#at least it was familiar. and the bar was so low that by virtue of memorizing all my lines i was one of their best actors.

[princeoftherunaways]

Did anyone else experience a kind of psychological warfare unlike anything else in community theater as a kid. Or was it just me.

[rohanabb]

ABBASI, ROHAN: an introduction, of sorts

Following immediately after Seth.

It’s widely considered bad form to start one's story with their protagonist waking. So let us begin, then, what is most assuredly not a story – something quite smaller and grander in scale – with most assuredly not our protagonist – lacking categorically across the board – with, of our own forthright admission, an interlude on morning routines and the spiraling outwards of them.

Like most mornings, Rohan rises with the bile-bitter tongued feeling that he’s already late for something important.

Unlike most mornings, he does so in a bed his body does not recognize and without the usual sunlight streaming across his face. The sky, from what Rohan can see of it, sits lower here than in Arizona, a singular grey plane through which it feels little can escape between. What light does is equally low and flat, casting the as-yet-unfamiliar room in unflattering shades of, well, more grey. Rohan reaches semi-blindly for the bedside lamp for what little it'll help, his face still half-pressed to the pillow and — a protein bar.

He hadn't dreamed it, then. Seth had been here. The silver, crinkling assault of Kirkland's Worst nestled in the indent only just previously occupied by Rohan's head enough to rematerialize — something of the morning. God fuck, what time was it?

Rohan swings his legs over the side of the bed. It's cold. Of course it's cold, it's February, and for most of Rohan's life February has meant fucking cold. But Arizona, clearly, has made him soft. Cold-blooded, in need of a large, smooth rock to stretch out on for a few more hours. Missing the same sun he had complained so thoroughly about for so much of the year. Maybe he should think about investing in a sun lamp; any chance Amazon will still honor a two-day delivery?

...

When Rohan does arrive at the right room, it's under frankly more layers than he has any business wearing and would be embarrassed by in nearly any other circumstance. And he still feels cold — though, if we're to be entirely honest, as much as Rohan is ignorant to it beyond wishing he'd worn another jacket, it likely has more to do with the freezing waves rolling off the rest of the team than any real change in air temperature.

Rohan, for his part, started practically vibrating the second he so much as stepped foot in the building. To say he's operating on a different wavelength than many of his coworkers might be, perhaps, an understatement. He enters brightly, bristling with awareness of each pair of eyes that swivel towards him. This, at least, is in some way familiar. Orientation; a round table of stiff-mouthed and too-rehearsed introductions, even if Rohan is the only one leaking genuine excitement and anxiety on making a good first impression out of every pore.

If there is any hesitation in Rohan's step, it's not in taking his seat. That's easy. He slides into the space held for him, Seth's bag deposited gently on the back of his chair and Rohan's slung the same. A matching pair. He gives Seth a gentle tap on the ankle to say what he needs to and won't in the presence of strangers. Hi. Good morning. Thank you. Don't look at me like that. Pay attention.

Beyond that, Rohan is by all accounts well-behaved and characteristically himself. He does not take notes, does not cross his arms and avert his gaze. Rohan sits forward in his seat, chin propped in hand, making as much direct eye contact with each speaker as they'll allow. In the space between he leans back, settles beside Seth, and allows himself the brief vice of workplace gossip with his best friend.

When his turn comes around, by virtue of it just having been Seth's, Rohan slides again to the very edge of his chair, elbows planted on his knees, and gives a half wave.

"Hi, all," he starts with a smile, trying and failing to meet the eye of everyone left in the room through it. "I'm Rohan. Just Rohan, please. Dr. Abbasi if you feel especially professionally compelled, but really I'd prefer if we kept things more casual and friendly, seeing as it looks like we're going to be spending some serious time together. You're welcome to call me Tree Hugger, if that feels right to you, but you might have to say it a few times to get my attention."

He tries for a self-deprecating smile, drops it, and tries again with something a little more honest and open.

