#and i’m sure i could think of at least a dozen more authors if it weren’t past my bedtime

[leninisms]

real-life activism is so much more enjoyable than internet activism btw. if you’ve only ever engaged in political/social activism online, i really recommend trying to find a real organization and getting involved in-person if you can

[bigtreefest]

Chapter 5: So That’s What It Means

From: The Rainmaker Series

Pairing: Mob! Steve x Forensic Scientist! Reader

Summary: Steve finds out something he’s been wondering for awhile

Word count: 3,594

Content/warnings: Kissing, thigh grinding, nice det. Lang, mean det. Walker, soft!Decks, strong!Decks, mentions of death and murder, light mob themes, secrets, old ladies who love to objectify young men, swears, misogyny, pet name usage like one singular time

Author’s Note: Hehehe I’ve been waiting for this one. Turn it up!

I’d love it if you dropped a comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think!! (Otherwise, I’m just screaming into the void by myself, which is fine, but I like it when the void screams back)

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

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Just when Steve thought things couldn’t, they got worse. At least on the business end of things. Lloyd seemed like he was closing in. The previous death of that employee from his salon was followed by a string of half a dozen, all working for him and Bucky in different capacities. It included their civilian services, as well as those involved in the undercover operations. This was bad, and was only going to get worse if there wasn’t a plan to step up and put an end to the series of turf wars they’d found themselves in.

On the bright side, which still wasn’t technically great under the circumstances, all these occurrences meant he got to visit the precinct more and see you.

Yours and Lang’s desks were stacking up with cases. They all seemed related, but you weren’t quite sure how yet. And for some reason, you kept seeing Steve coming in for quick interviews. It’s not like you really wanted to complain, though. You wanted to see him, and you were happy for it to happen since this increased work load was making you too exhausted to do more of it outside the station.

As you were doing data entry in your lab with the door cracked open, you saw a tuft of blond hair move into your field of vision above your computer screen. A smile instantly graced your face, but you kept your eyes on the results.

“Steve. Hi. Get into trouble? It’s like you’ve got permanent residence at Lang’s desk.”

Steve laughed and came in, closing the door behind him. “Eh, not quite, but if I’m being honest, as much as you know I like Scott, I wish I were here more often just for you instead of these unending cases. Speaking of which, you have a minute?”

You nodded, still typing on the keyboard while you listened to him. “Yeah, let me just get this in really quick, then I’m all yours.”

His fingertips tingled at that and a warmth rose from his chest to his throat. Oh how he wished that was true. He wished you were his, but more than that, he wished that he could be yours. All of him. But that wasn’t something he was ready to discuss yet. You knowing his whole self. Things were going too well right now for him to mess it up by dropping that bomb on you. It wasn’t the right timing.

As you slipped your gloves off and went to wash your hands, Steve locked the door behind him and took a step forward. You dried your hands and came over to meet him, looking up into his eyes. Oh how you wanted to swim in them; a pool of peace amongst the craziness outside. Despite how busy Steve always seemed, time with him made everything else go away.

“So what do you want to ask me?” You rocked forward on your toes, happy to focus on anything but work for a second. Right, that’s what it was, definitely not excitement to see him, even though your heart was racing and your legs felt restless.

“I wanted to know if you were busy this weekend. Maybe you and I could do something.” He looked between your eyes with a smile, but it was slowly falling in anticipation for your response.

You winced, sucking in a sharp breath. “Unfortunately, I am really busy this weekend. I’ve got some guests I’m hosting. But you’ve at least caught me right now. And I’ve got a bunch of free time next week. I can text you my schedule later.”

Steve nodded, leaning closer to you. “You’re right. I’m happy to at least have you for right now. Even if it’s just a few seconds.”

You couldn’t help the way your body was drawn in just like his. Or the way your hands traced up the front of his suit, which was honestly growing on you, the feeling of the expensive fabric surprisingly pleasant. Or how your fists gripped his lapels tightly and pulled him close, down to your level. Or the way your lips hovered closely to each other.

Steve whispered in the closing space. “Seeing you sometime next week for much longer would be great. You let me know as soon as you can.”

In your affirmation of his request, your lips brushed against his while his one hand snaked around your waist and the other came up to your cheek. Your fists grew tighter, needing him infinitely closer.

Normally, Steve would mind the potential wrinkles of his designer suit. He was wearing his favorite today, mostly because he knew he’d run into you. But if that damage was coming at your hands? Hell, that made it all better.

Your eyelids fluttered shut, which Steve took as his signal to do the same, his lips softly pressing against yours. The kiss was sweet and careful, tentative, yet venerative. It was short, and interrupted way too soon for your liking by a knock on the glass of the lab door, where you had luckily closed the blinds before.

The two of you pulled away with a breath of a laugh, looking down at your feet before looking up again with a smile at the other. Steve spoke first.

“I, um, I should probably go.”

You nodded, mouth still slightly agape as a remnant of the moment. “Yeah. I’ve got a lot of work to do. And you’ve got…”

“Meetings,” Steve finished for you. You forced a small smile.

“Yeah, always meetings.” It was true. Every time a moment was cut short, it was meetings, but this small talk was also so you could make it seem like you weren’t just kissing a civilian in your lab. Whoever was on the other side would at least hear voices, not lip smacking, although the kiss was nothing like that. Steve slowly backed the two of you towards the door to start heading out, but he still wanted to take advantage of you letting him hold you for as long as possible.

“But to double check, you’re really not free this Saturday?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m totally booked. But if I’m remembering correctly, I could probably swing something in the middle of next week. Like Tuesday? Maybe Wednesday? Is that too weird? I’ve got all evenings off, so any time that’s good for you is good for me.”

Steve smiled, or more like beamed at the thought of you offering up all your free time to him, but still spoke softly, breathily, a hand still on your back. “Yeah, that works. I’ll text you.”

“Okay.” You didn’t even realize the way you bit your lip when you nodded, the slightly harsher sensation holding nothing to that of his soft lips. You were granted another soft smile under sparkling eyes.

“Okay. Goodbye, Sweetheart.”

Steve gave you a kiss on your hairline, reaching behind him and unlocking the door as quietly as possible so whoever was on the other side didn’t know it was locked in the the first place. Goosebumps took over your body at the whole thing. The pet name, the forehead kiss, the actual kiss. Luckily, they were under your lab coat, so he couldn’t see how much he truly affected you. Steve dropped his other hand from you, the warmth from them replaced by the air conditioned lab environment too quickly for you liking, before turning and opening the door. He excused himself to walk past the two detectives on the other side, Lang wearing a smirk and Walker, a scowl. Once he passed though the two-person wall, he turned back to wave goodbye to you with a wink and a salute.

You did your best to hide your smile at that, biting at the inside of your cheek and focusing on the detectives in front of you. If there was one thing Walker could do, it was kill a mood.

“Detectives. How can I help you?” You opened the lab door all the way for them to come in. Lang stood in the middle of the room with a file folder while Walker leaned up against one of the tables, something you’d told him not to do several times. Well, it’s his problem if a solvent eats though his ugly collared shirt, not yours.

Lang handed you the folder, still barely smiling at what he knew he’d interrupted.

“Got another case, Decky. Sorry to keep piling them on like this, but we just can’t figure out who’s doing all this. Or at least we don’t have enough proof yet.”

You grabbed the folder, flipping through the pages, before you dropped it over on the desk by your lab computer, the one surface in the room that was lean-safe, but Walker didn’t seem to care about that. You let out a dramatic sigh, crossing your arms. “Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll get back to work, then. I’ll let you know when I have the time to get though that.”

You gestured towards the case with one of your shoulders, but Walker slammed a fist on a table. You didn’t even care about his quick anger and poor intimidation attempt. He probably shouldn’t touch that surface with his bare hands, either, but you guessed he’d find his own punishment for it sooner or later.

“Is something wrong with that, Detective Walker?”

He walked over to you, his looming presence replacing the same space where Steve previously was, but this time it was much less enjoyable, so you took a large step back, holding out your hand. “Chill for a second there, buddy. Give me words.”

Walker huffed before looking at Lang, not even you. “Do you seriously trust her with this string of cases when she was just in here privately talking with one of our suspects? This case is important and I’m not gonna let her screw it up because she can’t keep her legs closed.”

That sent you over the edge. This entire time, Walker had been trying to undermine your abilities. He’d been doubting you, and blaming you for every one of his responsibilities that went wrong. And now, not even directly addressing you for the unfounded accusations.

“Walker, I’m sure there’s good re-,” Scott began to speak up before you cut him off.

“What I do in my lab is none of your business if I still serve you the data you ask for. There has never been a single occurrence where I’ve fraternized with a true suspect of an open case, and this is not me starting now. Plus, that is absolutely inappropriate for you to insinuate. Some of us take our jobs seriously and hold the law with regard. I kindly suggest you fuck off unless you want to know what the floor tastes like.”

Walker stood still, continuing to face Lang through your entire monologue, which may have been smart for him, because if he looked into your eyes, he would’ve turned into dust from the burning glare. Scott looked at you with a smile, content with the way you were able to shut Walker up and shut him down. He simply nodded in a thankful gesture, before guiding Walker out of the lab and giving you a thumbs up.

Before you knew it, Saturday was here and you were preparing to host your guests. You’d set out a veggie tray and everyone was arriving one-by-one until a single person was left to wait for. She was coming late, probably after dinner, anyway, so the rest of you got to it for a few hours, laughing and snacking in your apartment.

Steve was busy like there was no tomorrow, because if he didn’t keep working, there might not be. He was constantly relaying commands and shifting things around. The weekends were a busy time for him in general, so he was lucky when he’d gotten the time to spend with you before, but now it was seeming impossible. Luckily, he was sure he’d make it work to line up with your free time next week. He had to.

Steve was racing through city streets to another meet-up when his phone rang. It was Bee. She hadn’t called him too often at all. In fact, all he’d really been getting from her recently were short, sporadic texts. This had to be important, then, so he picked up right away.

“Hey, Bee, what’s going on? Long time no talk.” He was expecting to have a good conversation with a good friend. Someone he got along with, but she seemed frantic.

“Hey Steve, no time for formalities, I need your help.” Steve instantly locked in at that statement. Was she in danger? Why would Bee call him and not Bucky?

“Okay, shoot.”

“I just got off the phone with Bucky, but do you know where Decks is? I’ve been calling her all evening and she hasn’t picked up.”

He continued weaving, but started to slow down due to his focus on the conversation.

“Last I knew, she was having a weekend in. She’s hosting a bunch of guests at her place. Some sort of party I think. Why? What’s going on?”

Steve sent a short message to Sam to either take over or reschedule the meeting. If something was wrong or Decks was in danger, he needed to rush to her. Personally.

“Um, I kind of need her to clear her schedule for next Saturday to come back and win a game of pool.”

Steve wanted to stop in his tracks at that but kept going just in case.

“What? A game of pool? Why just for that? That’s so random. And even so, you don’t think you could win? Or me? I think we both could play pretty well.”

Bee laughed on the other end of the line. Sure, there were a lot of details she was leaving out, but there also seemed to be a lot he didn’t know for how much time he’d been spending with Decks lately. “Oh Steven, you sweet, naive, summer child. No, and I’ll tell you more about it in a second. But are you getting close?”

“Yeah. I’m in the car now. Just a few blocks away from her place. What does this all have to do with? Why does Decks have to play? Is she really that good?”

“Just move quickly. I need to know if she can do it because otherwise I’m not sure if I’ll have enough time to find someone just as good. She’s actually the best. Bucky will fill you in on everything else, but the farm kind of hinges on it. And for your information, Decks is good at all games. I thought you knew that. She’s like, literally a pinochle world champion and a great card dealer and definitely would’ve beaten you at pool that night at the bar if she wasn’t trying to be nice. We used to always say she should’ve gotten a PhD in game theory.”

Steve was taken aback at the onslaught of information. “Wait a second, you bet the farm!? And Decks plays pinochle? That well!? Is that-“

He was sprinting up the steps to the apartment now, not wanting to take the time to wait for the elevator. He reached the door finally and knocked, faintly hearing ‘come in, Marge’ from the other side. Who on earth is Marge?

He cracked open the door to hear the loud sound of chattering, but not before he smiled at the vase of flowers sitting on the kitchen island. The ones he had sent the past week. His head turned toward the dining room table and all sound stopped as he was met with several pairs of eyes.

Steve gasped and dropped his phone from his ear in shock, seeing a familiar woman in a green visor at the table surrounded by old ladies, dealing cards. “Oh my gosh. Card games. Deck of cards. So that’s what it-“

He pulled the phone back up to his ear again. “Hold on, Bee. I’ll call you back later. I’ll take care of all of this...just. Let me tell her, okay? I’ll handle it because I don’t think I can get into the details without telling her everything. And I want it to come from me.”

He hung up the phone and put it in his jacket pocket before looking toward the table again with his grandest, albeit partially forced this time, smile.

You were focused on dealing cards to your game group, the old ladies surrounding you at the table like they did every so often when you had the time to meet up. A few rounds had come and gone, but your partner, Marge, still wasn’t here since she had a family event that she said she’d be coming from. That was fine, and now you’d be expecting her any minute.

You heard a knock on the door, which must’ve been her. Upon seeing the door open, though, you could tell it definitely wasn’t a little 70 year old lady with white hair in her signature yellow cardigan. It was a tall blond man about your age, decked out in expensive black material.

“Steve, what are you doing here?” Your eyes were wide in surprise. He was on the phone, but promptly hung it up after taking a survey of the room.

The old ladies piped up. “Yeah, Steve.” “Hello, Steve.” “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

Steve sheepishly waved at the women sitting around the table across from you. You turned to your sides to see them all making flirty eyes, especially the lady sitting to your left who still hadn’t stopped waving. “Janet, hop off. He’s here for me.” You looked back at Steve. “Wait, you are here for me, right?”

Steve looked around before looking at you again with an awkward chuckle. He was still partially out of breath from how quickly he got here, but it was finally settling. “Hi ladies, um, yeah, it’ll just take a second, though. Can we talk in another room?” He pointed over his shoulder.

You nodded and took off your hat, grabbing his hand and dragging him into your bedroom, softly closing the door. You stood with your back against it, palms pressed flat as if when you moved, the ladies on the prowl would come flooding in to steal your man. Steve turned around back towards the door to look at you. “I’m sorry for just showing up.”

You straightened from your slouched position on the wall, placing a hand on his chest. He seemed a little stressed. “No worries, I just wasn’t expecting to see you today. Is everything alright?”

Steve didn’t want to ruin your day, so he held it in for now. “Um, yeah. Was just in the neighborhood, so I figured I’d take a chance and visit. I realized you’ve never seen it, so would you wanna come over to my place this week? Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday? We’ll play some pool? Bee’s asking if we can come back to the farm this weekend. Figured you and I could practice so we can win with our eyes closed.”

You laughed and smiled, leaning closer to him. “Sounds good. I’ve got this entire coming weekend off, too, so it shouldn’t be a problem. Probably a mercy schedule with the hours I’ve been pulling lately.”

Steve couldn’t help but lean in, matching you, as he nodded. “I bet. I can’t wait to spend more time with you this week, though.”

His arm was bracing him above you on the door. He knew he should’ve held back, not pushed it farther until he could lay everything on the table for you to see, but how could he resist when you were looking at him like that. Eyes wide and wanting, happy almost, even though he dropped in unannounced, something he knew you historically weren’t a fan of.

He was close enough to share a breath, so you leaned on your toes and were met by him leaning down. As the two of you kissed, Steve knew he should stop it in the back of his mind, but it all just felt so good, so he kept going, tongues dancing. He needed more, kissing down your neck and nudging his thigh between yours as you began to grind against him, gasping for air and moaning softly at the pleasurable sensations surrounding you. You wanted to keep going, too, until you remembered the several people just in the other room, waiting for you. “Steve, I, uh… as much as I really, really like this, I have some guests to host. Also, I thought I had told you this was a no-work-clothes-zone, but since you’ve got to go anyway, I’ll let it slide. Pick this up Tuesday?”

He pulled away and nodded, a somber softness in his eyes, taking in the last time you might look at him like this before he had to tell all. He loved the way your were poking at his suit jacket, playfully scrunching your nose, but still locking eyes with him. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, no problem. Walk me out?”

“Of course.”

You grabbed his hand and walked him to the door as all the ladies in your dining room whistled, and oohed and ahhed at him. As he stood in the hallway, the door just cracked enough for you to fit through and hopefully deter the wondering eyes of your card group, Steve left you with a kiss on the cheek.

Next >

Bonus A/N: Did you catch it? Did you catch where the nickname came from? Yeah, I knew you would. Smarty pants.

Taglist: @evie-119 @hawkeyes-queen @ronearoundblindly

[timbrhead]

metanoia. | pt 01 - trust, trust who?

𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨:

>> welcome, my name is 𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐚, and i‘ll be your scriptwriter (^‿^✿). my story will be kind of an choose-your-own-adventure story with a poll at the end of every part, where you can vote how the story continues.

This will be honkai star rail x f!reader story with these elements: reincarnation, slow burn, i gave reader a proper personality (sry, not much customisation there), does not follow the original storyline

previous part <<< >>> next part

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 (this is important)

>> this part includes: none!

if luocha would describe you, it would be…painfully average. he was so sure that he saw your face at least a dozen times at central starskiff haven, it was that unremarkable. it wasn’t an insult by any means, just a mere observation. but then again, if he thinks about it, that was about the only thing that was normal.

something was.. off. he couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something that unsettled him about you. maybe it was because he found you at such an isolating place, surrounded by tall crates, so no one could properly see you. maybe it was because you seem… misplaced. again, he couldn’t explain it. he looked at you, going over your features again, when he suddenly saw something peek out from under your sleeve.

it was..glimmering, shining golden, like the outer layer of your skin was gently peeled off to reveal gold hidden underneath it. loucha‘s breath hitches, he..he saw something similar before. he took an automatic step back, his hand instinctively reaching behind him to firmly grab the hilt of his sword. he didn’t dare to step any closer to you, his eyes glued to the slither of golden glow peaking out from underneath your sleeve. after trading with the xianzhou luofu for so long, these wounds were identical to people inflicted with—

„ …m..mei lian.. “

you stammered out, your voice hoarse as your name slips past your dry lips. this seemed to redirect luocha‘s attention to your face again, his grip on his sword loosening. a look of concern flashed across his face, before he composed himself.

