it came to books, because you were the type to want to learn-- unlike others.

when you were in your teen years, you had tabs on you and the media on you 24/7 to make sure you didn’t royally fuck up. the unwanted attention became too much when you started realizing that people didn’t want you for your personality, they wanted you for your title. but this was after you moved from brooklyn. nuvale and peter never saw you as some “movie star”, or some famous person in the media because you weren’t. but when you had grown to learn what your father did, he had forced you to not fuck up to maintain his-- somewhat okay reputation. 

you always wanted that superstar life, as a fantasy of course, but when you got to it, you realized the cliche-y-ness of it all. you’d idolized the famous women in the media-- idolized how they looked like. you realized fairly quick how fucked up the media truly is. you realized how things really aren’t as they seem. its not just the galas that look extravagant, or getting to wear a fancy new gucci outfit every night. it honestly was a whole bunch of other shit you wouldn’t even imagine. it comes with the no privacy thing- people stalking you in public, the death threats, so much shit that wouldn’t happen as common if you were just anonymous.

being an avenger (basically), your dad had natasha teach you the ropes; the basic rules of how to kick someones ass. it was a handbook that the women of the avengers had created, and it had all the rules and regulations of how to spar someone on the team, and basically how to righteously beat someone's ass up. it was never really something you found too important, but as you grew older, you realized that it was very important to know, especially since you were a girl.

despite your harsh remarks and snarky attitude, your father always knew how to hit a sensitive point in you that always managed to break you down. you never quite understood why he would want to make you feel worse about yourself than you already felt, but regardless, you always felt underappreciated by him. being a stark, you were expected to be a genius, get over the top grades, and constantly be able to keep up, but with your luck, you were graced with depression, social anxiety, and a 4.0 gpa. fun, right? 

wrong.

when you were 11, you had made friends with the kids in your apartment halls, and you learned that their names were nuvale jones and peter parker, and you were basically the golden trio. you were hermione, peter was ron, and nuvale was harry. which, now that you look back at it, makes much more sense than any other arrangement. you also had another friend, harry osborn, but once he moved away, there was no way for you to talk to him anymore. he had moved across the country to california, and from then, it was just you, peter, and nuvale. your best friends ha been there for you for what seemed like decades, although you only knew them for about three.

peter was the boy with the rosy cheeks who little 12 year old you would get butterflies in her tummy. or the type of boy to bring you an extra snack if you weren’t able to pack it the night before. he was the type of boy to walk you to the nurses office if you got hit with a dodgeball. he was the type of boy to fall for someone like you. but he didn’t. or so you thought. 

little prebubescent y/n was an awkward girl who thought the world would be on her side when she needed it the most, or that whenever you needed peter or nuva, they would be there. you didn’t think your best friend would stop talking to you after you had moved away. you were too naive to know that peter liked you, and you were too naive to know that he had liked you back, but you wanted to believe what your brain would tell you, so you decided to flush your feelings down the drain and forget about them, which, in hindsight, was a pretty shitty idea. who would’ve known?

your alarm clock blared loudly from beside you, causing you to let out a loud groan in protest. you hit the side of your head angrily, then whining and rubbing the spot which you hit. whines and loud sighs fell from your lips as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes and pulled the covers over your head, knowing what would come next after you would try to snooze your alarm.

“good morning, miss stark, how could i be of service to you this morning?” friday’s voice echoed through your large bedroom. you peaked your eyes and forehead from beneath the covers, your eyes slowly starting to adjust to the light that was pulled through the big blinds which were now open. 

“mmm, fri, just tell happy to get the car ready, ill be ready in a few min- nevermind, tell him to get ready in thirty, im probably gonna fall asleep in the shower.” you croaked, taking your phone from the charger which was on your nightstand. you slipped on your bunny slippers and turned on the heater in your room, the draft filling your room with cold air throughout the night.