"With that said, please forgive me if I'm slow on the uptake when it comes to call-signs. I'm in my seventh year at the Foundation, but it's all been on the research side of things. Lab work, mostly. I'd be more than happy to go into details with anyone who's interested, as Seth knows I can go on all day about it and then some, but I'll spare you all the gory parts and give you the rundown: I'm a neuroscientist and pharmacology guy by training with a more recent focus on amnestic applications in animal and humanoid SCP recovery. I definitely consider myself a pretty active participant in the Foundation's scientific community. One of my long-term goals that I've had — pretty much since I started here has been to incorporate academic and modern medical research principals into what we do. It's something I bring to work with me every day and I'm more than excited for the opportunity to continue bringing it but on a much larger scale and alongside all of you.

"So — yeah. That's about it on my end. Again, pleasure to meet all of you. Please feel free to grab me afterwards for anything or any reason. I'm also on the hunt for a running partner, maybe someone else interested in starting a journal club of sorts — so. Yeah. Grab me if that's you. Thanks for listening. Onto the next."

[outeremissary]

11, 30, 45, 52 for Balthazar and Tristian! <3

Thanks for the wait Rowan!! I think I umm. Went off prompt on some of these. Please forgive me. I also may have experienced a temporary madness on one of these, which I have not edited in any manner. Please also forgive that.

[prompt]

Do either try to hide their emotions if upset? Can the other still tell?

This is a question that I wound up spending more time thinking about than expected because I thought I knew the answer and then felt like I had to think a little more. The answer is “definitely yes but we can go into that with more detail.”

Balthazar is someone whose default approach to being upset ever in life is always to hide it. He hates being vulnerable and he hates other people knowing that something has gotten to him. He’s much more open with Tristian, but with such a low bar, that definitely isn’t the same as “fully honest and communicative all the time.” He doesn’t particularly like to show if something has upset him that he feels he should have handled (whether this is rational or not) or that was the result of a conflict with Tristian. With the first it’s still difficult to admit that kind of lack of control over himself or a situation, with the second he hates giving ground until he has to (which is part of why they are capable of just awful fights). And Balthazar is very good at hiding things when he wants to, but the trouble is that Tristian is very good at noticing them and has the level of familiarity with Balthazar to put together the pieces to understand what’s going on. Tristian is one of the few people Balthazar just can’t hide things from forever (notable others being Jaethal and, when present, Vio). Still, he tries. With all the stubborn pride he has, he tries.

Tristian is much more of an open book (at least, without anymore dark secrets to hide). But at the same time, they take some level of pride in being both polite and someone who is an eminently reasonable paragon of Sarenite virtue in any situation. There’s a kind of public face they value every bit as much as Balthazar. For that reason, Tristian prefers not to lose their cool in public or in direct confrontations- although they’re not the best at hiding anger from anyone observant or familiar with them. That kind of upset is absolutely something Balthazar knows how to spot and is often privately amused by. Distress isn’t hard for Tristian to show as long as it isn’t also in conflict with this face- being able to set an example for others is important, and in a very petty way so is not breaking down in the face of adversity. These small sleights of hand also aren’t difficult to read with experience. On the other hand, when it comes to the experience of having been used by Nyrissa or the loneliness of ongoing separation from their former life or the ugly slow understanding of parts of themself which aren’t so virtuous or kind, they struggle to share their sorrow or fear with anyone else. The pieces of themself they want to leave behind and the pieces they can’t bring themself to want to leave: those aren’t easy to show to even Balthazar. And those are things they have become very, very good at burying deep, and Balthazar often doesn’t know how to see until they erupt back to the surface.

Your OTP gets to pick out each other’s outfits; what is each wearing?