„ is…is this your name, miss? “

he murmured, still hesitating a bit, like you were some wild animal. you nod, still a bit shaken up.

„ what are you doing here…? “ he inquired, still in a safe distance from you.

„ i…i don‘t know. everything… “ you hesitated, like you were unsure how to phrase it. you subconsciously rub your arm, preventing luocha to see the ‚wound‘.

„ …is a haze. i-i don‘t remember anything, i don’t know what i’m doing here, w-where i am, what- “ your breathing picked up, and he could see your lips starting to wabber. his eyes softened. he took a step forward, putting his sword back in its sheath.

„ please…calm down, mei lian. you are currently at cloudford. “ he says, looking at you to see if he triggered some memories. he presses his lips together at your clueless expression, eyebrows scrunching together into a slight frown. just how many memories did you forget?

„ can you remember anything else besides your name? your age? what you have been doing here? “

he asked softly, making the person in front of him seemingly relax a little, composing herself. she seemed to think for a bit, before hesitantly shaking her head again.

„ i…i really can‘t, i- it‘s- i‘m sorry, i can‘t even— “

he holds his hand up, stopping her from rambling. he was sure that it will only make her more anxious, spiralling into a storm of paranoia.

„ please “ he hesitates, before continuing. „ it‘s okay. everything is going to be fine, mei lian. “ he announces, making you look up at him helplessly. „ i think it will be best if we first go to the city together. this place is infested with the mara struck, and although i can’t fight that very well either, it will still be safer to go as a pair. “

a sense of authority was laced in his voice, making you automatically perk up a bit to clearly hear him. he suppresses a smile at that.

„ when we arrive at central starskiff haven, we will go to the realm-keeping commission, to get some information about your identity. everything after that, it‘s up to them. “

he looks at you, his eyes softening as he smiles. „ is that alright with you? “

you blink, an odd silence following after that, but he could see that this clear set of directions put you just a bit more at ease. you nod, straightening yourself.

„ okay. yeah, lets-lets do that. “

you say, a shaky smile stretching across your face, a feeble attempt to appear brave. he almost chuckles at that. your throat was still a bit dry it seems, so he pulled out his water bottle, handing it to you, smiling.

„ go on. drink. “

he nudges you, and you accept with a murmured thanks, gulping down the water like you haven‘t been able to drink in days. maybe you haven’t. you let out a sigh of relief after the final gulp, thanking the blonde again. you gulp as you watch him put his own lips at the opening of the bottle, a look of concern crossing your face as you watch him. you take a step forward.

„ is…are you okay with sharing a water bottle with me? my lips have been on there, what if I carry… like, some sort of disease with me? “

you murmur, hesitant. you immediately sputter, not wanting him to think that you actually were infected with anything.

„ n-not that I‘m sure…! but still…if i have something like a deadly chickenpox variant on me… “

you mumble, averting your eyes, a bit apologetic. you heard a chuckle, and you look at the man raising an eyebrow, acting like you just said something silly.

„ …chicken…pox? what kind of disease is that? never heard of it, miss. and don’t worry, if anything happens, i can always heal myself, i am better at that, than fighting. “

you see the remnants of a smirk fading from his face, as he pockets the water bottle, telling you about something. but you couldn’t bring yourself to listen to him. what…what did he mean by he didn’t know about chickenpox? this was such a well known disease, if he had any medical knowledge he must know, right…? you shake your head, looking around, at the labyrinth of crates. did this world…just didn’t have that kind of disease? and if not, from where did you have this information? you could feel your head beginning to hurt again as you made an effort to remember things. you gently massaged your temple, forcing yourself to concentrate. you had a goal now, after all, and you needed to follow it.

„ —besides, one indirect kiss won‘t kill me. come on, lets head out. “

the blonde says, picking up the coffin he had on him and beginning to walk down the path between the crates, occasionally looking over his shoulder to see if you were following. you at first didn’t even realise that he had a coffin on his back, by the way it looked so extravagant. you also wondered why exactly he had a coffin with him, but you kept silent for now, not having the energy for another potential headache. you followed him, wandering through the maze with him as he explained to you what he was doing here. no doubt an attempt to trigger some memories. which you appreciated, making sure to soak up every word he says.

„ i‘m nothing but a merchant here, really. i made trades with the alliance before, but as i arrived here, i was a bit stunned at how eerie this place was. come to find out that there was some issue with some cargo, and mara struck entities were ravaging through the port. “

he sighs, turning a corner. you could just wordlessly nod, taking in every piece of information he gives you like a sponge. he even peeks around a corner, shushing you gently as he shows you these so called ´mara struck´. you gulped at the sight of them, blood running cold as you looked at them skulking around.

just in what kind of world have you landed on?!

you wandered around for a bit, helplessly lost without a guide, before you encounter a person with a blue and silver uniform. he had a spear on him, one that he accidentally pointed at the two of you as you suddenly popped up. he was obviously shaken up and cautious, but luocha managed to calm him down a bit, stating his identity and the purpose of his visit.

but after he got asked, you could feel anxiety bubbling up as the guard, a so called ´cloud knight´ (what is this, a videogame?) pointed at you, his muffled voice being heard from under his helmet.

„ and what about this one? “

he says, a thick layer of suspicion being spread across his tone. you subcounsciously rub your arm, gulping. you didn´t know what to say. you stood there like a deer in headlights, before an arm was suddenly slung across your shoulder, pushing you closer to someones chest. you look up at luocha, tears of gratitude gathering up in your eyes as you heard him laugh, rubbing your shoulder gently.

„ oh, this is my partner, she came with me this time. she wanted to see the views the xianzhou luofu had to offer for quite a while now. “

he mused, his gentle smile seemingly dismantling the guard from every suspicion he had. he sighed, nodding.

„ …i see. please follow me, i will take you to the city. “

by that, you let out a sigh of relief, a feeling of joy filling you at the prospect of going back (?) to civilisation. luocha seemed to notice that as well, leaning down to whisper into your ear.

„ i apologise. but i fear that this was necessary, otherwise we would be stuck at cloudford for a very long time.“

you shake your head. „ no worries. i’m just glad that we can finally leave. i wouldn’t be able to survive a single night out here.“ you chuckle, continuing to follow the knight towards a flying ship (at this point, you didn’t even question anything ) to transport you to central city. you could feel your eyes falling shut as you boarded the small ship, but you forced yourself to stay awake, the soft whirring of the engine calming you.

the ride to the city was silent, your tired eyes slowly widening in shock as you saw the skyline of the city appear from the endless small islands of crates and cargo. you arrived after nightfall, so the city was illuminated with lights, warm and cool glows peeking through the traditionally build homes and megastructures. it was like you were in a cyberpunk movie, glimmering lights peeking through the concrete jungle, making the whole city glimmer.

you and luocha were dropped of at one of the docks, the ship continuing to fly away, possibly back to cloudford. you looked around in awe, still in shock. you couldn’t possibly imagine that you ived here. otherwise, you would be sure that this view would trigger at least some memories.

you stop when you saw luocha break his smile with a sigh, pocketing his phone.

„ we are here, but i fear that the commission has closed for today. “

he said, making your smile drop momentarily, clueless about what to do next. the blonde haired man then smiles, silently reassuring you. he turns to you, setting his coffin down on the ground, before clearing his voice.

„ no worries, we always have tomorrow. how about we get something to eat? i can‘t imagine how hungry you are after everything that‘s happened today. and i‘m sure that an inn still has vacant rooms, we can rest there..“

he suggests. you to hum, sinking into thought. he was…so nice. almost too nice to a girl he just found in the port. you were unsure about trusting him. the commission might be closed, but there might be people in the city that could help you if you look around. but on the other hand, you do admit that your stomach is growling. and that your eyes were incredibly heavy. you pressed your lips together, having made up your mind.

thank you for all the votes in the last part! please don’t forget to vote what the reader should do next!

Taglist; @shadowypeachsweets

- xoxo, laina

[inkbyajm]

of forgotten people

masterlist: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

tropes: fluff, hurt/comfort, age-gap

word count: ~860

author’s note: this is a short excerpt (maybe the first chapter?) of a story i’ve been thinking about for the past few weeks. this is just to establish the vibe of something that will probably turn into a series. i hope you enjoy a little melancholy.

————-　❈　————-                                         

“Joel.”

Tommy’s voice resonated in his brother’s ears. The eldest Miller was lost in his thoughts for what seemed like the 5th time in the past half-hour that they’ve been in the Tipsy Bison. He only responded by blankly looking up from his spot around the table.

“You alright, big brother? Wanna share what’s on your mind?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s just,” Joel paused, hesitating whether or not he should be sharing his doubts. I mean, what a fucking coincidence would that be.

“I was walking around town today and... Jesus, I’m gonna sound like I’m going insane, which I probably am, but,” he let out another breath “I saw this person, this woman, standing in front of the barn and... it looked a lot like someone I knew back then. Before the outbreak, I mean.”

“Shit, didn’t think your memory was that good, old man.” Tommy joked, taking another sip of his pint.

That was the problem. His life 20 years ago and the one he was currently living felt like two different realities, he could have been mixing up his recollections. He wasn’t even sure he remembered her all that well, despite everything they’ve been through in a relatively short amount of time.

What he did know is that she was the type of person a kid would look up to: kind, passionate, crafty, incredibly smart and with a strange sense of humour. And while she was mature, she was also naïve, and indecisive, and petty, and emotional at times. But he remembered ardent feelings, feelings she displayed openly, without fear. The same couldn’t be said about him.

“Yeah, looks like all those hits to the head are finally taking effect.” he mumbled into his own drink, earning a chuckle from his brother.

“Listen, as long as you’re making sense, I ain’t complaining.”

                              ————-　❈　————-                                         

The two sat around for another hour, chatting to a few people that stopped by their table for a quick hello. Tommy was mostly doing the conversing as Joel still found it a bit hard to adjust to a life in a functioning community. While the former was busy talking about supplies for the new playground with Dennis (Danny? Dean?), Joel felt like he needed another pint and headed to the bar.

It was Friday night, which meant the Tipsy Bison was busier than usual, with everyone celebrating the end of the week. It took a lot of convincing from Tommy to get his older brother to go out for drinks. He rarely ever agreed, usually preferring to stick to the bottle of whiskey he was gifted when him and Ellie first arrived. Nevertheless, Joel felt like he was finally starting to recognise some of the faces around town, which for him was a small accomplishment.

Making it to the bar, he patiently waited for one of what appeared to be three bartenders to serve him. The conversations all around him were all blending together as a soft rock tune played in the background for more ambiance. But it didn’t stop him from singling out a particular voice, a laugh, among dozens. It sounded more mature than the one etched into the far back of his mind.

He looked up from his spot at the far end of the counter, searching for the source of the anxiety growing in his chest. It’s been twenty years. It cannot be her. You are working yourself up for nothing.

And yet he strained his neck to get a better view, and there she was. Her appearance had changed slightly, she looked more rugged, more...experienced. But it was her, or at least the older version of her. You’re losing your damn mind, Joel, snap out of it.

As if she were reading his thoughts, the woman turned her head and the two made eye contact. Her smile wasn’t the only thing that had dropped as the glass she was originally drying found itself in pieces on the ground. 

Joel’s ears began to ring and he found himself backing away from the counter, bumping into a few displeased townsfolk as his feet clumsily carried him out of the pub. He didn’t even realise how suffocated he felt inside until he took a big breath of the fresh evening air, leaning against a utility pole for support, not trusting his knees to hold him up. His thoughts were racing a million miles an hour, his heart was just about 10 pumps away from officially stopping.

“Mr. Miller?”

Her voice, faint and quavery, came from behind him. It ain’t her, you are seeing ghosts. Go home. It took everything in him not to run away, to get hold of himself and his emotions as the world felt like it was crumbling down on him. Finally, after what felt like hours, he braced himself and hesitantly turned around to face his past.

It was just the two of them stood outside in the dimly-lit streets of Jackson. The only sound that filled the heavy silence were the muffled noises coming from the wooden walls of the Bison. Her eyes, those pleading eyes, glistened ever so slightly with tears.

“Joel.”

————-　❈　————-

masterlist: part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

[filthforfriends]

Chapter 1: Checking In

The Sun is the Center of Everything

See Author's Note (CW: addiction)

Word count: 3.5k

Damiano David x Y/n

His family and his friends, mutual and otherwise, made tepid comments about Damiano’s wellbeing. They knew they didn’t have the right to ask anything of you, not anymore.

“Just checking in! I know the breakup was tough.” Tough. The word choice made you outright laugh. It was something you’d say to a child who just lost a football game. I know that was tough, buddy. 

“Hey, checking in, hope you’re doing well.” 

“I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing, y/n.”

“I know I checked in on you earlier, but I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” I was forced to choose between my sanity and my relationship, but God granted me neither.

“I’m doing fine, all things considered.” “Checking in” was their excuse to call, it was a transition to statements like, “We all miss you alot. Hope we’ll see you soon, sweetheart.” “Well, I’m glad you’re doing well, since I know Damia has been struggling.” “Have you heard from Dami? I was gonna call and ask how he’s doing as well. I heard he’s not coping well.” “You were such a force for good in his life. I think he really needs that.” “I wish I knew how to get Damiano closer to being fine, too.” That last one earned a real life eye roll. At least his friends had the etiquette to feel guilty for dragging you back into it. 

You were certain that your heart couldn’t bear to love someone hellbent on self-destructing. You were certain that Damiano wasn’t going to get sober of his own volition. He’d lose his temper when you’d bring up those two years of not drinking. Articles, books, podcasts, speeches, YouTube videos, TV, movies, therapy, support groups, doctors, even a sobriety coach. You spent more time on resources for his addiction disorder than you did self-care, or hobbies, or some days, even work. Your life revolved around stopping this behavior before he became a tragic stereotype and left a black hole in your life. Damiano’s life revolved around Maneskin’s unrelenting schedule. 

He’d do anything to reclaim his autonomy, but the options were slim. The documents from Sony US hadn’t been translated with nuance and you wondered if that might void some of it. Hoped, really. He’d signed his life away to realize his dream. Now all he could do is show his handlers that they’d bought a faulty machine. In fact, he was self-destructive enough that he’d do it just to spite them. 

The first time Damiano was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning, you found about a dozen ways to reassure yourself that everything wasn’t falling apart. He’d been sober for two years so his tolerance was low. Damiano was probably drinking the same amount. Then you found out it’d been hard alcohol, no mixers. Now the excuses were he didn’t remember when to stop. He had to relearn how to self regulate when drinking. 

Ethan had been the one to call the first time, when they’d managed to contain it. The second it was his head of security, Ronnie. In a totally normal and healthy way, you combed through Twitter for an hour. The knot in your stomach said the news would break and it did. Splashed across tabloids was a haggard looking picture of Dami that you tried to date based on his outfit. Your therapist called your behavior “obsessive,” but followed it up with a surprising amount of empathy.

“Tough love can be equally painful on both sides.” You’d never told her you still loved him. It was obvious. For the first time, carrying around all Damiano’s secrets felt like a burden. You’d never betray his confidence, despite how poisonous he’d been towards the end. SME had you sign a non-disclosure agreement in early 2021. You’d insisted it wasn’t necessary, that there wasn’t enough money in the world to pay you to talk to the press. Sony had simply said, “for now,” prompting Dami’s stereotypically Italian temper to flare.

Ronnie was more concerned with you telling Damiano that he’d relayed this information, clearly against your ex-boyfriend’s wishes. 

“Be honest with me, are you breaching contract by calling me?” There’s a very long sign on the other end of the line.

“Technically, no. He hasn’t taken you off his emergency contacts. I’m more concerned about the disruption it would cause.”

“Disruption?”

“Explosion. Whatever he’s ingesting has made him volatile, constantly on edge. The edge of rage, that is. We’ve stopped hoping for good days and started hoping for some good hours every few days, ideally around showtime or interviews.” 

“Wow, okay. I know he has a temper –”

“He’s never not angry. It's always simmering under the surface.” Through the silence, you can hear the sounds of the hospital. Layers of anxious voices and the constant beeping of some machine.

“You didn’t do this.”

“I know,” you respond automatically.

“Y/n, you didn’t do this. He did this to himself.” Dami had violated boundary after boundary as you set them. He became less recognisable, until he wasn’t the person you fell in love with. Full of creativity, light, good humor, who loved art and comradery more than he did any substance.

“I mean, I don’t think the breakup is why he’s so angry. The depression is probably from the alcohol. That’s actually why I’m calling.” Ronnie has the same tone of voice as those who are “checking in.” “The decision has been made, that he’s going to rehab.”

“Good.” With your back braced against the wall, you slide down onto the floor with relief.

“That decision has been made without Damiano’s consent.”

“Can’t you consult him?”

“No,” Ronnie says firmly. “Addicts aren’t rational.” It was the first time you’d heard someone call Dami an addict. Before now, that word had only existed in your own head.

“I can’t believe it got to this point so quickly.” Your cat, Princess, senses your anxiety and rubs against you. Dami had picked her out as a tiny kitten. When would she start wondering where her dad was? Maybe not yet, he was gone for long stretches of time on tour. Princess doesn’t know he isn’t coming home, and that thought both makes you jealous and sob hysterically. 