-------

once you walked through the large industrial doors of midtown’s cafeteria, everyones voices started to drop into sharp hushed whispers, making you roll your eyes and pull your hood up over your face. you pulled your airpods from your pockets into your ears and tried your best to avoid any and all eye contact with anyone you did end up coming into contact with. you walked over to the food bar where you grabbed a red school tray and plastered on your best smile to the lunch ladies who work oh so hard to make sure you all were fed. as you walked through the line, you could feel the intensified stares on you, making your back erupt in chills. you didn’t like to be watched, and the fact that you were a so-called celebrity didn’t help your cause in any way. 

“hey.” a low voice called from behind you. it was a girl with curly hair with gorgeous light brown skin, and a jawline that would cut you. you were almost astonished by her beauty, but you remembered the facade you had to hold, especially to strangers that you didn’t know.

“hey?” you asked unsurely, wondering if she was with the media or not. which was something that tended to happen quite a bit.

“don’t worry, i’m not with the press. you just seem interesting.” she said in a monotone voice, but still with a strong look of seriousness on her face. you giggled softly when your eyes locked and your faces went totally still, making the girl in front of you laugh as well. she held out her hand in front of you, while also balancing her tray and book in the other hand. you placed yours into hers and shook it, smiling when she told you her name.

“michelle jones.” she smiled, your throat getting a little tight at her last name, and you had to admit that it struck a little chord within you, but you quickly cleared it from your thoughts and introduced yourself as well.

“y/n stark. pleasure to meet you, jones.”

“pleasure to meet you too.”

“so, i get that you’re new here,” she started walking, inviting you to walk along with her. “what- what are you doing here? i mean i get you’re smart and all, but this is a nerd school; you literally could’ve gone anywhere, so, might i ask, why here?”

“hm, interesting question. seriously i don’t know. my dad and i don’t really get along so he makes the decisions and i tell him if i like it or not. which by the way, i’m gonna have to stay near you-- you’re the only one making this bearable for me right now.” you snorted, nudging your elbow to hers. 

“hm, daddy issues. great song, love the artists.” she smirked, making you shoot your head back in loud laughter, gaining some side eyed glances from a few people sitting at the tables around you.

“so, where are we sitting? i usually nev-”

“hey mj!” you were interrupted by a boyish laugh and hoots and hollers coming from a table two tables ahead of you. 

“jesus fucking christ. what? just because i got some and you didn’t doesn’t mean that you have to be that fuckin’ loud about it.” she grumbled, placing her tray down, slinging the backpack on her right shoulder beside her. you looked at her with a nervous but curious glint in your eyes. she gave you a knowing look which said, ‘just go with what i say’, making you nod in understanding.

“woah! holy shit! i m- i mean woah- nice to- nice to meet you!” the boy fumbled over his words, looking at you and michelle in disbelief, shaking his friends shoulder and poking at his cheek.

“nice cut, g. looks nice.” you said to him, giggling as you stuck your straw into the mini juice box.

“o-oh, thanks… g?” he said back to you, observing your looks with a confused expression written on his face making you giggle at his confusion. 

“peter! look! y/n stark is at our table!” he whisper shouted to his friend, making you look at michelle with a smile on your face and playfully rolling your eyes. she looked back at you, rolling her eyes as well, gesturing to her head as if saying ‘idiots’, making you giggle and turn back to them. 

“so, bowl cut dude, what’s your name?” you nodded to him, picking at your salad with the blac spork that was so cordially given to you by mj. 

“n-ned, ned leeds.” he smiled sheepishly.

“and you, colonizer, what’s your name?” you tapped on the table, alerting the boys attention. you could hear michelle and ned hollering and snickering from their seats, but decided to keep your poker face rolling. but i mean, how couldn’t you? the look on his face was absolutely priceless. 

“peter park- wait did you just call me a colonizer?” he cut himself off in his own sentence, looking at his other friends for confirmation, to which they nodded, still cackling at the fact that you had indeed call him a colonizer.

“peter park, hm?” you teased, ignoring the way you hesitated and ignoring the way your chest felt heavy when the name of peter was said.

“n-no thats not my name-” he said, tripping over his words, making you let out a chuckle. 