Tristian has never had much of a attentive eye for style, even before losing their sight. But if there’s one thing that would be rewarding, it would be Balthazar in traditional Sarenite garb. They know it’s a part of their world he isn’t a part of, but as a fantasy where everything important to them can be stitched together so perfectly, it has a guilty appeal. The bright colors would suit him: sky blue and flame red, and any other lively hue filling details out. Something loose and comfortable that would settle on him with easy elegance. It doesn’t have to be simple, doesn’t have to be plain- he’s the sort who would appreciate embroidered cuffs and hems bursting with life. Birds, crocuses, scattered little suns in gold, and more twining in patterns that feel as alive under a curious hand as they appear from afar. Something that would be as warm and vibrant to look on as the Balthazar that he knows is, the one with the breathless laugh and sunlit touch. The kind of thing with medallions sewn into its hem to catch the light and spin it into dizzying prisms across the floor: an effect that could only be magnified under the soft glow of a halo. Perhaps drawing a scarf, every bit as lovingly rendered, over those radiant curls. Not to hide him away, only to complete a vision (and perhaps for the intimacy of imagined privilege unwinding it again, alone). They’ve held the ghost of the image longer than they’d care to acknowledge. Even without the ability to gaze on the result the desire still lingers, waiting to be given voice.

Balthazar would like to dress Tristian up, just once. They’re hardly ever outside of vestments, and they don’t tend to dress for style on the rare occasion they’re in something else. He has a vision of an outfit appropriate for a prince, perhaps in silk, with vibrant blues and scarlets chased with golden embroidery. There can be a Sarenite element there- there’s plenty of opportunity for suns and birds and the ankh in the detailing in this vision, and besides it seems impossible Tristian would agree otherwise- but subtle and stately. There would be jewelry. Earrings, at the least, gold and ruby. Elegant brooches and clothing pins that would be so satisfying to help fasten. Rings set with ruby and topaz and fire opal, equally pleasant to place in a fantasy. Perhaps a circlet as well: the kind that Tristian continues to refuse no matter how simple it’s made. Simple, a concession to modesty, but present. And he’d like to do something with their hair. Those long locks are always half hidden under a hood, tangled and unkempt without intervention. He would plait them, maybe, or pin them back in a style more elaborate. Something that could be finished with a beautiful bow stained a scarlet deeper than the flush on Tristian’s face when they can feel too many eyes on them, too much attention all at once. It’s a selfish fantasy to want to put them on display. But he wants to. It’s part a matter of possession and pride, but part an act of worship: a desire to frame the greatest beauty in his life for the world to be dazzled by just as he is.

Can they fall asleep without each other?

Well, they can, but it’s a restless experience- for Balthazar especially. There’s a sense of security that comes from being together. Losing that after becoming so accustomed to it feels wrong. And Balthazar is a clingy sleeper who has become very used to being tangled up with Tristian. The bed feels too empty alone. It does make separation an effective tactic for wearing him down after stormier fights thought…

Of course, the other trouble with being separated is that without one keeping an eye on the other both tend to be awake long into the night with projects. They keep each other in check.

Describe their weekend getaway?

It’s hard for a king and his consort to travel within such a small radius without attracting attention. A lot of shorter trips are ones which have official pretense: visiting a community or a contact, or being present for a holiday, or any of many mundane excuses. Reasons to indulge in being places that come with the promise of reception. With a healthy network of contacts, Balthazar’s particular brand of public image, and Tristian’s sincere love of being a part of the culture of the kingdom, they make plenty of irregular appearances in the towns dotting the Shrike Hills and the Kamelands and scattered along the shore of the Tuskwater. Thanks to the teleportation circles that come to link the cities, at times they call on Maegar Varn as well for these short periods- although not often when Varn’s effusive hosting often demands longer stays. These types of trips are good, if exhausting. For whatever business might be involved, there’s still always music and merriment and people to meet or catch up with: a whirlwind of excitement.