“Y/n? Y/n? You still there?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you sniff, eyes burning.

“SME is using the full weight of its influence to force Dami into rehab. He might call you and say anything he can think of to get out of it. Don’t believe him. You can’t trust him right now.” The thought of Dami calling and begging you to fly him home, only to go on a bender makes you sick.

“Should I block his number and Whatsapp?”

“That's up to you.”

“You called to tell me it's up to me?”

“I called you to warn you. So you could steal yourself. So you’d know about it before the tabloids.”

“I suppose now that Dami’s hospitalization is public, someone is also gonna leak that he’s going to rehab. Cover their own asses?” Ronnie falls silent. “You know, going to rehab in privacy would be a fuck load more effective. Let them wonder.”

“I wish they would.” Here was the impasse you always reached. Damiano treated as a doll to be flung around for profit, as if he didn’t have a soul. 

“Fine. Thanks for calling me.” Each time, you tried to tell them not to update you in the future, and each time your tongue refused to form the words.

“Y/n, I have a feeling that something is really not right with him. That it could get much worse before it gets better.” Now, he’s managed to tick you off.

“Ronnie, I tried everything in my goddamn power to keep him from crashing and burning. More than anyone else! I devoted hours to –”

“Y/n, I know.”

“I couldn’t stop him from self-destructing. I tried!” The sound of tears creeps into your voice. “I couldn’t stand to watch it anymore. I don’t know if he was refusing to get better or was unable to, but either way I…tried.”

“No one questions that. I mean that Damiano might need for things to get worse for them to eventually get better. He’s stubborn and short-sighted. I want you to be ready.”

“How much worse?” you whisper.

“He might need to bruise his ass on rock bottom to stop idealizing self-destruction.”

“‘Live fast, die young’ sounds a lot like I’d rather stick it to the man than grow old with you. My ego is bigger than my love for you”

“I don’t know that that’s true, y/n. For some people it's a matter of time before they become addicts when they’re put into this pressure cooker. I’ve seen it before.

“And?”

“Only Damiano can pull himself out of it.”

“So I just wasted my time,” you respond bitterly.

“Showing Damiano how deeply and unequivocally you loved him might save him still.”

“I thought he had to save himself.”

“You’re telling me that after five years he’s not a part of you and vice versa?”

“No.” No, I’m not telling you that, because I know the opposite to be true so viscerally that it has almost destroyed me. The part of Damiano that lay in your heart should be withering in his absence, but it remained very much alive. How do you move on from someone you hadn’t broken up with? The version of Dami that caused you to end it wasn’t truly representative of his character. He was still in there, progressively buried under the rubble of this revolt. The man you loved was unreachable which also made it impossible to move on. Every day he held you in his hellish limbo. 

Damiano did his 30 days. Then 30 hours after discharge, he overdosed in Milan. You started buying a train ticket as soon as you saw Ronnie’s contact on the screen. 

“Is he alive?” 

“Yes, but he’s on a ventilator.”

“God damn it Dami,” you whimper, doubled over and on the verge of screaming into your hand. “What's happening?”

“That's literally all I know. Someone found him in the bathroom of a bougie nightclub and gave him Narcan, thank god. His lips were purple, so…” For a moment Ronnie’s voice is drowned out by a sob. “It’s gonna be messy. The ambulance was photographed.”

“Christ.” This would make international celebrity news. Every asshole who’d typecast Dam after Eurovision would be competing for the most public validation. 

“We don’t think it was intentional.”

“But how bad was it? Like would he think he was gonna die in the moment? Was he alone? How long was he conscious? What – what about organ failure. What if –”

“Y/n, I don’t know,” Ronnie says slowly. “I will call when I have more information.” You’d been on the train for 20 minutes before your phone rang. He was going to be okay. You balled up your coat and screamed, using it as a gag.

“Turns out, to compensate for the hangovers, he’s been doing cocaine.” Never has irony been more painful. “He wasn’t testing his drugs. The coke was laced with fentanyl. Another line might have killed him.” Only then does the possibility that Damiano could end his own life become apparent. It swallows up every other aspect of your reality, until you’re standing in the doorway of his hospital room. 

Thomas’ girlfriend Mia sees you first and runs in for a hug. Ethan and Vic were sleeping in their hotel rooms. Ronnie’s jacket is crumpled in a chair, forgotten after drifting off to sleep probably.

“Hey! Ronnie said you might come, but…” But I’m not Damia’s girlfriend. Perhaps he’d found someone new, and you were encroaching on their territory.

“Shit, I just thought that, um…is he dating –”

“No.” The amount of relief that provided was just evidence of how damaged you were. “He’s been in a coma for almost three hours, lots of good brain activity. He should wake up soon.”

“Coma?” you squeaked. In Tom’s eyes you saw how taxing this new Damiano had been. You weren’t the only one that loved him unconditionally. 

“Yeah.” Thomas rubs his face and sighs. “Fuck. We have so much shit tomorrow.” SME had scheduled a press tour as soon as Damiano was discharged, to make up for lost time. Everything was pushed back because the band couldn’t release something they hadn’t done publicity for.

“I’ll sit with him for a while,” you reassure. Mia helps Tom up out of the chair. After exchanging appropriate greetings, they exit the room, whose door remains open. Now you had to look at him. The ventilator emits rhythmic rushes of air, so your eyes find the source of the sound first. Then you follow the tubing until it enters Damiano. He’s gray, sickly looking like he had COVID again. Surely they already tested for that. 

The concern had been damaging his voice, like the tobacco and weed hadn’t already put his vocal chords on the edge of irreversible harm. How damaging is a plastic tube shoved down your throat? Alcohol caused esophageal cancer and coke eviscerated your sinuses. What would those do to his singing voice? 

You’d refrained from watching his gigs, but now you have the compulsion to find a video of this morning’s interview. It was just the talking portion, no performance. That was Sony’s idea of easing back into the public’s eye. In the thumbnail, he doesn’t look like an addict. Damiano’s skin had aged backwards while in rehab. He was beautiful, pale from so much time in doors, but healthy. The fact that he’d managed so much damage in a matter of hours made you nauseous. 

You sat in the bathroom while the feeling passed. The pale green tiles were cold. Should you leave? You couldn’t even work up the bravery to touch him. But if you left, Dami could wake up alone with a tube down his throat, confused that he wasn’t dead. Meanwhile, the fluorescent lights illuminate details in the reflection of the mirror that you’d prefer not to be made aware of. After pondering some adult acne, you decide that you aren’t the type of person to abandon someone, just because they abandoned you.

Upon exiting the bathroom, you startle the nurse at Damiano’s bedside.

“Geez, I didn’t know you were in there!” She brings a hand to her ample bosom while taking a deep breath.

“Shit, sorry. I was just…having an existential crisis.”

“Ah, so you must be the girlfriend, then.”

“Yep,” you answer automatically. After five years, that response was ingrained into your frontal lobe. This would have been the first time you answered no.

“I’m Maria and I’m gonna be your nurse this morning.”

“Morning?”

“It is…” she checks her smart watch, “5:04. So early morning.” Her chipper tone gives you cognitive dissonance. “I’m just gonna take some blood, just to monitor how his organs are functioning. Unfortunately a tiny amount of fentanyl can wreak havoc.” 

“His organs are failing?”

“No,” she answers firmly, going so far as to round the bed and pat you on the shoulder before putting on latex gloves. “He’s young and it's his first OD. He could bounce back quickly, but a coma is the body's last ditch effort at keeping itself alive. He’s lucky.” She gives you a knowing look. “I can recommend some great treatment programs, now that he officially has his Substance Use Disorder diagnosis.”

“Um.”

“Maybe we’ll tackle that around breakfast time. Now why don’t you hold onto his hand.” She ties a purple tourniquet around his bicep on his left arm while you gingerly take a seat. “Mhm, go ahead,” she permits, completely oblivious to the war raging inside you.

“Does – does it help?” Your left hand quivers, half an inch above his, close enough to feel the heat.  For some reason, you expect Dami’s skin to be cold too, like a corpse. 

“It can be difficult to find a good vein after an overdose.”

“Are his veins damaged?”

“We didn’t find any evidence that he was using intravenously. Unfortunately hypoxia, A.K.A. oxygen deprivation, is a result of –”

“Will he have brain damage?”

“You’ll have to ask the doctor that question.” 

“Does Narcan hurt?”

“No, but he’ll probably have a headache.”

“Does overdosing on fentanyl hurt?”

“It’s heavily sedating.”

“Would he know that he was overdosing?”

“Depends on how experienced of a drug user he is.”

“I’m pretty positive that this is his first overdose.”

“Then probably not.”

“Would he be scared then?”

“You’d have to ask him.”

“Would he be afraid of dying?”

“Honey, hold his hand.” Maria pats you on the shoulder as you finally set your palm against Damiano’s. His skin is warm, as always, and he feels sturdy. The sensation of his hand in yours brings back so many memories that you’re fighting not to drown in them. It's strange, him not responding as you squeeze down. Dam loved to talk about marriage, how the ceremony would go, the reception. You’d debated matching rings. Now you watched the blue line of his heart rate on the beeping monitor.

“Okay, all done,” Maria announced, smoothing adhesive labels over vials of blood. “The doctor will be in shortly and – oh.” She freezes, then presses the call button.

“Is he okay?” Your heart falls from your chest to stomach, out your ass, and lands on the linoleum floor. 

“Yep, looks like he’s coming out of it, actually. Stand up,” Maria requests, pulling on your arm. “Make sure you’re in his line of sight. Waking up on life support can be quite disorienting.” Damiano’s face looks the same, but then his pupils move under his eyelids. You’re the first thing he’ll see and that pressure is impossible to bear. 

“I can’t! I’m so sorry.” You rub your eyes then stand up, grabbing your purse and overnight bag. Maria doesn’t protest. She lets you leave in a flurry of movement and tears, throwing the door open so forcefully that it hits the wall. Once outside of the hospital room, you immediately feel compelled to go back. Dami had never done anything to warrant being left alone at such a pivotal, terrifying moment. You knew with absolute certainty that if the roles were reversed, he’d have never left your side.

“Okay.” You take a deep breath upon re-entering the hospital room, holding Dami’s right hand in both of your own. “Okay, I’m here. What now?” 

“We wait,” Maria answers, as a doctor enters the room. There's the medication given, vitals taken, brain activity analyzed. The waves on the monitor become closer together, then more drastic. Medical personnel may be accustomed to it, but the rapid beeping elevates your anxiety.

“We’re bringing him up out of it gradually, so he doesn’t hurt himself,” narrates a young doctor. “Mr. David will have regained a level of consciousness by now. Probably thinks he’s dreaming.” How would a person not startle while waking up with a tube in their throat? It’d been almost three months since you’d last seen him, but if you thought about it that way, you’d just run. Instead, you imagine that you’re waking Damiano up from a bad dream, even though it was typically the other way around.

“Will he recognize your voice?”

“Of course.” The response comes out defensive when you didn’t intend it to be.

“Talk to him.”

“I…okay.” You lean down, getting closer to his ear. “Dami, it’s y/n. It’s y/n, I’m really here. It's me, baby.” That last word gets stuck in your throat. It’d be so long. How many messages had you missed? He must have tried to contact you.

“I’m sorry, I haven’t answered. I don’t know the right things to say. I don’t know if saying something is the right thing.” Maria and the other nurse in the room are looking at you with a bit of judgment, but the doctor is focused on the monitors.

“Great. That’s great.” You raise a shaky hand to Damiano’s cheek and brush your thumb back and forth.

“As soon as I heard, I got on a train. I still think about you everyday, even more than when we were together. Hopefully you won’t remember any of this, me babbling on. I’d call it pathetic, but you wouldn’t like that.”

“Page whatever respiratory therapist is on call this morning, please. Thank you.” For another couple minutes you wait for improvement, signs that your boyfriend still existed in this body. The doctor is enthralled in what appears to be unchanging information to you, and administers another dose of something. 

“I always thought it was kind of sudden,” you confess. “Damia, if you can hear me, come towards the surface.”

“He can definitely hear you. I’m Dr. Williams, by the way, or just Paul.” The young physician never breaks focus. “Common misconception. If waking up from sleep isn’t instant, why would waking up from a coma be,” he chuckles. Damiano’s hand twitches at the wrist, like a muscle spasm.

“He just moved!”

“Mm-hm.”

“Is everything okay?” Ethan exclaims, having walked in while all your focus was elsewhere. Someone herds him into the hall and closes the door. Then Dami squeezes down on your hand, properly, like he intends to. His eyes flutter and you feel his presence enter the room.

Notes: Chapter 2 posted on Sunday. Let me know if you find this fic interesting/compelling so far. I'll be posting two short chapters a week, word count ranging from 2.9 - 7.3k. Hello to the new members of my taglist!

-XOXO Eden

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[imaginatorcreates]

The Stars Were Made For Falling

27 June 2024 — 28 June 2024

Summary: An angel and a demon watch the stars fall. It's a lovely sight, if only one of them didn't think that the Almighty was casting out his creations.

Word Count: ~1.5k words

Author’s Note: Inspired by a comic by @glorfy-the-bright-haired-ellon

Also on AO3

It was the night after Adam and Eve had left the Garden of Eden did the angel of the Eastern gate and the serpent that tempted the first humans decide to relax a little in Eden. After all, the Almighty was going to destroy the garden, as the paradise that had been made for the two humans no longer suited them now that their minds had been opened to the knowledge in the world. However, as the angel and demon could conclude, it was still a lovely garden. Not exactly paradise, but lovely nonetheless.

The night blew a mild but chilly wind through the lush greenery, but neither angel nor demon paid much attention to it. For all the effort they put in to mimic the human shape in order to easily mingle with them (at least, once there were enough running around), they didn’t have to abide by the rules set into such a form. So despite wearing nothing but robes, the two weren’t cold.

Aziraphale’s eyes, hair white like clouds and eyes blue like the morning sky, flitted from one bright star to the next in the black of the night. His hands rested on his stomach, one over the other in a relaxed manner that he previously hadn’t shown that morning. How could he relax when he had been losing his mind over his decision to give away his flaming sword? Honestly, he still hoped he did the right thing; it would be disastrous if he had done the wrong thing.

Next to him, arms raised high and hands tucked underneath his head, lay a demon. He went by Crawly, but he seemed a bit unsure about that name. It had rolled off his tongue at the moment, but now that he thought about it, it didn’t exactly suit him all that well. His yellow, serpentine eyes stood out first on his face like two large stars in the sky. They were challenged by a mane of red hair, but it was the eyes that drew one in first.

Despite not needing to, Aziraphale gasped. “Oh look Crawly.” He nudged a finger towards the sky. “Those are new.”

Where there once was a clear night sky with dozens of stars was now replaced by streaks of light plummeting out of the atmosphere. The rate at which they fell was rapid enough to be seen by the naked eye, yet slow enough for one to marvel at it.

Crawly abruptly sat up. He gripped handfuls of grass as his throat closed up. His eyes prickled and the world blurred for a moment before he rapidly blinked. He could still feel the crank in his hands, the intricacies of his notes, the crumple of the heavenly blueprint. He could still feel the words on the tip of his tongue, and the burst of color that erupted from it. It was burnt into his retinas from before time.

I helped build those ones. You could cast me out, but not my creations.

“I believe the Almighty has named them ‘Shooting Stars’,” Aziraphale said, “which I think is rather lovely — ” The angel paused as Crawly shifted and buried his face in his arms. “I say, Crawly?” he whispered.

“She doesn’t care,” Crawly murmured through a faceful of black cloth. “First the questions, then everything we’ve ever done. Gone! Cast out like it’s nothing.” His hand tightened around his sleeve as he hissed, “No more stars left in the sky after this, would that be perfect enough for Her?”

“Crawly…” Aziraphale reached over to rub the demon’s back, then thought better of it and placed his hand back on his own lap. “I’m sure that there are enough stars left that a small handful wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

“But it does!” Crawly pointed at the sky and spat, “I named that one. And that one was part of a nebula several lightyears to the left. And that one is well on its way to becoming a red giant.” He could’ve spent days naming each star, each ball of hot gas that he personally created. Did anyone even understand that he wrote over three million pages of notes trying to understand the concept of matter? What about gravity? And light! He found light to be the most beautiful concept of them all.

And now he was watching the light fall victim to gravity, lost to matter itself.

Aziraphale tapped his fingers on the ground and lightly chewed his bottom lip. He was an angel, meant to do good. The being sitting next to him was a demon, meant to do bad. He would get in trouble for aiding a demon, but if he helped a demon because said demon was feeling anguish…then he was still doing good. He was reducing the suffering of someone else, even if that someone was a demon.

The angel didn’t enjoy having to do all those mental gymnastics to reach that conclusion, but he let out a huff and turned to Crawly before he could back out. “Crawly, if you’re up for it, I want you to pick a shooting star and make a wish.”

Crawly glared at Aziraphale. “Is this a joke? Are you trying to toy with me?”

“No! No, not a joke at all. I’m quite serious.”

A pause, then a scoff. “Fine.” The demon pointed to a particularly bright star as it streaked across the sky and said, “I wish I could hold that.”

Aziraphale nodded. He snapped his fingers and loudly said, “Alright. Your wish has been granted.”

“That’s stupid, Aziraphale. Stars are a ball of flaming hot gas! You can’t just hold it…” Whatever else Crawly had planned to rant died in his throat as dozens of flickering lights started to appear in the air around him. They gently flashed and flitted about, lazily floating past Crawly’s eyes. Only up close did the demon see clear wings, six legs, and an abdomen that was brightly lit up in bioluminescence.