“i’m messing with you. with what you’ve given me, i could only guess your name is peter parker?” you rested your chin on your hand, engaging in the awkward conversation.

“yeah. thats my name.” he said more confidently, giving you a tight lipped smile.

“nice to meet you, parker.”

“you too, stark, my pleasure.”

----

after the small encounter with your new found friends, you had gone back to your respective classes, which meant that your next class had peter in it. after you had split up, you decided to get there early to avoid any commotion surrounding you.

as the boring class continued, you heard the loud clicking of high heels in the hallways, which had to be one person and one person only.

“stark,” someone shouted from the door which swung open. low and behold, in front of you was the prickly bitch, your principal, mrs cunningham. “come with me, eugene’s parents have requested a meeting with you and your father considering that you had just hit their son in the private areas!” everyone snickered and laughed. finally someone had stood up to flash’s shit. 

“y- you punched flash in the nuts? i thought that was just a rumor?” peter stuttered, looking at you in disbelief.

“yeah, the fuck was i gonna do? let him flirt with me? no. that bitch tried to grab my ass. i’m a stark, i was raised better than that.” you whispered to him, packing your bag as you did so.

“hm, guess you’re right. well, good luck stark.” 

“thanks parker.”

--------

once you arrived in the principals office, you saw what seemed to be his mother in one of the seats decked out in expensive pearls and diamonds. typical.

“little miss over here punched my son in the privates! i will not allow this to happen!” fuck. you thought; another one of those stuck up cunty parents.

“pfft, probably paid to get their son into here.” you muttered under your breath, playing with your protection bracelets incase anything was to ever happen.

“wHAT? mrs cunningham, i will not allow this child to talk about my son this wa-”

“hello! i was called in?” a voice interrupted, one you could only peg as your father.

“ahh! mr stark! you’re finally here!” your hilarious excuse as a principal said cheerfully.

“i am! and i am here to.. come and have a meeting about my daughter's- behavior?” he asked questiongly, already seeing the triumphant and cocky look on your face. he knew you weren’t at fault, and you were gonna lie your pretty ass out of it.

“well, mr stark, we have a student in the nurses room due to the actions of your daughter!” she looked at him menacingly. he shook his head with a smile on his face and walked over to you, grasping your shoulders in his hands.

“well kiddo, wanna explain what and why you did what you did?” he smiled, giving you two taps on your shoulder, already knowing what was next. you two had a pretty good acting schedule when it came to it, when in reality, you despised eachother.

“sure daddy! eugene had been hitting on me for several days now, and even found my private social medias in use to.. how can i say this, use me for my fame? he tried talking to me, very inappropriately on several occasions, and even went as far as to try and grab me in areas in which i find extremely inappropriate, without my consent, might i add, which doesn’t seem okay with me. does it seem exceptional to you, mrs thompson?” you asked, while only keeping your eyes on his mother.

“why, i am so sorry miss stark! his father will be in contact, i did not raise my baby to be this way! im sorry for any inconvenience he may have caused you!” she gasped, raising a hand to her heart. 

“it’s okay, i just request, may this never happen again? i would not like my privacy to be invaded, much less from your son, and can i please ask that he never try to hit on me, nor any girls at this school ever again? i can only imagine how many other girls this may have happened to, mrs thompson.” you sighed, your eyes filling up with fake tears. you reached up to touch your fathers hand, tapping it twice back, knowing that you both had just won.

“never again miss stark, once again, i am so sorry this happened to you.” 

“it’s okay. now mrs cunningham, shall we see our way out?” your father answered for you, looking over at the old white woman who looked like a piece of cheese. she could only nod in awe, giving you the cue to pick up your bags and walk proudly to the door.

“thanks i guess.” you muttered, pulling out your airpods once more, hoping to seal the conversation with your father.