But at other times there are quieter trips enabled by careful disguise. These are slower, less purposeful. Going down to an inn on the lakeshore near midsummer to enjoy the season’s warmth tempered by the shore breeze, for one. Calling briefly on the more private kind of friend, the type who keeps a tidy garden at the edge of a ruined village. Wading through crunchy leaves to visit the tucked away little traveler’s shrine to the Dawnflower that comes to be established in a sunny little clearing by a brook at the edge of the Narlmarches. As much as Balthazar has no strong love for travel or the natural world itself, the privacy is something he comes to appreciate, and the time with Tristian. And for Tristian it takes the edge off the faint, half-buried wanderlust that still dogs them in their exile, however voluntary it may have become. Maintaining a facade is something of a struggle (both practically and ethically), but it’s easier with Balthazar to carry the difficult parts- and worthwhile for the temporary freedom.

[logicalbookthief]

This is a bit late, but I did want to talk about the press conference in Ch 306. The way the Top 3 tried to smooth things over with the rightfully upset citizens left a lot to be desired. None of it played like a sincere apology or admittance of guilt, it felt like a way of placating the public so that heroes could once again act without scrutiny, all under the premise that it is for “the greater good,” a nebulous claim at best.

What I do find interesting is that the press conference follows the same pattern as the Todoroki family in the flashback, just on a larger scale. 

First, you have Endeavor focusing on what he can do as Endeavor to make it up to the public. No mentions from him or the reporters of the family he hurt, the fact that his son is one of the villains he’s sworn to take down. But isn’t that exactly what he did in the past? Used his job as an excuse not to engage with the children he considered mistakes and to continue to view himself as “good” despite the heinous truth of his private life?

Likewise, the focus of the Top 3 appears to be maintaining the image of heroes in society, not on righting the wrongs they have already done and promising to do better. If anything, they’re relying more than ever on dichotomy of heroes vs villains to regain public support. For instance, Hawks admits that he kills Twice, yet cites it as his own “lack of virtue” that prevented him from helping Twice, so he resorted to killing him. Completely neglecting the fact that his crime is that he chose to kill Twice, specifically while Twice was crying and running away from a hero who had the upper-hand. Even as he seemingly apologizes for his actions, he’s justifying his murder, and nobody calls him out on it, only because Twice was a criminal. So what’s to stop Hawks from doing something like this again? 

Nothing. Just as there’s nothing to stop Endeavor from continuing to act as a hero when he’s proven to be person capable of violence against his own children and spouse.

And I wish we would’ve had more people speaking out against them than that one reporter, who was quickly dismissed even though she brought up valid points. But isn’t it telling that she’s dismissed after asking for the same thing Touya wanted as both a child and now as an adult?

Accountability. 

However, Endeavor (and also Hawks) skirt the issue. At face value, they’re not denying what they’ve done and not asking for forgiveness. But they are asking the public not to hold them accountable because if they did, they wouldn’t be able to act as heroes any longer. They are preying on people’s fears surrounding the villains and prison breaks to avoid any punishment for their actions. Like, what do people think the villains will go to jail for when they’re caught?? Murder, which is what Hawks did. And I shouldn’t have to explain why child and spousal abuse is also a punishable offense.

Endeavor is correct in claiming there’s nothing he can do to change what he did in the past. But there’s no growth in saying he can’t do anything to atone except be a hero who stops the villains, because that is exactly what he’s always done. Hide behind the hero persona, when it’s Enji Todoroki who needs to try to make amends.

And what he and Hawks fails to do so stupendously here is admit they were in the wrong. They admit to doing these things, but they don’t admit they were wrong to harm the people they did. Endeavor tells the reporter he can’t change what he’s done so there’s no reason to act contrite, but that is bullshit.

Because you know what? It would matter! It won’t change what happened, but for a man set on proving he’s better than he was -- a low bar to begin with -- he’s failed a simple test of character. 

Just as it would’ve mattered to Touya if his dad had said, “What I did to you is wrong, creating you for only one reason and then abandoning you when you couldn’t fulfill it was wrong, you’re not to blame in the slightest and I’m sorry I treated you this way” rather than ignoring the problem and his own culpability. 