“The Almighty calls these, ‘fireflies’ or ‘lightning bugs’,” explained Aziraphale. “They’re very lovely insects and she hasn’t released them everywhere quite yet.” He shrugged and quietly added, “I thought you might like them.”

If Aziraphale said anything else after that, perhaps a mutter or a gentle exhale, Crawly didn’t hear it. All his attention was focused on the glowing insects that flew around the pair. He reached out and cupped his hands around a larger firefly. He could feel the fragile insect buzz around his hands, occasionally causing a light tickle to be felt. He opened his hands just a hair and saw the insect flickering and fluttering about, looking for a way out.

When he had berated Aziraphale over not being able to hold a star in his hands, he had lied.

He was a demon after all.

He had held a very tiny star before he fell. He had whispered to it that everything would be okay, that he would let it live for longer than the fated six thousand years that the Almighty had planned.

He let the firefly go and it flew away, flickering like a star fallen from the sky on Earth.

------

Six thousand years passed, and there were still plenty of stars in the sky. Shooting stars, or as known by its other name of ‘meteor showers’, still frequented the skies. Such a thing occurred tonight with a perfect view in South Downs.

Crowley poked his head out the window after rearranging a lush arrangement of colorful flowers in a vase. “Angel,” he called. “Make a wish.”

“Is it another meteor shower, dear?” Aziraphale called from the living room. His nose was buried deep in a book.

“Yeah, so make a wish.”

“Hmm.” The sound of a book snapping shut echoed before he said, “I wish that a certain someone would finish up soon so he could step outside with me to watch the stars.”

Crowley snorted. “Is that all?”

“Oh, if you’re asking for more, then I also wish that same someone would come over and kiss me silly.” When Crowley turned around, he saw Aziraphale standing in the kitchen. His arms were crossed and he had a kind yet devilish smile on his face. Little bastard of an angel. “I have plenty more wishes in mind, dear.”

Crowley crossed the kitchen and gave the angel a kiss on the cheek. What a nice person he was to do such a thing, deep down. “Then I’ll have to kiss you stupid so I can catch up.”

Across South Downs, and as far as Soho, people saw a clear sky with dozens of meteors flying across it. People also saw dozens of little flickering insects flying past, with them being most heavily concentrated in South Downs. But people who lived near a certain bookshop (it was now almost always closed) swore that they saw a few insects there too, flying in tandem with each other.

As the stars fell from the sky, the fireflies danced on Earth.

[mostlikelymortal]

I’m generally pretty apathetic towards shows/books/etc that draw heavily on flashbacks to tell their story. There are so many novels that flip between the past and present, sometimes for chapters at a time; it provokes such a disjointed and frustrating tone because authors want to effectively write two stories at once, all for things to suddenly “make sense” at the very end. It’s a writing mechanic that I really wish people used less, or at very least, better. Which is why I was so taken aback by how much I adored it while watching Frieren.

I honestly thought a lot about the reasoning for why it worked in this instance - I could name a dozen IPs that used flashbacks in a similar manner to lesser effect. Whether it’s to try and evoke an emotion, without so much as informing ANYTHING new about the characters (ex that damned swing in Naruto), or telling a side-by-side story that informs plot points and character motivations, like uncovering a mystery one clue at a time. It strikes a delicate balance, because while you want to inform your audience about all this backstory and emotional baggage your characters have, it can VERY easily be overused to the point where the audience experiences a type of flashback vertigo. The last thing you want to do is make your watchers yawn and skip forward to see your protagonist perform their big attack without all the emotional buildup you were trying to set up. But with Frieren, nearly every flashback is done in a way that is succinct, to the point, and tries to get back to the story at hand as soon as possible. Sometimes it’s to set up a joke (mimics), sometimes it’s to foreshadow a detail to be drawn on that episode, or even an episode in the future (sour grapes), but they all have only so much narrative/emotional purpose to give us context and then move on. Sure, there are some longer looks back to explain more critical aspects of Frieren’s history/power levels/etc, but they reward the watcher either with new lore or character dynamics or whatever, and those ALL pay off in interesting ways.

And then there’s Himmel. We all know IPs that try and pull the dead lover card for a cheap emotional gut punch, but this story approaches it in such a refreshing way. Because, due to the fact that your titular character is actively trying to learn more about humans and be more present in their lives, you’re actively joining her in recalling memories that accomplishes that very thing, and the payoff of showing you just how Frieren now responds to situations informed by those memories feels naturally cathartic. You’re discovering right by her side that these people (Himmel especially) DID change her for the better, and that discovery evokes in the audience the same catharsis she feels whenever she quotes her old party’s wisdom, or smiles with the realization of how much they cared for her. And that’s a really refreshing feeling that you just don’t get in a lot of media.

This story is a wonderful thing for a lot of reasons, which a ton of people are all raving at better than I can honestly put to words. But I think it’s worth noting how it utilized flashbacks so often, but also so effectively. Maybe a lesson for writers who are hoping to convey a similar effect.

[frvnkcastles]

TOGETHER AS ONE ➵ F. CASTLE

Summary: After the events of season 2, all Frank needs is some care and a hug, so you tend to his wounds and hold him tight.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, description of physical trauma

Word count: 1k

Author’s note: I am really blown away by the attention my two other fics received and I’m definitely more inclined to keep posting here now :) I think I will post more PTSD-related works but for now, here’s this short-ish one about Frank receiving some love.

Ps. I’m totally up for receiving Frank requests!

The bathroom reeked of coppery blood and you wondered when exactly you had developed a stomach strong enough to avoid gagging at the smell, when exactly you had become immune to the horrors displayed all over your lover’s body. Well, physically, at least. Emotionally… you weren’t quite sure you’d ever get used to this.

You were both silent apart from pained grunts and huffs from Frank when you helped peel off his sweater, no longer black with all the dirt and blood it had gathered — barely even in one piece, with slashes all over his arms and back. You were seated behind him on the bathroom floor, gently tugging on the fabric until it was tossed near the door and you could assess the damage done to him.

You choked up, tried to swallow the lump in your throat while your shaky hands ghosted over the dozens of cuts, stabs and swelling bruises across his shoulders and back. You dreaded to even imagine his chest, but for now, you focused on what you could see. You so badly wanted to suggest a hospital, but considering he had barely managed to break out of one just days ago, you chose to say nothing. Some of the stitches that he had been equipped with still remained on the gashed skin, but for the most part, he had ripped open everything.

”Can hear you overthinkin’”, Frank murmured, his raspy voice filling the bathroom, and you tore your gaze away from the old scars mingling with what would surely turn into new ones. You looked at the back of his head, how he was hanging it low, almost like he was ashamed.

”I’m glad you’re here with me”, you whispered, not realizing just how close to losing him you had been. He didn’t say anything, but reached over his shoulder with one hand to grasp yours and squeeze it tightly.

You took in a deep breath and turned to reach for a handtowel before switching on the showerhead as lightly as you could, just enough to trickle water down Frank’s muscled, torn back. The droplets trailing down his spine quickly turned red, and you made sure to carefully press the towel against them before they could slide down the waistband of his jeans.

You cleaned him up, gentle and dedicated to not causing him any more pain, and he sat quietly, letting you take care of him. He wasn’t usually so good at accepting it, but after everything he had been through, he was just so goddamn tired. And after all, if there was anyone he trusted to look after him, it was you.

Evening turned into midnight quickly as you moved to step two: stitching the worst gashes up. His back looked like a piece of cross-stitch by the time you were done, and maybe, in a few days, you’d be able to joke about it. You did the same for his arms, and eventually, crawled around him so you could make sure his chest was okay, too. You could feel his eyes on you, burning through you as he watched you do your thing.

”Gotten good”, he noted quietly, licking his lips. ”’M sorry”, he added, wishing that you could have learned to stitch from your own volition and not because he kept coming home beaten to a pulp.

”Don’t apologize”, you were quick to cut him off, giving him a warm, genuine smile as you placed a hand on the back of his head and met his gaze. ”You look after me, I look after you. That’s just how this works, baby”, you promised, and unable to respond in any way, utterly amazed and grateful for everything that you were, Frank simply looked into your eyes until you asked him to move.

His jeans came off next, and with the heavy atmosphere, there was no sly comment or joke, only complete solemnity as he undressed in front of you. There was a nasty wound on the back of his thigh, and you didn’t think twice to disinfect it and do the same for everything else he couldn’t reach himself. Hell, even if he could have, he was entirely sucked out of all energy. Knowing him, he would have neglected the cuts for as long as he could.

Eventually, you climbed off of the floor, not quite meeting his height as you stood in front of him and placed a hand on his broad chest. ”All fixed up”, you smiled before nodding towards the bedroom, ”want me to get you something comfy to put on?”

Shaking his head, Frank took your hand and swallowed. ”Nah, just wanna get in bed. That alright?” he whispered, and unsure how you’d ever be able to reject him when he sounded so fragile, you simply nodded.

You led him into the bedroom and after switching your bloodied t-shirt into one of Frank’s old ones, you got under the covers and let the man twice your size get on top of you, his head resting on your belly and his arms around you. You wrapped yours around him, too, and gently caressed his hair, smoothing the unruly curls out and rubbing his scalp with your fingertips.

You didn’t realize he was crying until the tears came in contact with the revealed skin from under your tee, the exhaustion finally wearing him down. After facing off with Billy, evading the police time and time again, saying goodbye to Amy… he was just happy to be in bed with you, free to breathe and sleep.

His quiet cries got you to tear up, too, and you leaned down to press a kiss on the top of his head. ”I love you, Frank”, you whispered, ”you’ve earned your rest, okay?”

The squish he gave your sides was enough to decipher a thank you and an I love you all at once, and you smiled weakly.

”Dunno what I’d do without you”, he admitted.

You chuckled softly. ”Lucky for you, you’ll never have to find out”, you promised, continuing your gentle touches on his hair. ”I’m with you as long as you want me”, you added, and now, it was Frank’s turn to chuckle.

”Sweetheart, I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

[woneuntonzz]

˙⋆✮ 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (pt. 1 » pt. 2)

💽 ; ATEEZ as author's favorite songs

( ATEEZ × gn!reader )

contains: fluffy-fluff, angst, cursing, (slightly) obsessive behavior, drinking and smoking (very brief), one itsy-bitsy suggestive joke

a/n: this was not based off of the members' personalities whatsoever, I just kinda shuffled my playlist and wrote these short stories and assigned them to whichever member I felt like assigning it to.

⛦ ᴊᴏɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ!

more under the cut .ᐟ -ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Hongjoong [ Will He — Joji ]

There’s been a phenomenon with Hongjoong’s songs. Fans have been noticing some sort of storyline, but it’s continuous throughout every release.  “Will he play you those songs… just the way that I did?” —you received a three-minutes and twenty-two seconds voicemail from a number left unnamed in your heart and mind, and named Hongjoong in your contacts. It was the first night of winter, marks the first year ever since the day you’ve said goodbye to the long hours of yearning for someone who seemed to love the idea of spending his time in his shitty studio and earning to get it fixed to fit the luxury of his dreams, more than he’d ever love you. And now he’s got those luxuries, but those were not the core of his dreams after all. The gist of his dreams now saw him as a stranger, covering their ears whenever they heard his songs, clearing that nickname he had on their contacts that meant something deeper than the Pacific. 

You knocked thirteen times —thirteen times and he was the one scowling once the door was opened. He had expected you to wait, to sit on the couch, make love to him after a long day of work, but he never knew that an hour after opening that door, he’d be all alone in his studio.  “Let’s break up.” was the last thing he expected to hear from his loving, caring, and warm-hearted lover.  “Y/n…” but what was he supposed to say? To do?  It was only then that he’d realize how much of a fuck-up he’d been in your relationship. A dozen missed calls, messages left on delivered for more than twenty-four hours. Who wouldn’t get tired of him and his unwavering passion for music. “You listen to your own music more than you listen to me.” the tinge of red that colored the inside of your eyes and the tears that threatened to fall at any moment were enough to break him. “Y/n… I love you… I-I’m sorry—” “And you love your music too, don’t you? Why don’t you ask it to be your girlfriend then?” 

It’s been a year, and surely, you still heard his songs everywhere. And that three-minute long voicemail was his new song, and it was all about you. Again. Your new significant other was not oblivious of this, and Hongjoong was not oblivious of them either. Somehow, he’s managed to find out you were involved with someone new. It was a good thing and a bad thing all at once. Maybe it was a sign, a driving force for him to finally forget about you, or it could be the beginning of the end, smoking and drinking away as he authored songs about you, and this person who stole you from him. 

I don’t love you anymore, Joong.  He didn’t know what hurt him more. The fact that you’ve repeated those same words a hundred times for a year now, or your use of the nickname only you would call him when you were still together. Well at least it’s only through text —was the most light-hearted thought he had about your reply to his three-minute voicemail. But that didn’t answer his question, did it. Will he, Y/n? Will he?

Seonghwa [ Falling Behind — Laufey ]

Seonghwa felt stupid for stalling so much, thinking of the most cliché solutions to the burning fire in his heart. It’s your fault —is the first thing that comes to mind whenever he sees you, whenever his insides are set to flames from the mere sound of your voice. And now, he's finally gonna tell you. He knew where you lived, how could he not when he was the one who sold that house to you? 

A real estate agent who was a hopeless romantic. He was nearing thirty-five, thirty-two and has yet to find the love of his life. Surely he’d be fine till he reaches thirty-eight, but the sad truth of it all started dawning on him. One night at the bar ago, he was having the night of his life with his friends, all within his age-group, and all with lovers. But not him. He was free to mingle, free to ask whichever person caught his attention, “How old are you?” “Twenty-two.” “Oh, me? I’m twenty-five.” “Twenty-seven.” —there were varying answers, and the people above twenty-seven? They weren’t single.  He heard his most desired answer outside the bar, a week later, at the house his boss wanted him to get rid of. “I’m thirty-two.” but you were his client, and he had to keep things professional and not react like a hormonal teenage boy, because you were single too. He admired how well-kept you were, and envied how much better you were at handling being single. He was with you throughout the whole process of purchasing the house, and when you saw the guy you liked on a date and cried at the backyard with a bottle of wine. It was the last day of the transaction. Seonghwa was supposed to ask you out too since he figured he might not have any more excuses to see you after the transaction. But when he saw you with dried streaks of tears and that wine that tastes like shelf dust to him, all he could do was sit next to you and have you in his arms as you told him about that ‘asshole’. Now he’s in front of your doorstep, and with the ring of the doorbell, you showed up. But he hated that that ‘asshole’ had to show up too. He wanted to punch him, to ask you why that jerk had his arm around your waist. But you looked so happy. It’s only been two weeks since he’s tasted that shelf dust wine, and you already have this guy in your house. “He apologized, and it was his sister after all.” yeah, no shit.  He hated that you had to invite him to your backyard to come eat barbeque with them. Barbeque? And what else, that musty wine? —yet, he was now seated at the table with you and your fiancé. And he thought it couldn’t get any worse. He looked up at the sky for a moment, and he chuckled to himself. You and that asshole were like the sun and the sky, and he was the clouds, all kept to himself.  When the asshole went off into the house to get whatever Seonghwa didn’t care about, you told him, “I never expected for it to come to this… so fast.”  Now he chuckled at you, but he kept his eyes on the sky. “I was feeling hopeless. These days it just seems like… everybody’s falling in love, you know?” “Yeah.” he laughed, finally looking at you. But you would never be able to tell if it was real. “And I’m falling behind.”

Yunho [ Valentine — Laufey ]

Strong, independent, and full of wisdom. Such an admiring sight, even more so for Yunho. You were an admiring sight. When the holidays came rolling around, he was back home, and this girl from the law school he attended had been the cup of tea in conversations with his parents and his younger brother who wanted nothing more than for him to shut up. But he was just a man, and he wondered what it was like to be with you beyond your shared classes and the mock case trials.  Finally, you had room to breathe, holidays were over and you were finally away from the jarring jabs of your nosy relatives, “testing” your “lawyer skills”, or capabilities rather. Not like law school was entirely pleasant, you still had Jeong Yunho to deal with. But at least he wasn’t a complete stick up your ass, unlike your relatives. Jeong Yunho was annoyingly witty, but at the same time reliable. Your daily bickering set your blood to simmer everytime, but it was the highlight of his day, you could tell. But that’s just him, he’s like that to everybody. And he was your friend, one of the very few you had.  Well, that was until, “Will you be my valentine?” —God, how you hated the month of love. It was torturously beautiful to see the couples making out in the most open spaces possible, the daunting public display of affection, or sometimes sharing an innocent hug or crying or laughing at each other’s faces. You never understood the function of it all for humanity, fortunately —or unfortunately— for you, Yunho was there to teach you. “Me? You want me, of all people?” he laughed at your face, but it was the way he asked for your hand and bowed his head that led you to smack him.  “I’m serious!” but I don’t know how… “I just want you… as my valentine. That’s all I ask.” You tried to argue again, but somehow this was a case you couldn’t win. On the evening of Valentine's Day, you sat on a bench next to him, holding a bouquet of your favorite porch flowers, and a teddy bear. Cliché —you thought, but you were smiling and blushing like an idiot the whole day after he touched your hands to help you aim at the shooting booth, and when his lips almost touched your cheek in the photo booth, and when he bought you one of those color-coded bracelets that had corresponding meanings —he got you red, “Wait, why red?” “Huh?” he asked you back, but he heard your question. It was loud and clear in his mind, like the beats of his heart.  “Why red? Red means—” “I love you —fuck,” you were visibly shocked by the revelation —and the way he cursed under his breath. “I’m in love with you, Y/n.” Fuck, what do I say? “Um… thanks?” He was a bit hurt with that, but he knew that behind all that intellect was a lack of sense when it came to love. “You’re welcome.” his voice had gone quiet, and his smile was unlike the playful ones you’ve always gotten. Well, shit. You were suddenly realizing how much he meant to you, and how you were always secretly waiting for him to “torment” you everyday. “I think… I love you too.” And for sure, the day ended with him saying, “I can’t believe I get to call you mine.” and all you did was blink, and for the first time ever, you had a Valentine.