“yeah yeah, no problemo.” he muttered back, avoiding eye contact and stuffing his hands in his  pockets. 

once you reached the door, you remembered that you had left something in your locker, and informed your dad that you’d be going back to get it. he all but nodded and looked back at his shoes before trudging to the car.

once you entered the seemingly halls, much to your surprise, you saw a scrawny teenage boy lifting open a set of lockers, which you didn’t even know was possible, and pulling out a red and blue suit. once you saw who the hands belonged to, your mouth fell agape as you gasped,

“peter?”

[quentinsquill]

The Magicians Fic: “Just This Side of Heaven.”

Author: Lexalicious70 (TheChampagneKing70) 

Fandom: The Magicians

Rating: Teen

Characters: Eliot Waugh, Margo Hanson, Quentin Coldwater

Summary: Eliot thought he’d understood grief. But this was different, and what he needed most was closure.

Warnings: Pet death, angst, grief

Notes: A lot of fans have wondered how Eliot knew about Rainbow Bridge, and the answer smacked me dead in the face, so I wrote this. I don’t own The Magicians, this is just for fun. Comments and kudos are magic! The Rainbow Bridge piece isn’t mine; the author has always been unknown. You can see it on the Rainbow Bridge main website. Enjoy! Or cry. Whichever. 

You can also read it on AO3 at http://archiveofourown.org/works/11185458

Just This Side of Heaven

By Lexalicious70 (aka The ChampagneKing70)

 It’s been five days but the pain is just as fresh as it had been on the day it happened.

 Eliot drained his wine glass for the fourth time that night as he sat in the near-darkness of his room. He could hear talking and laughter from downstairs, including Margo, who had declared him “an emo bummer” and had exiled him to his room to “figure out his shit.”

 Eliot set his wine glass aside and crossed the room to open his closet door. He moved aside some shirts and a few pairs of good shoes, and then drew out a small brown wicker crate. Tears pricked his eyes and he set it on the bed.

 “This is so stupid.” He murmured, putting a hand on the crate. “It’s not like you were even my dog.”

 But in way, Cancer Puppy had been his. Eliot had named the enchanted dog Gerald during his first year, and when Dean Fogg had questioned him about it, Eliot had simply held the ancient puppy to his chest and said, “Because any dog that’s 149 years old—and that’s people years, not dog—deserves his own name.”

 And so Gerald he was—at least it had been until five days ago, when Quentin had accidentally killed the puppy with a spell that had been too powerful for him to control.

 But it wasn’t just Quentin . . . I helped him create that spell. I helped him kill Gerald. Eliot thought to himself, and that silent declaration caused more tears to drip from his eyes.

 “Christ, this is all so fucking maudlin.” He sighed, lifting a hand to wipe his face. “But exactly where does one go to find closure that doesn’t come in a bottle?” He glanced around the room and his gaze fell on his old battered laptop, almost buried under a discarded sweater—Quentin’s—in the corner. He went over to kick the sweater aside before picking up the laptop and shoving into an old leather messenger bag. After opening a portal that allowed him to travel short distances, Eliot found himself stepping into an abandoned room in the basement of Brakebill’s main building. It was one of the few places electronics worked and the only place magic didn’t fuck up the building’s already weak Wi-Fi connection. Eliot pulled a stool over to an old scarred table and sat down with his laptop. After a moment, he was signed in and Googling “pet loss.” The screen cycled for almost thirty seconds And Eliot lit a cigarette, glaring at the swirling circle through a haze of smoke. When the results finally popped up, Eliot peered at the one at the top of the page.

 “The Rainbow Bridge. Pet grief for gays, by gays?” He asked himself, clicking the link. Something that looked like a poem appeared, along with a color drawing of what looked like the pearly gates, only on a smaller scale. He took a drag of his smoke before reading it aloud softly. “Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge. When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.” Eliot felt his throat close and he took another long drag on his cigarette.

 “All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.” Eliot’s voice quivered and he wiped the back of his left hand across his mouth, feeling his lips twist with emotion. “Shit.” He blinked until the words came back into focus, but his throat felt like he’d swallowed the world’s spiniest cactus.