Would it have changed the fact that Enji bought his wife and engineered his children to surpass his rival? Would all of Touya’s inner turmoil have disappeared in an instant? Hell no. But it absolutely would have mattered! 

And it would’ve mattered for him to be condemned for this, both by his family and the public. Rei might’ve called him for running away in private, but not where Touya could see or hear. When she confronted Touya, she gave the same advice as Enji, albeit it was at least with the understanding that his father was not a good person or someone he should waste time trying to please. However, she did so with the same goal as Endeavor had when he tried to convince Touya to pursue a life outside of heroism-- not to help Touya, but to stop his behavior from disrupting the family unit and keep the power main power (in this case, his father) system in place.

Sound familiar? It’s the same as what the Top 3 tries to do with the press conference. Shut down any criticism, scapegoat the villains as the root of all the problems society is now facing, all in order to maintain the system of power in place.

It is the exact type of dynamic that created Dabi, and as we see in this chapter, what’s his response??

Right. His goal was to have people finally think critically about the heroes they put in positions of power and for heroes who commit crimes to be held accountable for their actions just as the villains are. Since they’re all getting away with abuse and murder without so much as a slap on the wrist, he’s going to act accordingly. He’s going to commit more crimes in his pursuit of this goal.

Once again, the heroes show they believe that beating (or in Hawks’ case, straight up killing) the villains will be enough. Instead the inability to understand  victims who do not fit into the “good” victim role or help the people whose pain makes them uncomfortable will lead to the very thing the heroes say they’re trying to prevent.

[1-800-seo]

1-800-SEO presents: — Where Is My Mind?

genre: dystopia/slight angst/escapism

pairing: Johnny Suh/Gender Neutral Reader

warnings: IV’s/needles, intravenous use of narcotics, bad coping mechanisms, alcohol use, depictions/descriptions of poverty to a degree, implied sexual activity, dreams

word count: 2506 words

in affiliation with: @127-mile ‘s

drive in fic collaboration

summary: Based in a future where your wildest dreams can be lived in for a few hours through intravenous methods, vices and virtues blur. Scraping by is all you can do, and escapism is all you live for. Maybe that will change when you meet him. (Loosely based on Inception.)

The familiar haze of mental fog clouds your mind, it coats the edges of your thoughts like a viscous syrup. You find yourself in a wheat field, the golden crops stretching for as far as the eye can see ahead of you. The swirling breeze passes over your hands and you feel it tickle, a sensation you’ve not felt in a long time. After taking a crisp piece of the surrounding plants into your hands, you feel each and every texture it offers with a fingertip. It’s not like you’ve ever touched real wheat before, you want to imprint it to memory. With the piece of crop still in your dominant hand, you turn your head, body following its arc too, and your eyes meet a cottage. The building just exudes a comforting energy, it's homely even when your real home is nothing alike. The trees that are positioned off to the side of the cottage provide the right amount of shade, one side of the house has full direct sunlight and the other is gently shaded, but in a comforting way. You drop the wheat and make your way over to the cottage. As you make your way up to the front door, following the perfectly placed path, you take in the smell of the decorative flowers that adorn the surrounding gardens. The smell of real flowers is something you’re not used to. Finally upon reaching the door, you outstretch your hand to grasp the door handle. The moment your skin makes contact with the sun-heated metal, a blinding hot white shoots across your vision, and pulls you out.

Waking up is never easy, but it’s not like you’re not used to it. The moment you open your eyes you are met with the same dingy apartment as almost every other wake up. Your arms feel weak from lack of circulation as you reach across to pull out your IV. It doesn’t sting, you’ve done this so many times, it’d be surprising if it did. As your eyes adjust to the light you start to make out the time, it’s displayed on the heads up view of your plexi-wall, and reads 11:36PM. Stars, it’d been 7 hours since you last ate, and your body is definitely letting you know as it starts to wake up from its lulled state. You shift your wobbly legs away from the crusty office chair you were sitting on and begin to make your way over to the food dispensary. You hold your palm over the sensor as a silver sachet slides out and into your palm. You make quick work of depositing its contents into a bowl and mixing it with hot water, your hunger spurring you to be swifter.