Yeosang [ sweetener — Ariana Grande ]

The life of an unemployed, depressed, disoriented, and lonely — not completely, because today you were sitting in your best friend’s, on grand opening day.  “No, no. I’m not here to borrow money. I already owe you a lot.” you tell your best friend as you sip on the coffee she gave you for free. “I’m here for emotional support.” She snorted, it was all light-hearted fun, but you could’ve broken her nose, if it weren’t for the face-wrinkling bitterness of the coffee she gave you. “And your therapist?” she asks before laughing at the way your face turned sour from the taste of the coffee. “I can’t even afford one.” you hissed at the unpleasant attack on your taste buds, to which your best friend responded to by calling over one of the baristas. “Yeosang, can you give my girl some sweetener for her coffee?” when the barista went to your table and smiled at the both of you, you felt like you didn’t need any more sweetener.  And of course your best friend laughed and teased you for being attracted to one of her employees, not like you could care. After a while of considering therapy, you’d seek it, but it’d be at your best friend’s café. The baristas assumed you were always there because you were close with the owner, while that was true, there was another reason.  “Extra sweetener, as usual?” It’s been a month, and the sugar packets you got from Yeosang helped you more than your old therapist’s notes.  He was noticing you too, and so far, you’ve been his favorite reason to not skip work, all while he’s been a reason for you to do better and actually find a job. Luckily for you, your best friend lost one of her cashier’s. You were up for the job. Coincidence or not, both parties were thankful that your shifts aligned with each other. You were definitely not losing your job anytime soon.  However, dealing with various “breeds” of customers is never easy. You have the daily “Where”, “What”, and “Why”s from customers who can’t be tamed with talk. One day it became too much, and you came wandering at the back of the establishment with a lit cigarette in between your middle and index fingers. Your shift mate caught up to you, of course. He saw every customer interaction, and the way the genuinity of your smile faded gradually as the day progressed. “Coffee?” you jolted from where you stood, because you swore you were sneaky enough to not get noticed with your pack of smoke on your way to the back. “I thought you were quitting smoking.” He held out a small cup of coffee. He had always known you needed extra sugar, so all you did was sip. “I’m trying.” but then the coffee was bitter, as bitter as the first coffee you’ve ever had in that café. “It’s bitter.” Your eyes stayed on the cup for a short while before facing him, you were just gonna ask if he had already added sweetener, and if he hadn’t you’d just ask him for it. He didn’t add any, and for a reason. He’d give you that sweetener though, just not in the way you’d expect. The sweetener was pure sugar, ecstasy, and in the form of his lips. A kiss. It lasted for a while, and it’s been almost an hour since the end of your shift. “Is this your way of getting me to quit smoking altogether?” you were breathless from his kiss. And he was too, but somehow he managed to laugh and tell you, “You don’t like bitter things but you love to smoke.” Not anymore. Because he’s here now. And he’ll bring the bitter taste to a halt. “You’re my favorite sweetener, you know that?” and that night, you were smoking something else.

(a/n: this kinda suck LOL. sorry for the last bit for yeosang's i'm in a silly goofy mood — also i'm so in love with him wtf???? and yeah, i'm a seonghwa biased lmaooo)

[cypanache]

Hi! I recently read Patchwork Heart (like twice in two days) and I now have brainrot from that fic. (Which is to say that I loved it.) And I’m sad that it’s incomplete but I’m grateful that you wrote it, and all your other Parks and Rec fics. I remember reading a comment from you (from like 11 years ago lol) where you said you’d been writing for 14 years and you encouraged someone who was feeling bad about their own writing. Which gave me the motivation to keep writing, and made me think, how awesome must it be to be a fanfic writer for so long? This is a rambly comment to say that I’m glad you’re still writing (even if it’s not for Parks heh) and you’re a great inspiration!

(Also I’m aware this isn’t a question but I don’t really know how Tumblr works)

Well this ask officially made my year. (P.S. - Asks don't have to be questions. Especially when they're as lovely as this)

You know every once in a while I think, am I being totally ridiculous just leaving my live journal out there like that? Really, who's going out and reading stuff from over 11 years ago, except ... yeah I've totally done that myself. And I'm forever grateful for the authors who let their stuff just float along and exist. So I'm gratified to know that I did that for you today. And extremely gratified to know that I was able to give you a little motivation to keep writing. I have been doing this for over twenty years with varying levels of success and intensity as my life evolves, but I keep coming back to it, because really at the end of the day, fanfic is one of those hobbies that more than anything make me feel like me. When you find that, you owe it to yourself to hold onto it. Even if you can't do it perfectly or quickly.

I am not going to lie, I'm very sad Patchwork Heart is incomplete as well. That was an unfortunate product of life circumstances overwhelming me and by the time I paddled my way to the surface my emotional relationship with Parks had changed. But I am forever in love with the complete human disaster that was teenage Ben Wyatt in that fic.

Sooooo this isn't much, but this ask made me go back through my google docs. Here have part of a camping trip:

Griggs-Knope-Wyatt (Whatever) Family Vacation  

Hell – 375-369 days to go

Yeah, it’s official, Ben does not get camping.

At all.

Look he gave it a fair try.  But he just-  he doesn’t get it all right.  He doesn’t get what’s so fun about sleeping on the floor (”Ground,” Marlene informs him, “It’s called a ground when it’s outside, dear.") or getting so many mosquito bites, or having to make sure your food is put up in a certain way so raccoons won’t get to it.  And you know what he really doesn’t get?

Ghost stories.

He does not get ghost stories.  They’re not scary.  They’re particularly not scary if your dad is telling them.  And when your step-mom takes over and does manage to tell a scary one, well then you’re outside, in the dark . . . scared.

Oh and his tent collapses on him in the middle of the night.

Yup, okay.  Not.  Having.  Fun.

Ben just wishes he could convince himself that’s actually because of the camping.

Leslie’s been withdrawn and subdued for the past two days.  Not angry, just quiet.  He tried to talk to her yesterday morning like a dozen times, but the one time he got anywhere the fact he was trying to take the whole thing seriously only seemed to make it all worse.

He doesn’t know what to do for her.  Has the sneaking suspicion there’s actually nothing he can do.  Or at least nothing he’s willing to do.

So yeah, maybe he’s going to just lie here under the wreckage of what used to be his tent for a little while.

Except he can’t even seem to manage that, because the next thing he knows there’s the sound of footsteps and a flashlight is being shined into his eyes like an interrogation lamp.

“Benjamin?”

Ben holds up a hand to shield his eyes and squints up at the outline of his step-mother standing over him.  “Umm, hi?”

“Benjamin dear.  Your tent’s on the ground,” she informs him as though she’s not entirely sure he’s aware of this fact.  Sometimes he’s pretty sure his step-mother thinks he’s an idiot.      

“Yeah, so umm, funny story about that.  You know what it was, it-  it fell.”

The fact he always winds up saying stuff like that around her probably doesn’t help.

Marlene doesn’t respond for long moment, and even though he can’t see her face he can pretty much picture it.  It’s a face he’s pretty familiar with.  The one that says ‘I worry about your ability to dress yourself in the mornings’.

“I don’t-  I’ve never really camped,” he continues, unable to help himself.  Marlene’s silences are just about the most effective interrogation technique he’s ever encountered.  No wonder Leslie’s usually so talkative.

“I never would have guessed,” she shoots back, before adding, “Well, should I just leave the two of you alone or would you like some help putting it back up?”

“No- no, help would be good.”

There’s a long pause, then:  “Ben, dear.”

“Yeah?”

“You need to get out of the tent.”

“Oh.  Right.”

---

So in a surprising turn of events (at least in his opinion), Marlene actually turns out to be a pretty good teacher.  Like okay she isn’t the most patient person in the world, but she’s incredibly precise in her explanations of how to do things like tie a hitch-knot, and Ben’s always been more comfortable with precision over intuition, so it doesn’t take him too terribly long to catch on, and when she pats him lightly on the knee in approval, it feels like getting an A in your most demanding class from the teacher who scares the shit out of you.

All in all, Ben’s feeling kind of good about things by the time they get the tent back up, so when Marlene points out that it’s only an hour or so until sunrise and asks whether he wants to help her make coffee for breakfast, he says yes, thinking maybe things are looking up.  

Yeah, no, that was obviously just designed to lull him into a false sense of security.

“So,” Marlene opens without warning or preamble, “Leslie tells me I’m returning the Purdue sweatshirt.”

He barely manages not to tip over his cup of coffee. “Yeah, um, sorry about that.”

“Ben didn’t we talk about that? Um-”

“Is the sound in dumb.  Yeah I know.”

The look she gives him could level small countries.  Ben keeps his head down and tries not to have an aneurysm.

How does he get himself into these situations?  Really why is it sarcastic, smart-aleck things always come out of his mouth at exactly the wrong time.  It’s not like he’s trying to be a wise-ass.  He’s not really trying to be anything really.  (Except maybe invisible.  Invisible would be nice right now.)  But for some reason it happens anyway, and he can’t seem to stop it.  It’s like this leak, this crack in his personality.  Ninety-five percent of the time he manages to be exactly the kind of guy he should be, the kind he thinks Virginia Wyatt would have wanted him to be.  The kind of son his perpetually fragile father seems to need.  Quiet and polite and respectful.  But every once in awhile the pressure of keeping everything else in just gets to be too much and these little drops of acid seep through, landing where they’re not wanted and scarring once they’re there.

Except Marlene Griggs-Knope doesn’t scar that easily.

“Oh, sit up straight.  Really, Ben if you keep going through life acting like a spineless jellyfish, it won’t just be Leslie who treats you like one.”

“I don’t.” he mutters under his breath.

Only he says it to the picnic table so that probably undermines his whole protest.  He forces himself to sit up and look Marlene in the eye (Okay, it’s more like her forehead, but come on, cut him a little slack here.  Do you want to look Marlene in the eye?  Yeah, that’s what he thought.  Shut up.</i>)

“Leslie doesn’t-”

But he can’t make himself complete the thought, because . . . yeah, sometimes she kind of does.  And, shit, it’s Leslie’s mom, and Marlene’s giving him this look that clearly says ‘don’t bullshit me about my own daughter.’  Still, Leslie treats everyone like that, at least everyone important to her.  Ann gets, like, twenty-three instructions a day.  And, well, he likes it.  It’s been a really long time since anyone paid that much attention to anything he did.  It’s how he knows he’s important, that she cares.  If she ever stopped trying to micromanage his life, well then he’d just be another ordinary person on the outside, wouldn’t he?

He opens his mouth to try again, but Marlene waves his efforts away with a dismissive hand.  Oh good, apparently he’s now already used up whatever small amount patience she had allotted for him today, and it’s only, what?  Five-thirty in the morning?  This is probably some kind of new record for him.

Yaaaay . . .

At that moment from across the campsite, Leslie unzips her tent and steps out into the new dawn, only to freeze, eyes going wide, at the obviously unexpected sight of Ben sitting at the picnic table with her mother.

He tries to remember enough Morse code to blink her a S.O.S.

And any other morning it wouldn’t matter that he’s pretty sure he just looks like he’s having an epileptic fit, Leslie would have already come over and rescued him. 

Instead she just turns back around, grabs her towel and a bar soap out of the tent and trudges off to the shower facilities, leaving him alone with Marlene to fend for himself.

Okay, Leslie is officially really upset.

“She will get over it.”

At Marlene’s observation, Ben whips his head back around only to find himself pinned by his step-mother’s sharp assessing gaze.

It feels like all the oxygen just got sucked out of the . . . well, earth.

He opens his mouth to stammer out a disclaimer but only manages a strangled kind of gurgle, which Marlene, thankfully, ignores.

“Leslie is no stranger to disappointment.  She’s a very resilient girl.  Always has been.” She says it matter-of-factly and maybe even a little proudly, then immediately counterbalances it with a sigh of exasperation. “Realism, however, is unfortunately not your step-sister’s strong suit.  Particularly when it comes to people.”

Ben just presses his lips together and fiddles a little with his coffee cup, drumming his fingernails against the metal.  He’s not really sure why Marlene’s telling him all this.  Not that any of it is exactly revelation.  To know anything about Leslie is to know she puts too much faith in life in general and people in particular.

So no it’s not like he doesn’t realize Leslie’s been disappointed by people before—her father, Lindsay . . . And then suddenly it clicks with him, the why behind all of this.

People leave.

In Leslie’s world, people leave her.

For some reason he’s never thought about it before, about her history and the painful lessons life’s given her.  After all, he’s the one with the dead mother, the great tragedy that defined his entire fucking existence before he met her; that he wears like a poorly healed scar on his personality.  Leslie always seemed so untouched by comparison.

But she’s not.  He can see that now.

Because yeah, maybe his mother was ripped out his life.

But people walk out of hers.

By their own choice.

Of their own free will.

Ben drops his head to stare down at the film that’s started to form on his rapidly cooling coffee in shame as he realizes he’s been making plans to join them, to go off to college and then conscientiously extricate himself from her life, little by little, bit by bit, until he’s down to a subsistence diet.  To the bare-essentials of what he needs to survive.  Never once thinking about Leslie’s needs.

God, he is such an ass.

Marlene who has been silent for a little while, gets up to pour herself another cup of coffee, before coming over to sit back down and drop another bombshell on him.  “You know, sometimes I wonder if your father and I should have waited until after the two of you went to college to get married.”

Oh god. He feels a cold finger of dread crawl its way down his spine at her words, and suddenly all he can think is:  She knows.  She knows how he feels about her daughter, and he’s going to die.  Up here in all this outdoors, Marlene probably knows a dozen ways to kill him and make it look like an accident.  Maybe that’s why they’re camping in the first place.  Maybe this was her plan all along . . .

It’s about this time that the rest of what Marlene’s saying starts to sink in.  “—it’s not that we’re not happy you two get along so well.  After all, that’s the whole reason we decided to get married when we did.  Give all of us the chance to try to be a family.  But--” she purses her lips, and narrows her eyes, “Maybe we were a little too successful?”

And the terror’s back.  “Too successful?”

“Up until two days ago, all Leslie ever talked about was going to IU and being close to home.  She’s already learned the fight song.”  That makes him almost smile despite himself, because of course she has.  He bites the inside of his mouth just in time to stop it.  Marlene continues.  “And your father tells me you’ve been collecting brochures for out of state schools ever since the two of you moved to Indiana.  But suddenly here I am buying sweatshirts for Purdue.”

“I didn’t ask-”

Marlen waves his protest away.  “Of course you didn’t.”  Then in a seeming nonsequitor:  “Did you know Ann Perkins did Model UN all last year?”

-----

When I get a little more time I'll try to bullet point out for you where I was going.

[rebelrainfall]

to break open a heart

Hello from your Secret Santa, @andorerso! It’s been so much fun writing for you, I hope you enjoy! 💜💜💜

ao3 link

If Jyn were a more positive person, she might think that all things considered, they’re lucky. They’re lucky it wasn’t the stormtroopers at the end of the street that hauled Cassian away. Lucky the woman who processed him wore kelly green to match her hair, not Imperial grey. Lucky there likely won’t be a match for his biometrics in this database.

Looking up at the decaying black building in front of her, nothing at her side but a single knife at the small of her back, Jyn doesn’t feel very lucky.

Still, there’s no hesitation in her stride on the way to the front desk of the building, praying to whatever power might be listening that the being behind it, the same green-haired human who took Cassian away, won’t recognize her. Yesterday when they’d met Jyn was a redhead, thick glasses obscuring part of her face, and she can only hope the change is enough. She would have preferred an entirely different disguise, to be sure. But desperate times, and all that shit.

Those desperate times, of course, being this: the Alligare Syndicate has at least two dozen containment cells in this building they disguise as a hotel. Cassian is in one of them.

Jyn has no idea how long she has. As lucky as she may be it isn’t the Empire she’s up against at the moment, the Imperials at least follow measurable and predictable protocol. She’d have some concept of a timeline, some awareness of how long the bastards would be delayed by the paper trail up and down before someone with the authority to wield the knife made their way to him.

The Alligare Syndicate, though, who ran Cassian’s forged papers just slightly more thoroughly than they could hold up against… 

They don’t have nearly the resources the Empire would, and even if they discover his real identity, they aren’t likely to have any prior knowledge of Cassian Andor, threat to the Empire. But they do have near-total control over the city, a network the size of which is unknown to Jyn, and from what she’s seen of them, they’re far more efficient than most criminal syndicates she’s ever seen. She has no idea what they’re capable of, or what they might do to a prisoner.

And Cassian is in their hands.

It could be too late already, a traitorous voice in her head whispers, and she shakes it away, because there’s no time for that, but it nags at her all the same. Took you nearly half a day to be back here. Pathetic, Erso, he could be dead a dozen times over.

“How can I help you?” The woman at the desk asks as she approaches. Her words are polite, but she does a poor job hiding her hostility. “Just a single room for you tonight?”

“I’m here for a visit, actually,” Jyn says pleasantly, adopting the Corellian accent Cassian taught her on the way home from their first mission together. “My husband was brought here, could you direct me to him? His name is - “

“We don’t allow visitors,” the woman says flatly.

“Please, ma’am. I brought his medication. He’s a human man, you brought him in early this morning and he needs - “

The woman rolls her eyes. “Give it here, I’ll make sure he gets it.”