 “They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.” Eliot’s voice broke completely and his narrow chest began to hitch as more tears filled his eyes and then rapidly overflowed. He crammed a fist against his mouth and read the rest silently, his chest and throat so thick with grief that he felt like he was choking on it.

 You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.

 Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together....

 As Eliot finished the final sentence, a helpless sob tore from his throat and he pushed the laptop away to let his head fall forward, onto his right forearm. The first sob seemed to break open a huge fissure in the thickness in his chest and throat, letting out molten streams of grief that burned like strong liquor. They rendered Eliot helpless and he sat there, sobbing, releasing everything he’d held in since the night he and Quentin had buried Gerald behind the Physical Kids cottage. He cried for the death itself, for Quentin, who had turned his back to Eliot when they’d finished and sobbed, the tears more for his father than for the puppy. He cried for the stupid finality of death, impervious to his grief, and most of all, at the knowledge that for all his abilities and magic, people he cared about could die, and there would be no way to undo it.

 After ten minutes the emotional storm lessened, then passed. Eliot raised his head and fumbled a handkerchief from the inner pocket of his blazer to wipe his face. He glanced around furtively to see if anyone had seen or heard him, but the basement was quiet. Eliot snapped the laptop shut, feeling spent and hollowed out. He bowed his head a moment, sniffling, and then shoved the laptop into the case before opening a portal to the rear of the cottage. He stepped through it and walked about 50 yards until he reached the small depression in the ground that marked the spot where they’d buried Gerald. Eliot cleared his throat.

 “Hello, Gerald.” He said almost formally. “You know, I’m not sure if I believe what I just read, but it’s like Quentin always said about his Fillory books . . .the best parts have to be true. So I hope that’s where you went. And—and I’m sorry. Quentin is sorry too. I know that you’re only a dog and you had a limited understanding of your world, but I feel like it’s important for you to know that what happened was an accident.” Eliot put a hand to his chest. “We didn’t mean to hurt you. And you may not have been my dog, at least not just mine, but you should be remembered. For as long as students come to Brakebills.” Eliot raised his hands and began to cast a spell that was tied to the grounds itself and would last for as long as they did. The grey pre-dawn light flickered and changed, and then Eliot smiled at his handiwork.

 “See you, Gerald.” He said, and then turned to slip through the back door of the cottage before anyone could spot him.

 ______________________________________________________________

 “Hey, Margo?”

 Margo turned from the fridge, a little hung over and irritated that Eliot wasn’t awake to make them breakfast. She yanked a tub of cream cheese from the top shelf.

  “What?”

 “Did you—uhm—can you come look at this?”

 “For Christ’s Sake, what is it?” Margo asked crossly, going to the window, which looked out over the back of the cottage. Her expression changed from irritation to mild wonder as she saw what Quentin was staring at.

 “Is that—?”

 “It is.” Quentin nodded, and then both of them were bolting out the back door at once. They approached the phenomenon carefully, and Margo frowned.

 “What the hell do you think it means?”

 “This is where we buried Gerald.” Quentin said, and Margo frowned.

 “What—you mean cancer dog?”

 “Cancer Puppy. Eliot named him Gerald.” He glanced up to the second floor, toward Eliot’s window, and then put a hand on Margo’s shoulder.

 “C’mon. Let’s leave it.”

 “Leave it?”

 “Yeah. It’s pretty! And it makes a better marker than that shitty wooden thing I was going make.”

 Margo stared at him for a moment before rolling her eyes, but a smile quirked her lips upward.

 “All right, Q. Let’s go have a sinful amount of mimosa before we wake Eliot and force him to make us pecan waffles.”

 Quentin smiled as she and Margo walked away from Gerald’s resting place, which now lay quiet and peaceful under an iridescent rainbow that arced over it, the sun throwing long fingers of color along the ground.

 FIN

In memory of Inky, Lucky Lady, Lickety Split and Foxy Lady, who I hope are all waiting for me at Rainbow Bridge.