Before you know it, all of the food has been devoured, your stomach full, and the night is ready to be conquered. You have no desire to leave the flat, nothing calling you besides money to leave the (lack of) comfort of your home. But of course, money always beats out desire, and so you hastily put on your shoes and proofed jacket, grab your safety umbrella and backpack, and leave. Things had to be paid for, and your credits were seriously running low, if you wanted to continue with your expensive hobby, it meant scrounging. You’re not dumb, you knew that daydreaming wasn’t a cheap, safe, respectable, or even remotely healthy hobby to have, but at this point it was escapism, freedom from pain, and so you’d do anything for that sweet peace.

Once you’re at street level, you put up your umbrella. At this point it’s better to be safe than sorry, the acid rain warning that you saw on your dash ringing out in your memory. It never used to be like this, acid rain was once unheard of, but in the last ten years pollution came to the point that even the water cycle couldn’t be trusted. That’s the joys of living in urban scum, you think to yourself. Your ears register the faint sounds of sizzling rain droplets on your umbrella and you're grateful for it now. Your pace quickens, and after a blur of around 20 minutes walk, you arrive at your workplace.

Workplace was definitely too light of a word to call the building that stands before you. The imposing structure juts out into the dark with brightly coloured lights on its each corner, signalling its presence, as if it was easy to miss without the lights. The commonplace sound of thumping bass echoes about the street for meters, and it only gets louder as you walk up the stairs and into the building. A sign reading ‘Sondaero LivingSpaces’ greets you, but you know full well the people here are barely living. Oh no, this type of place is home to some of the most prolific daydreamers; well, the most prolific for the underground scene. You step through a set of large doors and out into the main courtyard. It’s an indoor park, filled with neon bioluminescent plants, and jarringly placed speakers. If this was any other establishment, the sea of ravers surrounded by people daydreaming on cot beds would be jarring to you, but you’re so used to it that you couldn’t care less; or more so, you’re plainly desensitised to it.

You find your way out onto the dancefloor and surround yourself with people - the more people the better, it just makes your job easier. Safely hidden in the palm of your hand is a biometric chip you crafted yourself. Implants are a little drastic in your opinion, especially when cosmetic, but this was a necessary thing to you considering it earnt you money. The function of the chip worked like this: every person is assigned biometric numerical values by the government of their country, this is to make controlling their finances easier without having a physical device like a debit card or a mobile phone. Instead each user is assigned these numerical values based on their facial bone structure, and the chip's job was to scan this using minute sensors. All you had to do was simply wave your hand in the direct vicinity of their face, and await results - those results being the chip draining their bank account of credit and depositing it into yours. The waving part is complicated in normal use, but when at a club, where wild dancing is the norm, it makes hand movements so much less conspicuous. As you imagine the small amounts of money gradually making its way into your account a man approaches you to your side.

The guy has long-ish dark brown hair, with eyes of the same colour and a tall stature. He begins dancing near you, slowly moving closer and closer towards your vicinity. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to this man, he was objectively good looking, and the smirk he was wearing on his face was hard to ignore. Before you know it, he’s leaning in your ear and shout-whispering: “hey, do you wanna get a drink with me, angel?” The confidence in him to skip all normal greetings is astounding to you, but in some ways that makes him even more attractive to you, so you whisper-shout back “yeah!” and lead him over to the bar by the elbow.

After you have a few drinks in you, dancing becomes thoughtless, and swaying and grinding on the nameless man is even easier. “Yo, what’s your name?” You ask over the pulsing beat. His response is a finger trailing up your spine with the words ‘Johnny’ leaving his lips. Maybe those disquieting thoughts aren’t only silenced by daydreaming, maybe this could be another outlet. That thought curls in your mind, the wispy tendrils of a coherent thought fading like a misty night.