She leans over the low desk to reach for the bottle in Jyn’s hand, and it’s the mistake Jyn was hoping for. Not giving her time to realize what’s happening, she jumps over the desk, her knife to the woman’s throat and her arms twisted behind her back before she can even think of hitting whatever panic button Jyn suspects is hidden under her desk.

“Human man. You brought him in this morning. Take me to him, now.”

“This isn’t going to work. You’ll never get out of the building,” the woman promises, shockingly defiant for a being held at knife point. 

“Do you know how many bones are in the human hand?” Jyn asks, almost pleasantly.

“Can’t say I do,” the woman growls.

“Twenty-seven,” Jyn says, squeezing one of the woman’s trapped hands meaningfully. “And if you don’t take me to him right now I swear on his life I will break every single one of yours.”

To her credit, the woman still appears mostly unshaken. After a loaded moment, though, she gives in with a nod, still glaring daggers at Jyn but showing no sign of trying to fight back. 

“No need for that,” she grumbles. “The keys are in my desk, gonna kill me when I reach for them?”

“Tell me where they are.”

With a bit of tricky manoeuvring she keeps the knife at the woman’s throat while she fishes in the indicated drawer, coming up with not only a set of keys (analog keys, for deadbolt locks. Another thing the Empire doesn’t use), but, to her delight, a small blaster.

“You should really keep weapons like this locked up,” she says flatly, checking it’s unloaded before slipping it into the waistband of her trousers. “Now. Let’s go.”

-

Jyn doesn’t know what to expect when the woman unlocks the door, the blaster still pressed to her side, but somehow what she finds disturbs her more than she’d prepared for anyway. It’s a well-lit room, the fluorescent light spilling into the much darker hallway. There’s no visible system of restraint nor sign of violence, no evidence of any of the many methods of interrogation she’s known used. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost want to believe Cassian hadn’t been hurt at all.

Which is why it’s more than a little disturbing to see him on the far side from the door, crowded into the corner of the bright room like he wants to disappear into it, giving no indication he’s even noticed the door opening.

“Cass?” She ventures, only realizing she’s slipped up calling him by his real name after the word has left her mouth. It’s fine, she thinks, they’re fine. Lots of names could have the nickname Cass.

His eyes are wide and hazy, staring straight ahead, but he blinks at her voice. Slowly, like it takes great effort, he drags his gaze to the doorway, only to flinch away, eyes returning to the floor, when he sees the woman beside Jyn.

“I’m not strong enough,” he breathes, so quiet Jyn can hardly hear him even in the stillness of the cell block. “Make her -- make her go away. I’ll break. It - it hurts…”

In that single moment Jyn realizes two things. One: Alligare has done something terrible to Cassian, something that has reduced her restrained, ever stoic partner to stuttering pleas. And two: the woman in green, the one she holds at gunpoint, has to have been the one to do it.

She’ll make her go away, alright. And she won’t regret it.

The blaster fires in a flash of green light to match her hair. Jyn hardly spares a glance as she falls to the hallway floor.

She’s kneeling before Cassian in a moment, reaching out until he shies away from her hand.

“Cassian,” She whispers, to no response except a slightly louder, gasping breath. “Hey, Cass, it’s alright, it’s me. She’s not going to hurt you anymore.”

“I - I knew you’d come,” he rasps, though he still cringes from her touch when she reaches out again. “I was… You shouldn’t have - you shouldn’t have come but I - fuck, Jyn, I’m so happy you’re here…”

Something is so wrong here. This isn’t the first time she’s had to come back for him, not the first time she’s dragged him from a cell. She’s found him half-dead and incoherent and drugged out of his mind. No matter how beat up he is he’s never so… honest. She’s seen him bleeding out on the floor still insisting he can handle it himself. Something about the sentimental simplicity of his words is jarring. What could they have done to him, to break him open so plainly?

“Of course I’m here,” she murmurs, “Can you walk?”

“I don’t know,” he says, but he allows her to help him up, leaning heavily against the wall. “Jyn, Stars, I’m so - so happy you came back… You should have left…”

“We don’t leave each other.”

Cassian is still rambling, repeating the same few sentences over and over again as she drapes his arm over her back to take on some of his weight. 

“I know, I know. You’re happy I’m here, you think I shouldn’t be. Save some breath for walking, ok?” As far as Jyn knows there aren’t many guards in the cell block itself, most of them stationed around it as a more visible display of power, but they can’t risk calling attention to themselves either way. At her request he goes quiet as they make their way slowly to the doorway. His breathing is laboured and uneven, hitching at the top of every inhale, but they can’t afford to pause long enough for her to understand what it is that’s hurting him.

He’s under the effects of some kind of drug, that she’s sure of. Something that’s left him disoriented and afraid, an effect common enough in psychoactive interrogation methods. Whether whatever pain he’s feeling comes from it as well or from something else she can’t be sure, but it isn’t impossible. The syndicate must have access to better resources than she’d expected, at least in this department. She’ll have to be sure the Alliance knows they’re a genuine threat.

To her relief they don’t seem to have triggered any kind of alarm and the corridor outside is empty, their shuffling footsteps and Cassian’s pained breathing echoing unnervingly in the silence. Of the cells they pass most are similarly empty, doors left ajar to reveal bare and windowless rooms like Cassian’s. The hall feels unfathomably long, but once they’ve left his cell he seems to regain some strength, carrying more of his own weight and allowing them to pick up the pace enough that they’re nearly at the end of it before the next shock to hit Jyn.

“I love you,” Cassian declares suddenly, like that’s something they say to each other. It hits Jyn like a blaster bolt through the heart, but she forces herself not to react. He isn’t himself right now, and as much as she wants to stop, to beg to know what he means, how he could use a word like love for her, they can’t afford to stop. All of this can wait, it has to wait. 

She’s ripped from her spiralling thoughts after less than a moment, her attention snapping back to Cassian when he whimpers almost as soon as the words have left his mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t - I didn’t want to say that, I shouldn’t - I’m sorry…” He’s struggling in her loose hold, fighting weakly to get away from her, but she’s too afraid of what he’d do to himself if he succeeded. “You should go, you should leave me here…”

Alright, maybe she was wrong. Maybe this can’t wait. Jyn steers Cassian inside the next open door, casting a glance around to be sure the cell is empty before she guides him to lean against the wall beside the doorway. Whatever this is, she needs to know how to deal with it or neither of them are getting out of here.

“What did they do to you?” She murmurs, holding him upright against the wall. He only whines, turning away from her. “C’mon, Cass, you have to tell me so I can help you.”

The noise he makes almost sounds like a sob, and he still won’t look at her. She can’t see much of his face in the scarce light of the cell, not nearly enough to read his expression, but there’s fear in his posture. Because of her? Force, she prays it isn’t because of her.

“What did they do?” She asks again, gentler, tucking his hair back just for an excuse to touch him. He sways, like he isn’t sure whether to lean into it or run. He’s silent for another long moment, dilated eyes flitting around her face, wide like he’s fighting himself behind them.

“They - I - I can’t lie,” he finally gasps like it hurts him to say, flinching away from the words themselves.

“You don’t have to,” she soothes. Cassian shudders, whimpering. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“No - you don’t - I can’t lie, they gave me something, some kind of drug and I can’t - I’m compromised.” He’s still trying to pull away from her again, though he can’t get far without her there to hold him up and he seems present enough to realize that, at least. “I - I didn’t give them anything important, I swear, I didn’t tell them about - but I need -”

Footsteps at the end of the corridor. Jyn frees one hand to cover his mouth, dread rising in her chest despite her efforts to tamp it down.

This is… this is bad. This is very, very bad.

The footsteps pass them without hesitation, fading back into silence as their owner makes their way down the hall, but Jyn’s horror doesn’t fade with them.

The Empire has many, many methods of interrogation, but there’s something they don’t have that she knows they desperately want. How many times, reading through Imperial memos searching for something important, has she found mention of a hypothetical drug just like this? An interrogation method that would require no physical torture at all. 

A psychoactive drug that would compel its victim to answer every question posed truthfully, no torture necessary. 

The Alligare Syndicate, it would appear, has beat the Empire at this game. 

This is a spy’s greatest fear, the nightmare scenario. And here is Cassian facing it.

-

By some unknowable luck they make it out of the building without incident, and Jyn can send a message to the rest of their crew to be ready for takeoff. By the time they stumble onto the ship Cassian’s carrying most of his own weight, but his eyes are still dilated and glassy and Jyn isn’t naive enough to think the worst has passed. 

“How long ago did they give you that drug?”

“I don’t… I don’t know? I don’t know how long I was there. But Jyn -”

“Shh, it’s ok. Not your fault.” She stops him before he can say anymore. Just because he’s telling the truth doesn’t mean he wants her to hear it.

“No, Jyn, it’s - I can’t stay out here, someone will hear something, I need somewhere… the cargo hold. Lock me in the cargo hold.”

Of course. They may be out of public earshot, but Cassian hardly knows their pilot or the other man on the crew. Jyn doesn’t even know their names, and he certainly doesn’t trust them with whatever truths Cassian’s on the verge of spilling. Jyn kneels to dig a medpack and an emergency blanket from under the bench where he’s sitting.

“I’m not going to lock you anywhere alone right now,” she argues, raising a hand to stop him when he opens his mouth to protest. “I don’t know what else this drug did. We’ll go to the cargo bay, and once I make sure you aren’t dying, then we’ll talk.”

“But-”

“Don’t argue, it won’t work.” Don’t tell me something you’ll regret.

He hardly looks pleased about it but he nods, and when she slips into the cargo hand he follows, closing and locking the door after him.

“Tell me where it hurts,” Jyn orders. 

“Head, leg, lower ribs,” Cassian says, radiating discomfort as he watches her lay the emergency blanket out on the floor. She wishes she could appreciate his honesty, that it were born of anything but torture. This is a sort of nightmare so specifically cruel to Cassian that she struggles to even comprehend it, a hell specially built of his very worst fears. Any question feels like taking advantage of him, helpless against them as he is, but she has no choice, not if she’s going to help him. All she can do is keep her queries as simple and specific as possible.

“Did you hit your head?”

“No, I think that’s the drug.”

“Leg?”

“The Scarif leg, wrenched something while I was blindfolded on the way in.”

“Lie down on the blanket. Ribs?”

He winces as he lowers himself to the floor. “When they caught me, I think. Someone kicked me. It hurts to breathe.”

“Well, keep breathing for me anyway,” She says, rummaging through the medpack, though for what she’s not yet entirely sure. 

“It’s always for you,” He mumbles, settling on his back on the blanket with a groan. 

Jyn pretends not to have heard that.

There’s half a dozen painkillers to choose from, and Jyn spends longer than may be necessary considering them. What she needs is something unlikely to react with whatever’s already in his system, so she picks the most basic. Next she fishes out a heat pack like the one he uses on base sometimes, laying it over his bad knee. She’s stalling, she recognizes that, but she’s hardly looking forward to the next logical step. Cassian’s exposed enough as it is.

“I need you to unbutton your shirt,” she finally says, not quite meeting his eyes, “Just so I can see what’s wrong. Ok?” 

She can tell he’s not in love with the idea, not that she can blame him in the slightest, but he reaches obediently to undo the buttons of his shirt.

“This isn’t how I pictured this happening,” he mutters, and she won’t ask what he means by that but stars, she wants to. Then he lets his shirt fall open, baring his chest, and she forgets to ask entirely.

“Cass,” she hisses, eyes fixed on the mess of green and purple bruising spread across his mid torso, surrounding a shallow but worrying gash just above his navel. In her head she can hear him protesting - it’s not as bad as it looks, I’m fine - and in every other circumstance he’d be saying it. His silence freezes her blood far more effectively than the sight of his injury.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, looking up at her with wide, vulnerable eyes. She wants to lie. She wants to say it’s been a long day, I’m tired, I twinged my back on the way here. But if Cassian can’t lie to her, how cruel would it be to lie to him?

“I’m worried about you,” she says, honestly.

He only looks more distressed at this admission, and a little bit confused. “You should go, I can take care of it myself. This shouldn’t be your responsibility.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you’re patched up.” Jyn says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I care about you.”

“I - You shouldn’t.”

“Cassian - “

“No. You deserve better than this, Jyn. I get you hurt. You know I’ll let you down.”

“You haven’t yet.” 

He chuckles, humourless. “Give it time.”

Clearly he wants to leave it there, but Jyn can’t. She wants to kill whoever it was that taught him to think of himself this way, but for now the truth will have to do.

“You haven’t yet,” she repeats, because it’s true. “But maybe you will, and even if you do. You’re only human, Cass. You’d never hurt me on purpose. We care about each other, right?”

“I love you,” Cassian whimpers again, looking so miserable she’d burn the galaxy away to fix this. 

“Cassian -”

“You should go.”

He’s scared, and helpless, and she can’t hold any of this against him. Still, it hurts. Jyn wants to shake him or burst into tears or break something. She wants, more than anything, to make him look into her eyes and say the first thing again. Can he mean it the way it sounds? Does he mean it the way she wants it? For a man forced to be honest, he’s certainly finding ways to mix his messages. 

Suddenly the ship jerks violently with the jump to hyperspace. Cassian gives a pained moan.

Right. Yes. Patching him up, that’s what she’s meant to be doing. Her own stupid feelings can wait, even if they’re tearing her apart. Even if he has just shaken her to the core.

“Just let me help you, and then I’ll go.”

Cassian doesn’t answer, staring up at the ceiling. She takes it as acquiescence and reaches for the painkiller again and a bacta patch that will cover the wound and the worst of his bruising. 

It shouldn’t surprise her that he refuses the painkiller, muttering shouldn’t waste it on me as if he isn’t the most important person on this ship both to her and to the rebellion. She doesn't push the issue, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t want to.

Cassian whimpers when she sprays the disinfectant onto his wound and the area around, but says nothing. His breathing becomes even more shallow with the pain and force of others she just wants him to stop hurting.

“I’m almost done,” she soothes, “and then I’ll go if you still want me to, ok?” 

He’s just so achingly vulnerable, hurting and trembling and spread half-naked in front of her, his very mind cracked open. Dual instincts are warring in her chest, to be here to protect him, to stroke his hair and promise he’s safe, or to leave him alone before he can admit something he’ll hate her for knowing when all of this is over.

“I… I don’t want you to leave,” Cassian says, fear still written across his face.

“Then I won’t,” she promises, “I’ll stay if you want me here,” but then he’s shaking his head frantically.

“No, I’ll say something to upset you, you should go. I - I’m sorry.”

“You want me to go?” She asks again, as lost as he looks.

“No, I want you to stay. I want you here so badly, Jyn, but you should… you shouldn’t stay. You shouldn’t have to deal with me. I’ll upset you.”

“You won’t.”

“I will, I know I will. Go.”

Force. She’d love to respect his wishes, if only she could understand what they were. It seems even he doesn’t know what he wants from her, so she picks the safer option. “Ok. I’ll go.”

But then Cassian whimpers, breath catching like a sob. Is there a right answer here? She swears she sees tears in his eyes, but what can she do?

“What do you need from me, Cassian? Tell me what you need. Please. You know I would do anything for you.” And there are tears in his eyes, spilling silently from the corners as he looks up at her with such distress she feels her heart shatter. 

“I need you.” 

“Cassian…”

“Stay,” he begs, and she’d love it if he would settle on one or the other, but he doesn’t seem to understand it himself. “You - you make me feel safe, and it’s so cold, and your hands are warm…” His voice is thick. “I don’t want you to go.”

And the things he’s doing to her heart now, gazing up at her so desperate and defenceless and handing her confessions that could so easily be turned to weapons.

“Alright.”

Jyn returns everything to the medpack, feeling Cassian’s eyes on her back as she does. When there’s nothing else to occupy herself with she finds herself at a loss, casting her eyes around the room for anything that might give her some idea but finding only Cassian, Cassian and his helpless, fervent eyes.

She ends up with his head in her lap, fingers stroking gently through his hair in hopes of chasing away the pain wrinkling his brow. She wishes he would fall asleep for whatever escape it might grant him, but he seems far too unsettled for that. Still, she can feel him beginning to relax under her touch.

“That feels nice,” He says a few minutes into the silence.

“I’m glad. Do you need anything else right now? How are you feeling?”

It takes him a moment to answer. “Better, I think. Please don’t go.”

“I won’t,” she promises again.

“You always make me feel better,” he says before he goes quiet again for a time, eyes flitting around the room, until they settle suddenly again on her. “Can I hold your hand?”

She offers him her free hand wordlessly in answer. Cassian pulls it to his sternum and Jyn measures her breaths.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“None of this is your fault.”

“I’m making you uncomfortable.”

“No, you aren’t. You aren’t doing anything wrong.”

“You - I keep saying things, and I can’t make it stop, and it’s going to scare you away.”

“Cass - “

“I don’t want you to leave, Jyn. I don’t want to make you leave but I can’t - I keep saying things - “

“Cassian.”

She has his attention, finally, though he still looks so afraid she wants to cry.

“I know you can’t lie to me right now, and I promise that I’m not going to lie to you either now. Tell me you understand.”

He nods, and she’d prefer a verbal confirmation but this will do.

“I’m worried about you. I don’t like seeing you so upset. But there’s nothing you’ve said to make me uncomfortable. I promise.”

“But I said - “

“You said you loved me.” It has to be what he’s getting at. It’s been driving her to distraction. There’s nothing to be gained from avoiding it any longer.

“I. Yes.” And he looks so defeated. Breaking her own rule, Jyn caves and asks him a question she doesn’t strictly need the answer to.

“Did you mean it the way I think you meant it?”

(No. She needs the answer.)

Cassian takes a shaky breath and squeezes her hand, bracing against whatever he thinks is about to happen.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Something in Jyn’s chest loosens at the same time her heart stutters. She can’t help the small smile that crosses into her expression, even at Cassian’s obvious confusion.