[ceaselessly-into-the-past]

an economy of words

My mother called me up today and it was as if an angry fisherman had impaled with a harpoon and beleagueredly dragged me a mile through the unforgiving ocean before pulling me aboard and leaving me to bleed out on the grimy, death-smelling deck.

Which was unfortunate because I had actually had a really pleasant morning. Some events that occurred last night had brought me back in contact with a friend from high school that’s currently studying abroad and we’d talked for a while. It was the afternoon for her when I woke up at around 7:30 am and found that she had replied to my messages.

I might make a post about the events that transpired last night. I might not. I think I’m going to follow the river on this one. My internal river.

it’s ever-flowing and it takes me places. Sometimes to places that I don’t want to go. But it’s usually right and so I follow it dutifully.

Talking to my friend made me feel at home in a way that I hadn’t felt in a while. I don’t know if it’s the ‘bad air’ that my old teacher at the Juilliard Pre-College is always on about, or the prodigies next door or the horrible way in which the school blatantly Harvey Weinsteins its students, but I had gotten myself into a kind of grave of mind in the last few months, and it only took a few minutes with her to realize that I had, and to get me out of it.

She has a blog, too. She doesn’t write often but when she does she writes beautifully. Like a small-scale good novel that not many read but is loved by those that do waiting to happen in a few years.

Everything about her has that kind of quality, actually. The beginnings of something uniquely good.

But anyway, that was all violently fucked way up the ass by a call from my mother.

The backstory is this: I was busking a few weeks ago and I was asked by a woman to perform at her wedding for $10,000. I cautiously got her contact information and we’ve been talking back and forth for the last few weeks about details. However my parents called her last night and found that she had believed that I was a poor lower class kid and had tried scamming me into performing at her shitty wedding for 1/10th of the original salary. I had thought something was off about her, but I guess now I knew.

Fuck that lady.

When I heard how much she’d pay, I felt like I had some value for once.

Anyway, my mother called me to tell me these things. My father had already texted me something along the lines of how she was a hack and she was fucking me over, but my mom started like this:

‘I want you to know that we care about your future very much...’

And then, a few minutes later,

‘And I know that things are busy at school, and you have to practice and study and-‘

I couldn’t take it. My mother was doing Her Thing that was so singularly infuriating that I have been tempted more than once to push her over and scream at her, as she so often does to me, the words that I now calmly stated:

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Oh, you remember the lady you met and asked you to play at her wedding?’

‘Is this about her?’

‘Yes. As I was saying-‘

You need to know at this point that it is 5 pm, I’m trying to eat dinner - sitting down to have meals usually take me about an hour or more, which is why I so often skip them - and I have a three hour orchestra rehearsal starting at 7 and I’ve barely practiced today.

‘Mom, get to the point.’

‘Yes, I know, I am. But as I said, what I need you to know is-‘

‘JUST TELL ME WHAT IT IS THAT I NEED TO UNDERSTAND IN ONE SENTENCE AND BE DONE WITH IT, MOM. I HAVE SO MANY THINGS TO DO AND I DON’T NEED THIS RIGHT NOW.’

I suppose I should now reveal that what happened last night was that a friend of mine had almost killed herself. I ditched chamber rehearsal and ran, faster than I had in a while, all the way from the main building to the residence hall to the Office of Residence Life. I told to the student that was working there, very clearly:

‘This is going to sound fucking insane, but I have a friend at another school that I think might be in the process of committing suicide.’

‘Oh shit.’ The student - who I knew from my cello studio - stood up straight and raced to contact the proper authorities.

‘Hi, yes, I have a student here who has a friend that seems to be threatening, uh, some self-harm.’

Some self-harm. What a cute way to put taking your own fucking life. Practically synonymous.

He hung up. ‘They say you can come into the office and wait.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and walked into the office and sat on the sofa. It was 5:21 then. I was still in contact via Facebook Messenger with the friend who was committing suicide, who seemed to be going off the rails.

‘Just hold on,’ I wrote, or something nauseatingly saccharine and stupid like that. ‘Just hold on and don’t leave me just yet, I’m not gonna let you.’