“Don’t be sorry. I…” She promised to tell him the truth. “Cassian. I love you, too.” 

She can see him wanting to protest. It’s not difficult to imagine what he wants to say. He’ll argue that she doesn’t know all the terrible things he’s done (maybe she doesn’t, but she also doesn’t care), that he’ll let her down (he will, sometimes, but he’s only human. She’ll let him down sometimes, too). That he somehow isn’t worthy of her, like he’s any more damaged, any more imperfect than she is. Like she’s the one of them who deserves better.

It’s absurd. She can’t bear to hear him say any of it.

“I love you,” she repeats. “And I’d rather you didn’t try to talk me out of it. You’re so important to me. Ok?”

For a long, weighted moment, Cassian says nothing. Jyn doesn’t try to fill the silence, waiting on his response. Finally, Cassian meets her eyes again, biting his lip and taking a deep breath.

“I want to kiss you,” he says. “Please.” 

“You can,” she says, and finds great pleasure in the way his eyes light up at that. “But only once you’ve taken the painkiller.”

His attempt at a glare is a little ruined by the stars in his eyes when he gazes up at her.

“Fine.”

As he takes the pill without further complaint, Jyn can’t help but wonder if this particular brand of bribery will continue to work.

[skelly-b0nez]

Little Sunshine - Chapter One

content: 1.4k

warning(s): death, death of a parent

tags: dad!copia, grief, mourning, copia being the best dad, mama emeritus, oc, OOC in a few characters, cardinal copia, sister imperator, papa nihil, angst, death, parent death

The loud clacking of heels echoed throughout the abbey’s walls. Each step not only demonstrated authority, but apprehension. Sister Imperator’s eyebrows curled as she hurriedly made her way down the hall, her pace only quickening when she saw a man standing in front of the door at the very end of said hall. 

Father Copia stood in front of the large door, his gloved hands sweating from the anticipation. He could distinctly hear Imperator approaching him but she was the least of his concerns. The only concern he had was for the commotion on the other side of the door. He stared intently for any sign of the door opening, however no such sign had yet come. The clacking suddenly stopped, and it was now just him and Imperator; waiting for the news. 

“How is she?” Imperator asked, clearing her throat. 

“I don’t know,” Copia didn’t turn to look at her. “They forced me out of the room before I could do anything.” 

She folded her arms. Sometimes Imperator wondered if these doctors truly knew what they were doing, forcing a man out when his lover is in such pain. “Elizabeth has always been a strong woman, she will be okay.” 

For the first time since she had arrived, Copia turned to look at her. His exhausted, pleading eyes spoke to her on an unspoken level. “Will she?” Imperator’s brows curled even more but she had to keep a stoic face. “She will.” Copia gave her a small nod before turning his gaze back to the door. 

“Nihil will be here shortly, he had some things to take care of with his sons.” 

Copia didn’t react.

“Do you think I’ll be a good father, Sister?” He asked, anxiously nibbling at his gloved thumbnail. “I never had parents, this is my only chance to be in this child’s life.” Imperator winced at the parent comment but she puffed out her chest and kept it together. 

“I’m sure you will make a fine father, C. And Eliza will make a fine mother.” 

“Eh.. I’m sure you are right. Thank you, Sister.” 

The door suddenly creaked open, a plague doctor poked his head out. “Father Copia?” The latter stepped forward at the addressment. “How is she?” The doctor briefly turned to look back at a scene neither Copia or Imperator could make out, before both of them were invited inside.  

The chamber was dark, only illuminated by a dozen or so black candles, the curtains had been shut for further privacy. However the amount of Sisters gathered around the bed would have proved that unnecessary. But who was she to comment? Copia rushed over, shuffling through the group to get to his lover. Imperator stood on the other side of the room, the warmth of the fireplace behind her gave her shallow comfort. She could hear Copia and Elizabeth talk to each other in Italian - a language she was never able to understand. But she was suddenly approached by Copia, a little bundle in his arms. The exhaustion in his eyes had turned to excitement. 

“Would you like to meet my daughter, Sister?”

Copia turned the bundle towards the older woman. Wrapped in the dark linen cloth was the Priest’s newborn baby girl. At first glance she had her mother’s black hair and fair skin. The only thing of her father was her slightly pointed ears.

And the eye.

One of the baby’s eyes was a bright blue, and the other was milky white. This was an immediate concern as there hadn’t been a female Emeritus born in decades, centuries perhaps. Imperator hoped that Nihil would have a solution; he'd never accept a girl as heir. She was sure there was, the child would have to remain as a Sister of Sin but at least she had a place.

That was the result she hoped for, anyway.

“She’s beautiful, Copia.” Imperator cleared her throat. “Have you and Sister Elizabeth thought of any names?” 

“Ah.. no.” Copia shook his head. “Eliza and I had too much going on to think of names.” He brought the baby closer to his chest, caressing her small face with his thumb. “What do you think we should name her, amore mio?” He asked, turning his gaze towards his exhausted lover, who only gave him a small smile. “We will talk about it in the morning, love.” Her body sunk further into the bed as a Sister wiped a damp rag on her face. 

“I see..” Imperator hummed. “I suppose it’s been a long night for you both, shall I leave you to get some rest?”

“Ah, si, that would be nice.” Copia sighed.

“Very well, congratulations on your little bundle of joy, Nihil and I will visit you both in the morning.” Imperator turned and quietly left the room. As soon as the door had shut behind her she let out the air she had been holding. 

She really had to talk to Nihil.

“I do not understand why this is so important, Seestor.” Nihil drabbled as he followed Imperator down the long corridor. “There is something about this child you should know.” That was all she managed to say. She could tell by Nihil’s expression that he was less than impressed to have been dragged from his office to see a child he could care less about. 

“What about it? It’s like any other child, isn’t it?” 

“She has the eye, Nihil.” Imperator spoke with little emotion to her words. 

“And? That boy has it too… somehow.” Nihil sputtered, he was certain that Copia wasn’t part of the bloodline, yet he had the eye. “But that doesn’t mean anything Seestor, she can’t be Papa, so the only thing she’ll be good for is to be a Sister of Sin.”

Imperator figured that was going to be the answer, but she couldn’t let Nihil know that. So, she continued silently down the corridor. That is until she saw Copia. He stood outside the door; his back pressed against it and his baby cradled in his arms. He looked gutted. 

“Father Copia?” Nihil moved past Imperator, who stopped in her tracks. Copia raised his head, the dead, devastated eyes meeting the elder’s milky white. “Why are you not with Sister Elizabeth?” 

“She’s gone.”

“What?” Nihil cocked his head to the side. 

“She died, Papa.” Tears started spilling from Copia’s eyes. Imperator rushed forward to take the sleeping baby from him. Copia tried to wipe the tears away but they wouldn’t stop coming. “I don’t know what happened, she must have died in her sleep or something.” His legs wobbled and he arched forward, trying to keep himself from doubling over.

“Perché io, Satana” Copia sobbed. “L'ho amata così tanto” 

For a moment, Imperator took a glance down at the baby. Poor child would grow up without her mother. “Oh, Copia,” She sighed, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry…” 

“What am I supposed to do?” Copia asked, wiping his heartbroken tears. “I can’t do this on my own, I’m busy enough with mass.” The two older folk glanced at each other. Nihil sighed. 

“You have us, Father. All three of us will have to work together to raise this child.” Copia managed to let go of the little breath he had been holding. “Thank you.” 

He looked back to the door in front of him with sad eyes. “She’s still in there, isn’t she?” Imperator asked, to which the younger man solemnly nodded. “Can I have a few minutes, I want to say goodbye before she’s taken away.” Both Imperator and Nihil nodded, allowing Copia to reluctantly re-enter the room. 

The white light of the overcast sky shone on Sister Elizabeth’s stiff figure. Seeing how peaceful she looked brought fresh tears to the widower’s eyes. Copia sat on the edge of his side of the bed, putting his free hand on hers. It was cold, devoid of life. “Mi prenderò cura di lei, amore mio." He whispered, leaning in to give the lifeless body a forehead kiss. It was truly unfortunate that she would never get to see her daughter grow up. But life had to go on, whether Copia liked it or not.

“We will get through this.” He managed to crack a small smile and brought his attention back to his daughter, who was now awake with her tiny hand around his finger. 

“Won’t we, Elizabeth?” 

Here is chapter one of my Ghost fanfic! I'm sorry if the characters are out of character, this is my first Ghost fic and I'm not fully wrapped around the character's personalities.

You can find Little Sunshine on my AO3 as well!

[literary-illuminati]

Book Review 14 - The Best of Nancy Kress, by Nancy Kress

Okay, continuing to work through my backlog on these! And learning the perils of letting it build for a month because my memories of most of the stories in this are already getting a bit vague and scattered.

So, getting the basic details out of the way – my first short story collection of the year, 600 pages of the works of Nancy Kress, curated and selected by the author herself as all her favourites that would fit in one volume. Someone on here (can’t remember who and tumblr search is being its usual unusuable self, unfortunately) recommended Beggars In Spain to me a while back, and this was the only volume my library system had that included it. So, 500-ish pages of other stories as a nice bonus until I got to the end and remembered that that’s the reason I’d gotten the book out in the first place.

The stories run from less than ten pages to a novella, and Kress includes a little half-page afterward following each. Usually either a reflection on the meaning of the story or an anecdote about its writing or reception, and then where and when it was originally published and any awards it won. And there were a lot of awards You can get a lot of short stories nominated for Hugos over 45 years of writing. The little snapshots of a, like, SF/F writer subculture and the relationships therein were all charming, anyway.

The stories themselves were of pretty wildly varying subject matter, though all science fiction of one kind or another. Everything from post-apocalyptic ruins to spaceships studying the galactic core to the drama and intrigue of gene-modding among high class ballerinas twenty minutes from now. The quality varied – it would pretty much have to, for like two dozen stories written across a span of decades – but overall it was really quite good.

Tone was rather more consistent. Some were happier than others, of course, but even the most fantastical and high concept worlds were pretty grimy and compromised and full of petty politics and pettier assholes. Capital H Heroes were pretty thin on the ground, even (especially) among the various protagonists. Kress seems to have a rare love for women who aren’t just, like, spiky, but genuinely flawed and unpleasant to be around (easier to pull off with short stories than novels, I suppose).

Short stories are great for just putting people in situations generally, really – not sure how long you could really draw out ‘feeling awkward and shitty because the guy you’re having an affair with was on a ‘business trip’ to visit you when aliens abducted and/or killed everyone in the city his wife and kids were in. He absolutely blames you for this,’ but it’s sure a hook!

Familial relationships that are, lets go with troubled, are a whole other recurring theme, too. Sororicidal sisters, deadbeat dads, obsessive ex-wives, parents putting their children through experimental gene-therapy to make sure they grow up with the ideal body to vicariously live out their dreams, the whole set. There’s even some dubiously consensual clone incest at one point!

Though honestly the lack of capital-h Heroes goes beyond just morality – thinking about it, most of the short stories are told from the perspective of observers, survivors, sufferers of exotic diseases, journalists poking at a mess from the outside. People whose world is being acted upon by forces far beyond their control, if not beyond their understanding entirely, and either bearing witness or struggling to adapt and get by. The stories where the protagonists had real agency – the scientists exploring the galaxy’s core, the time-travellers taking an alternate Anne Boleyn hostage to prevent the English Civil Wars – are usually the tragedies. There are a lot of those – or, if not tragedies, then at least stories that end badly for almost everyone involved. I’m halfway convinced that short stories are just a more appealing format for properly bleak fiction, really – less investment in characters’ wellbeing, or narrative expectations pushing towards growth or happy endings.

And now, before I focus on discussing Beggars In Spain specifically, some call outs for the short stories that really stuck in my head

The aforementioned gene-moding scandals in New York ballet, partially told through the perspective of the engineered-to-be-as-smart-as-a-5-year-old bespoke guard dog contracted to protect a start ballerina. Nicely understated cyberpunk setting and also felt extremely realistic as the sort of thing we’ll absolutely be having scandals about in fifty years tbh.

A woman discovering that the aliens are here amid the ruins of postwar Earth because they started getting our television broadcasts and decided that the only thing we had worth taking was dogs, but are stuck here until they figure out how to train them to be as good and heroic as they are in the movies.

A disenchanted and nostalgic man in the 80s finding a specific cupboard that goes back to one specific day in 1935 (I think. Pre-war but Roosevelt administration). He uses this exclusively to make his social security cheque go further and buy little presents for his friend with what in the 80s is pocket change. The actual plot involves despairing over how cynical and bleak-minded his granddaughter the artist is, and deciding to go back and a Good Man to introduce her to.

An extremely short one – just a one-scene vignette, really – about a waitress in a vaguely ‘50s diner when one of the aliens whose been in the news so much escapes their minders and wants to try an apple pie.

(There were also, I must admit, a decent number of stories that left me cold or that I just didn’t see the point of including, but, again, pretty much inevitable in any big collection, isn’t it?)

But okay, so! Beggars in Spain! It’s definitely an interesting novella, and given the fact that it’s 30 years old and was by all accounts incredibly successful I do kind of wonder how many common tropes about the whole super-intelligent designer babies conceit I’ve encountered elsewhere first are downstream of it?

Because I mean, ostensibly it’s about children modified in utero to not need to sleep, but practically that cashes out to them all being creative productive polyglot geniuses. Which is certainly the fantasy of never having to sleep with zero downsides, though honestly I’m pretty sure I’d spend at least half the extra time fucking around online. That said, the sense of alienation the protagonist has dealing with a world where almost everyone around her seems to just be wasting a third of their lives laying down is really well done.

It’s the sort of novella that you could probably write a dozen a dozen different essays about, and would probably benefit from being analyzed with less than a month’s distance and quotes on hand, but for all the futurism (and really not the best story in the collection for that, honestly), the thematic throughline that stood out to me is actually just libertarianism? Or not quite the right word, probably, though it is our heroine’s ideology (she is, after all, the favoured daughter of a self-made magnate, amid a social circle of the golden children of the striving upper-middle class). But the specific idea of enlightened selfishness, that the contract is the basis of all society, that no one owes anyone anything, and you are only worth what you can produce to offer up in exchange to others.

It’s where the title comes from, after all – the eponymous beggars with nothing to offer except their need who are entirely superfluous and inconvenient to the lives of the Sleepless ubermensch; what are they owed? The orthodox answer of the movement basically every major character at least ostensibly ascribes to is ‘nothing’.

Not that any of them actually act like individuals interacting solely through mutually beneficial contracts, which I’m fairly sure is in fact the point – the Sleepless invent nationalism before any of them turn thirty, going to great effort to support and look after each other on the basis of Sleepless-solidarity and an assumption that each of them is the future of humanity. And on the other hand, the protagonist’s father is a domineering, overbearing ass of a partner, draining both of his wives’ personality and will to live in turn until they get tired of being bitter social secretaries for him and quit. Equitable, contractual relationships are thin on the ground – and of course the entire climax is the protagonist relying on friends and an estranged sister to rescue an abused child who surely isn’t likely to pay any of them back for the effort anytime soon.

I thought the hypocrisy was neatly done, anyway. Especially since it’s never really confronted – none of the Sleepless ever show the slightest awareness that the lengths they’ll go to for the sake of each other purely on the basis of their shared enhancements seem to contradict the ideology they treat as holy writ.

Overall not exactly my favourite book of the year, but a fair bit better than a lot of what I’ve read so far. So I’ll call it a win. Just for the time capsule effect of reading stories written by the same author across four decades, if nothing else.

[elamimax]

I wrote a short story set in a specific universe. For context:

Humanity has been conquered by a largely benevolent precursor species that took one look at the galaxy and went “alright, you kids can’t take care of yourselves. You’re getting drugs and therapy,” and subsequently set out to put everyone’s toys on the top shelf until they could be trusted to play nice. They’re called the Affini. It’s generally a kink setting that includes a lot of petplay, consent play, and similar triggers that are associated with a setting named after a first entry called “the Human Domestication Guide.”

None of that is all that relevant to this, though. None of those triggers, other than forced therapy and healthcare. I’m using the setting as a way to explore what “curing” my mental health issues might do for me or to me. If someone “fixed” me, where would that leave me? For that reason, expect a bit of internalised ableism, or at least explorations thereof. Idk. I have thoughts farting around in my brain and I’m making it everyone else’s problem.

———————————

“Sometimes I mourn her. The artist I almost was. Or used to be, I guess.”

“What do you mean?”

“I used to be an artist. Not just a writer but an author. I wrote a bestseller, back when that still meant something.”

“Oh?”

“I was… fifteen? Something like that. I wrote about pain and sadness but with more eloquence and gravitas than most people my age did. It was a chart-topper for a bit and it meant that for a decade, people paid attention to what I wrote, which meant I could write more and, maybe more importantly to me at the time, it meant I could live off of it.”

“But then the Affini arrived.”

“Then the Affini arrived. Exactly. Money became meaningless, so ‘bestsellers’ stopped existing altogether. Can’t have a bestseller if you’re not selling them. But it was more than that. God, it’s what, fifty, sixty years ago now? Jesus, I’m old. Anyway. For a few decades I actually just kept writing. Didn’t have to worry about food or anything anymore, so I just wrote for the hell of it. I think those might be some of the best years of my life.”

“What changed?”

“I did. Or rather, I didn’t. And that was a problem. I have… a chemical imbalance. Or I had, I guess. It makes regulating emotions almost impossible. Every feeling is the most feeling I have ever felt in my life. It used to be. I wasn’t scared, I was existentially terrified; I wasn’t happy, I was ecstatic; I wasn’t sad, I was distraught, etcetera. And that wasn’t going to last.”

“Why not?”

“Do you know how hard that is? When I fell in love, I abandoned everything for that person. Family, home, whatever. I have cheated so many times because whoever I loved, I loved more than anyone I had ever loved before. And I’m not even going to entertain the notion of justifying that. Anyway, it meant that I’d broken my life to pieces a dozen times over. But the Affini were actually remarkably willing to let me do my thing. The town I was from had surrendered peacefully, and I had too. I had no issues with our leafy overlords.”

“But they took issue with your lifestyle.”

“You could say that. When you have a brain like mine, sometimes you need it to shut the fuck up. It all gets too much. Pills. Alcohol. Weed. Whatever you can get your hands on. Except the Affini only allow you to go so far. You can’t hurt yourself, you see. So the first time I got so drunk I was ready to pass out in the street, they were on me in less than a minute, I think. Flushed the alcohol from my system. They were very worried. Two more times and I was put under permanent supervision. An Affini had taken me under her wing to make sure I didn’t ‘seek more self-destructive behavior’. That’s when they did a proper scan and found the imbalance.”

“Did that fix it?”

“Yeah, it did. I wasn’t scared or angry or sad all the time anymore. It was great. Right up until I tried to write anything.”

“It didn’t work anymore?”

“It didn’t work anymore. Oh, I wrote a few more books — writing is a craft as much as it is an art form. Words are just words — but I didn’t have the power to move people anymore. You know, I think that… When we read a story, we expect things to be slightly larger than life. A monster has to be the scariest monster ever put to paper because otherwise we can’t imagine it. The page dilutes the emotion so you have to lay it on thick.”

“And you were good at that.”

“I was really fucking good at that. I wrote a love story so heartbreaking people sent me death threats. Best thing I ever put to paper. Anyway. When that imbalance was fixed, I couldn’t write about that anymore. I felt things so strongly that, when I put them to paper, they resonated with people. But after that, all I could write was rote fluff.”

“So you couldn’t write grand works anymore?”

“It’s not even that. Like… I had no reason to write anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Why do we write? Why do we tell stories? Sure, you can say something about mythology and passing on knowledge and all of that, but there’s more to it than that, right? Anyway, when the monetary incentive disappeared, I kept writing. I never did it for the money, and anyone who says that all fame is awful is fucking lying to you. But that’s not why I did it. I wrote because if I didn’t, my head would fucking explode. My head was full and projectile vomiting the stories and emotions in my head onto the page was how I dealt with that. When the feelings became ‘normal’, the well of word vomit dried up.”

“So what did you do?”

“What any self-respecting artist whose entire identity revolves around suffering would do: I tried to kill myself.”

“Which failed.”

“Obviously. More xenodrugs. More therapy. God, so much therapy. And it was good and necessary, don’t get me wrong. Being alive is a lot better than being dead. I learned to value my life, that there is more to life than achievement and creating Good Art or whatever that means. You can have a meaningful life just being happy.”

“But you’re not?”

“No, I am. I’m more consistently happy now than I’ve ever been before in my life. But even the happiest person in the world will mourn the loss of a loved one, and I think I do still love the person I used to be. I mourn her, anyway. She could have written something great.”

“And you can’t?”

“Not really, no. Even if I could write with the memory of how I used to feel things, I kind of can’t. I wrote because I had to. When I hadn’t written in a while my hands itched and my eyes burned. The whole world was… have you ever seen the air above a hot stove? Like that. Without that drive… what’s the point?”

“For others to read the story, no?”

“You don’t understand. We live under the yoke of a civilization so grandiose and successful it spans entire galaxies. There are trillions of sapient beings that coexist under the Compact. What story could I possibly tell that has not already been told better?”

“Wasn’t that true before, too?”

“Sure, but back then I didn’t care! I have no story I have to tell, no way to tell it if I did, and no reason to tell any at all. Sometimes I do resent them for that.”

“The Affini?”

“Yes. It’s why I tried to end it. They took away what had felt like my purpose, because it was self-destructive. I am happier now and that, I think, counts as a win for them. I have no desire to end my life, which is mostly fulfilling and content. That I resent them for not letting me choose to be miserable is almost part of their entire ethos: that us humans, if given the choice, will choose to be miserable so often that we can’t be trusted with the choice to begin with.”

“Do you think that’s true?”

“I do. But I wonder sometimes if it matters. I wonder sometimes how many great works of art the universe has lost to the Affini. I understand that they desire to reduce pain. To reduce harm. To make the universe a happier, healthier place. But I wonder. How ethical is it really to take away the pain from someone who isn’t done with it yet? What if my unhappiness was something I needed to feel complete, whatever the fuck that means?”

“Did you try telling them that?”

“I did. I was put into more therapy. More drugs, until I figured it out and they were absolutely sure I wasn’t going to have another go at my wrists again. I took up baking. It’s very satisfying. I made a baguette the other day. It was pretty good.”

“You’re not satisfied.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding me. I am satisfied. There is nothing that I could want for that I don’t have access to. Food. Adventure. Fiction. Love. Sex. Art. Hobbies. Attention. If I could choose now, I don’t think I’d go back. But if past me were to meet current me, I think she’d try to kill me and then herself for how hollow she would think my existence. I don’t have a use for ambition and drive anymore, but she did. I think she’d be very upset at how comfortable I’ve gotten not doing much of anything.”

“But she was unhappy.”

“Deeply. Sometimes. She was also very happy sometimes. She wasn’t a monolith. She was just very extreme. When file the tip off of a pencil, they become a lot more difficult to properly write with.”

“You feel like a filed down pencil.”

“Yes. But at least I won’t hurt others or myself anymore. I’m happy. Comfortable. I just wonder. And I mourn. The universe is happier with the Affini in it, but I can’t help but wonder if it isn’t less beautiful for it.”

“You’d rather people be in pain?”

“That’s an unpleasant way of looking at it.”

“You make it sound like hurting someone is good because it could make them a better artist.”

“I’m saying that the universe wasn’t a happy place before the Affini were in it, and now that they are, it’s like everything is different. A sunrise feels so much better after a cold night. Food tastes better when you’ve been hungry. Soft beds feel better after a long, hard day. I’m not saying every day should be hard or that every night should be cold or that people should go hungry. Just that warm and soft and full used to mean something and I feel like they don’t. Not anymore. Not really.”

“Adversity breeds… happiness?”

“We appreciate the good more if we have the bad for contrast. We’ve raised the baseline and cut off the deviations. I worry sometimes that that’s what the Affini are too busy doing. Equalizing a sine wave. Was I disabled? Most definitely. I was fucking broken, much as my therapist hates that word. I was a shell of a person when they brought me in. But not every broken thing needs to be fixed, and I don’t think all of them understand that.”

“So what would you do if you could go back?”

“I’d write something, I think.”

“And if you couldn’t go back, but you got it back? Your muse?”

“There was no muse.”

“You know what I mean.”

“What would I do if I had my pain back?”

“Yes.”

“I think I’d still write. I think I’d fall back into old self-harming patterns and keep it a secret. Try to be better about hiding from them.”

“What if you didn’t have to hide?”

“If you’re broken? Around Affini? You hide or you get fixed. You don’t really get a say in it. Affini hate broken things. Or maybe they love broken things because they can fix them. I feel like I used to be able to read them, but I can’t anymore. Like I’m too healthy to understand them, nowadays. I don’t know why they do what they do, but they do it. Protect you from yourself, at all costs. Yeah, hiding would be the only option. The only real option, anyway. I’d hide.”

“But what if you didn’t? How would you feel?”

“That sounds self-destructive. That sounds like I’d be dead of alcohol poisoning, drug use, suicide or one of a million other things in a few years.”

“You’re evading the question. That’s not how you feel.”

“I think… I think I’d be angry. Vindictive. I think I’d want to hurt one of them.”

“Why?”

“Because they never asked that question.”

[isalisewrites]

Shall I Stay - Harry Potter/Newt Scamander

SUMMARY:

Being trampled by a raging hippogriff was surely a kinder fate than Newt Scamander’s current predicament.

And he would know, having been kicked by one on more than one occasion.

---

One accident. That was all it took to upend Newt Scamander's life into the unknown. Confused and unsettled, Newt is put into the care of a complete stranger with black hair, bespectacled green eyes, and a lightning bolt scar.

Meanwhile, Harry struggles through his guilt - nothing could make up for his terrible mistake. It’s all my fault. Taking the man in was the least Harry could do, but it hurt so much, knowing that he was the reason for Mr. Scamander’s current predicament.

And Newt being exceptionally handsome isn’t helping either!

---

CHAPTER SIX EXCERPT:

The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore. Man or Monster? The TRUTH about Newt Scamander. Harry Potter - Chosen One or War Criminal? All three of them were written by a woman named Rita Skeeter, the same woman who’d written that terrible article in the paper this morning. Newt picked up the biography of Harry. Even knowing that it would be utter rubbish, he couldn’t help but feel sorely tempted to look at these.

“Oh, you found it.”

Newt startled, looking up. Harry grinned. Embarrassed, Newt’s face flushed with guilt.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s fine,” said Newt, hurrying to put the book back onto the shelf. “I was just focused. I, uh—I have a question… Am I correct to assume that Dumbledore has died?”

Harry looked away. “Yeah, um…” There was a pause; he swallowed. “Yeah. Back during the war… you know.”

Newt nodded. A gentle quiet fell between them. He’d thought as much, based on the way Harry had spoken about the man. But now, with confirmation, it was a bitter pill to swallow.

On the one hand, Albus Dumbledore had meant a great deal to him. Newt had loved the man like a mentor, even a father figure. On the other hand, Dumbledore had been part of the negative influence over Harry’s life. Newt needed to know more, so he wouldn’t draw the wrong conclusions.

His feelings on the matter were muddled.

“I’m sorry,” said Newt softly. “How did he… if you don’t mind?”

“He was killed,” whispered Harry, still not meeting his eyes. “The whole thing is rather complicated, actually. I…” Harry grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’d rather not—I don’t really like to talk about it. Another time, maybe…”

“Of course, no, I’m sorry,” said Newt. He pointed to the spine of The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, hoping to redirect the subject. “You and George said that this biography of Dumbledore was rubbish. Did anyone ever write one that was more accurate?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s too bad. I might’ve liked to read it.”

Harry gave him a grin. “You should write one.”

“I couldn’t!” cried Newt, balking at the idea. “I’m not a writer.”

Harry’s brow furrowed as he gave him an incredulous look. “You’ve literally published dozens upon dozens of books. Of course you’re a writer.”

“Textbooks,” said Newt firmly. “I’m not an author. I’m a magizoologist—a scientist. I observe, I research, do countless tests over and over again, write down my discoveries - all so I can educate others.”

Harry’s grin never faded, his teasing tone increasing. “And that’s what a biography would be, wouldn’t it? You’d do the research and write down what you learned for the benefit of the wizarding world.”

Newt reeled at the thought; his head ducked down. “I couldn’t—that’s different. That involves talking to people.” He repressed a shudder at the thought. “And my research has always involved getting far, far away from people.”

Harry threw back his head and laughed. “All right,” he said, still smiling, putting up his hands. “I’m just teasing you. Someone really should write it, though, and I stand by my high opinion of your ability to do a proper job of it.”

Newt’s cheeks warmed.

[leothetraveler]

Foreign King AU

Chapter 2 - The First Sermon

I couldn’t help shaking, even as I tried to steel myself. I’d never done anything like this before, and I wish I didn’t need to now. But it needed to be done.

The high priest that has been helping me in this insisted a sermon was necessary. I was never one for words. But…they had a point. These people required guidance. They desired it, even. Knew no other way to live, except by another’s rules. So as their god, I needed to tell them what “grand plan” I had in store…except I had nothing at this point. No goal other than being a counter-balance for the lamb. But I had to say something to the dozen or so…wait, that looks more like thirty. Looks like more people had arrived while I thought of what to say. Well. There is no use hiding behind this pillar.

I step out into the temple proper. A crude platform was arranged in haste to suffice for the sermon. Little more than an oversized soap box. Regardless, the altar was already placed upon it, so I need to be up there as well. The workers had forgotten stairs, making me have to climb up and look foolish in front of the crowd. I don't think they cared much compared to what I might say, but it was a bad start regardless.

I reached the altar, placing my meager page of scrawled notes on it. A book of Leshy’s old teachings was left here. Worthless to me, as I planned to stay far from the Old Faith’s methods.

“...I have never been one for…grand speeches. Especially ones where I am unprepared due to such short notice.” I said, eyeing the high priest in the corner of the room. Even through the hooded robe, I could see him fidget as I called him out for announcing a sermon would commence on the same day he convinced me to do one.

I rolled my eyes before continuing, “...I guess…I shall start with a few uncomfortable truths. Firstly, I don’t intend to be a simple successor to Leshy’s reign.” I picked up the book that was left on the altar, “This is going to be a fresh start. For us, for the crown, and for all of Darkwood.” and I tossed the leatherbound book aside. Least I hope it was just leather. The people before me followed the book with their eyes as it landed beside me on the platform, a shocked expression on each and every face at my act of defiance.

“Secondly, I am not here to make yet another cult. This is going to be a proper church. I’m sure you have never heard of such, but from what I’ve seen, you people are adaptable. I doubt a difference in name is going to change that.” I tried to give a reassuring tone to my words. There was a lot of change from what they knew. I needed them to understand and trust that I want what is best… makes me sound like the lamb…

“... I know you people have no concept of a church, so let me give a bit of context. In the lands I am from, cult is a word only used to describe cruel and unjust faiths where the leader acts as a false god to trick others into suffering for their benefit. Nothing but lies and illusions. No crown. No divine powers. Just a comforting lie. And so, this is not going to be a cult. I am no false god, spreading lies for my own gain. This crown of mine is no illusion meant to deceive, but my symbol of office. My proof of godhood… And all the responsibility that comes with it.”

I paused to gauge the crowd. Some were starry eyed at my words, the crown alone enough to gain devotion. Most were listening intently, clearly intrigued at where I was going with my speech. And of course, there were skeptics. Their frowns are a clear sign of their doubt.

I’ll need to put such doubts to rest. Which brings me to why I am even there. I took a deep breath and tried my best to speak with authority. “I took this crown for one reason, and one reason alone. To create a better future for everyone in the lands of the Old Faith. Because I have seen the evils spread by the bishops and the lamb. The bishops care only about preserving their power, even as fate comes to claim them. And while the lamb preaches about destroying the Old Faith, they mimic their practices in the name of The One Who Waits. They are no better than the bishops, and would only lead to a darker age. So I found the defeated crown, and restored it. So that I could do what the lamb has been promising. Bring a true end to the Old Faith, and build something better in its place. A safe haven. A home for all. Not as a God of Havoc, like Leshy was. But as a Lord of Order and justice.”

There was not a face before me that wasn’t in awe of my words…time for the let down…the harsh truth. “But such is not an easy task. If it was, another before me would have done so.” And there it was. Smiles in the crowd faded into confusion. Too late to turn back now. “While the crown may be restored, most of its power was lost upon its defeat. And so long as the red crown remains intact, the Lamb can rise again, and again, and again. Simply going to war with the lamb will not bring us victory. This church is still in its infancy. This temple, in ruins. But I have a plan. I wouldn’t be here before you if I didn’t.” This was it. If any part of my impromptu speech was going to be a dealbreaker, it was this part. While the plan was simple, I doubted many would agree to it. The first part in particular. But I would explain it as best I could.

“To start with, I will be forced to make a truce with the lamb, and leave the bishops to their fates. Their deaths are inevitable at this point, and as I have said, we are not ready to march to war. The lamb’s desire for revenge will keep them out of Darkwood while we regain our lost strength.” Uncertainty. Clear as day on many faces. But zealotry in others. Encouraging. I continue, “Secondly, while I intend to found my church on these holy lands, I need not limit myself to the faithful within them. As the other bishops fall, I expect there will be those who wish to escape the lamb’s fury. There is always room in my church for more, and so I will open my doors to them. As the rightful king of Darkwood, all the people of these lands are welcome, so long as they follow my decrees. Be they of Anura, Anchordeep, or Silk Cradle. I offer asylum to all.” that brought most of them back to my side. A merciful ruler is often betrayed, but always beloved. All that’s left is closing words. A hopeful message to inspire.

“While the age of the Old Faith comes to a close, it is not the end, but a new beginning. The stage may be set, but the story’s end is left unwritten. You may either flail, grasping for power. as the world plunges into darkness. Or, you can stand with me and build a glorious new dawn. What do you choose?” The crowd erupted into cheers. Despite having never done such before, I clearly knew what I was doing. Or maybe the crown helped? Who knows. But the first part is done. With their loyalty secured, I could get to work repairing the temple. Making it into a home, and a fortress, should such be needed.

As I began to walk off the platform, one of the followers' voices managed to break through the cheering crowd. “E-excuse me! My lord? I must ask something!” The crowd hushed itself. All attention lay on the one who had demanded my attention. “Very well,” I said, turning in the direction of the voice, “what is your question?” The one who spoke, a young rabbit, pushed their way to the front of the crowd. “I am sorry to interrupt such a joyous moment, great leader, but I had to ask…what shall we call this ‘church’ of ours? Surely it needs a name beyond such, yes?” Murmurs echoed through the temple remains. It seems everyone agreed with the rabbit, but had not thought of such themselves. Even I had to admit, it had slipped my mind. I looked up across the temple grounds. The last light of the day could be seen through the entry hall, slowly fading. While it was dusk, for a moment, it could pass as the dawn…

“New Dawn. That will be the name. The Church of a New Dawn. It fits quite well, don’t you think?” I didn’t require a response. The wide eyes of my new congregation were enough. “Alright. There is work to be done. Find yourselves somewhere to sleep tonight. Tomorrow, we will begin to rebuild.”

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