The first responder to my situation came at around 5:43. A full twenty minutes after I had asked for help. He talked to me for a bit, then the student that had called him, and then left the office to make some calls.

A few minutes later, Sabrina Tambara, some kind of student life administrator or something, came in and took over. She asked me more specific, better questions, and I showed her the messages that my friend had been writing to me. The look on her face changed perceptibly and she pulled me into a back room. In a few moments she had someone from my friend’s university on the phone.

‘Hello, this is Sabrina Tambara from the Juilliard School of Music. I understand you got a call from Brandon earlier about a possible situation with one of your students. He seems to not have understood that this is an active situation- yes, it’s currently ongoing. Yes. Yes. Hold on. Kei, do you know where she is?’

I shook my head no. By this point the friend was no longer replying and hadn’t seen my questions about where she was and who she may be with.

‘Okay, he doesn’t know. But her name is-‘

I wrote it down on her notepad and she read it aloud. She paced the room, talking, listening, and then after five or so minutes hung up.

‘The school has gotten people to your friend. She’s gotten help now. Everything is okay.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

She delivered the mandatory spiel about the availability of counselors if I needed anybody to talk to - a spiel that I heard two more times from two other student life officers that tracked me down later that night.

One of the speakers at our convocation ceremony had been Juilliard alumna Danielle Brooks, who portrays Tasha ‘Taystee’ Jefferson on the show Orange Is The New Black. Of Sabrina Tambara, she said this:

‘She had my back.’

I suppose she did have my back in this instance. It just took thirty minutes more than it should’ve for her to get there.

So this had happened last night, and had kept me up, and had filled me with fear and a deep sadness all day, and it eventually found its way to making me fucking snap at my mother. All the poison and anger at how things are had fermented inside of me and now boiled up and came in a burning jet out of my mouth.

A thing about my mother is that there is no economy of words with her. I’ve recently been trying to emphasize an economy of things - economy of movement, economy of effort, economy of words, economy of emotion. Trying to find the least amount of motion or energy or breath or feeling to achieve the desired result. I try to employ an economy of emotion in music to convey a concept without detouring and digressing. Yo-Yo Ma digresses, in his style and his movement and his process of creating a line. He is a monument to excess.

in that way my mother is a monument to an excess of words. She spirals and circles and pirouettes around a subject like a panicked, unskilled 6th grader trying to fulfill the page requirement on her pathetic book report. Today what she was trying to say was:

‘Just be more wary of weird people on the street that offer you things, or try to solicit things from you.’

Something that’s simple enough and that I was already at least peripherally aware of since coming to the city. But my mother made a stupidly huge journey out of arriving to that point to the extent that I could feel myself actively hating her.

It took her 20 minutes and verbal detour after logical cul-de-sac to get to this point, where all she could have said was that:

‘Just be more wary of weird people on the street that offer you things, or try to solicit things from you.’

I honestly believe that my mother is a moron. I’ve had my suspicions for the last few years but it’s become painfully apparent now. Even in her native language, she can’t say one simple thing without going through a mental obstacle course of idiocy. Everything she says is in this manner, whether she’s admonishing me or trying to remind me of something simple.

She has no economy of words and it sickens me. It sickens me to have to be in conversation with someone that is so unwieldy and inefficient with her own ideas. Not even some else’s, like in an academic paper, where you’re asked to tear apart the mind of someone you’ve never met in a week and explain carefully their deepest thoughts and beliefs. Her own thoughts.

So that’s what’s happened recently. My friend almost died and my mother is as much of a tumor on my experience as a growing adult as ever.

But that friend. That friend I mentioned earlier.

She’s something.

What that something is, I honestly don’t know. But she is it.

I kind of love her. In some way, somehow. I really do.

[deardumbdiary-blog1]

march 1, 2017: writings from a hypomanic episode before I knew to call it that

In February or March of 2016, I realized I had been using some version of self-destruction in order to cope since I was about 10 years old. While I was in recovery from my eating disorder, I was self-harming; if I wasn’t self-harming, I was abusing substances, etc. The infrequent periods of complete abstinence I’ve accomplished took place in treatment centers, and I’d be back to A, B, C, or Z within a week of leaving. I realized that if I was going to truly face whatever I had spent the last 13+ years running from, I first had to let it catch up with me. So in April, I stopped running. 

Like it was nothing, I abruptly cut out every destructive behavior I’d spent my entire life employing and replaced those things with a 60-hour workweek and regular Netflix marathons. It took nearly three months, but the full inertia of my sudden halt unsurprisingly kicked in. I really lost it.

My first involuntary psychiatric hold took place at the end of June. The second followed my release from the first by thirty-two hours. And by the third – early August – I was so exhausted. I felt 90 years old. I felt hopeless, broken, and overwhelmingly resigned. I admitted to that third psych hospital on a gurney in restraints, with a purse full of addressed suicide letters... but I left with something I’d never had before: a personal will to live.

I guess I needed to reach that depth of “bottom.” It took me stepping right up to those crossroads – life or death – and choosing by myself, for myself for the first time in my life, to live. I’ve fought an eating disorder and I’ve fought half a dozen other things but I fought for my family. For Mia. For friends. For a goal. But when depression finally stripped every single one of those things away and the only thing left was me, I chose myself in the end.

After my final psychiatric release, I admitted myself to a residential facility for mood and personality disorders. I spent two months there and fought like hell. I was alive again. Hopeful again. I made the difficult decision to leave my apartment in California and accept my parents’ in-home support.

Back in place that I grew up, I spent a few months adjusting. Aside from six therapy sessions a week, I didn’t take on any major responsibilities. I created art and wrote stories and hiked; I reconnected with friends and took up meditating and devoured books. When I was ready enough, I began reintegrating responsibilities. Now, I’m working as a nanny (side note: one of the moms I sit for is my age, is married and has a home and career and baby, and I’m just like well shit this is awkward) and going back to school. I’m still writing and painting and hiking as well, but not as much of course. 

But here is where shit really gets crazy:

I think I’m happy.

For the first time in my memorable life, I’m not even mildly depressed. I know this because it feels a lot like when I got glasses in the third grade. Let me explain: when I was a kid, I had REALLY SHITTY eyesight but no one knew. I didn’t even know. I didn’t realize that I was supposed to be able to see better because I had no real comparison. So for years I went around thinking I saw things like everyone else, when really I was one-quarter of the way to legally blind. You’d think I’d be running into walls or whatever but I guess I adjusted to shitty eyesight, just like I learned how to function with depression. Finally, someone figured out that I couldn’t see worth shit and I got glasses. I remember putting on those glasses for the first time and being like SWEET JESUS THERE ARE SO MANY COLORS! TREES ACTUALLY HAVE INDIVIDUAL LEAVES! I had been seeing things in mushy blurs for my entire life and suddenly I could see all this crazy detail and it was nuts. It was like a new world. So I guess that’s what it feels like being not depressed: a new world. It’s a strange feeling and I’ve been having to recalibrate even the most basic things (for example, I sleep a lot less but days seem to go by more quickly, so my whole sense of timing is off) but of course that’s a small price to pay for the absence of dysthymia and anhedonia.

Oh, and I finally got to where I wanted to be as far as not relying on any of my ineffective (read: super destructive and shitty) coping mechanisms. It’s been nearly two years since I was in my eating disorder. I’ve been sober as fuck for eight months this week. Self-harm wounds are healed and scarred. I even quit smoking cigarettes in December. The past several weeks have been a bit of a shit show: I was really sick, I experienced some adverse medication reactions, someone broke into my car with a crowbar and robbed me, and my goddaughter gave me fucking head lice. A year ago I would have been pushed so far over so many edges, but today I am managing and at this point am honestly just laughing at the absurdity of it all. Having lice at the age of 24 is totally absurd, but if the worst of my problems is hair bugs, I’m pretty damn lucky.