A few more drinks in your systems leads you to going home with the man, but your memories fade away as the night (or should you say early morning?) carries on. It passes by in a blur and the next thing you know you’re being startled awake by a cat sitting on your chest, with an unearthly headache.

Once you finally manage to extricate yourself from the cat’s grasps, you sit up and immediately notice the sleeping form of Johnny next to you on the tatami, his chest rising and falling with each breath. As quietly as you can, you tiptoe up off the tatami floor, acknowledge the ache throughout your entire body and move towards his kitchenette for a glass of water. Unbeknownst to you, Johnny apparently has a rudely noisy water purifying outlet attached to his faucet, and it decides to make itself known the moment you hover your palm over the on sensor. Johnny quickly stirs awake at the noise, and he sleepily opens his eyes in your direction.

“Wha-what’s going on?” He asks, squinting as his dark eyes adjust to the light. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was just trying to get some water.” You respond, tottering back over to the tatami, glass of water in hand. “Um, I’m sorry, I don’t really remember much of last night, did we uh- what did we do?” You’re aware your question was haphazard, but the incessant hangover looming in your head has your thoughts less than clear.

“If you are wondering if we had sex, the answer is yes, but the only thing I remember is waking up covered in… unsavoury stuff...so that certainly was a way of knowing how. I also know that apparently at some part of the night we decided to dream ‘cause I had to tidy up the gear earlier, but to put any worries at bay, I’m clean and vaccinated so...yeah.” He finishes the end of his sentence, trailing off. Well, at least the mystery man is somewhat of a gentleman, and he’s not gonna give you anything nasty which is always a good thing. You realise his late night cleaning must’ve turned to yourself at some point considering you are somewhat dressed and clean, but you can’t find it in you to care, you’d come to this shameful point so what did a bit of aftercare matter.

“Oh ok, and thanks for letting me know. I’m clean and fully vaccinated too.” You respond, unsure how to act around him. Perhaps he feels your apprehension, and in answer he pats a spot on the tatami next to him, just away from his cat too. You make your way over to the spot, feet padding on the floor as you go. “Your cat’s cute, they decided to sit on my chest this morning. Despite knocking the breath out of me, they’re pretty charming.” Johnny’s eyes widen at this knowledge before throwing his head back and letting out a hearty laugh. It’s somewhat comforting to hear such a genuine laugh; it takes your mind off the world of insincerity around you.

“I apologise for Ten, he gets cuddly in the mornings.” Johnny picks up his cat to give you more space, Ten’s legs sprawling wide in the air before being put down to safety.

There’s something so warm and familiar about Johnny’s presence, it has you naturally leaning into him, and his arm comes to rest around your shoulders as your head gently leans on his chest. The feeling is just so warm and despite knowing you don’t know him well, it almost feels like you do. It feels like a lover long lost, and now he has returned a warm feeling spreads throughout your chest. It’s almost inexplicable, and if you were to try to justify it to anyone other than yourself, a wave of embarrassment would certainly wash over you.

Looking down at you, he meets your eyes, and they seem somewhat fond; not what you were expecting to see. “Do you fancy dreamin’?” He asks, still maintaining eye contact? “Hmm, sure, hopefully I’ll remember it this time.” You reply with a smile and he reciprocates.

Before you even open your eyes you’re met with the sensation of skin on skin. Beneath your fingertips you feel, what you suppose is a firm chest, and when you open your eyes your suspicions are confirmed. Your hands are resting on Johnny’s taut chest, and of course this is what an unscripted dream with the two of you looks like. You feel that you are naked too, and his hands rest gently around your waist, a relaxing gentle weight reassuring you he’s still there. You meet each other’s eyes and the tension is palpable in the air. He dips his head down and kisses you, lips melting together with ease. His hands move from their placing and trail down to cup the small of your back, your bodies meeting infinitely closer.

The two of you move together like jigsaw pieces slotting into place, there’s no conscious thoughts, only the two of you existing in this dream space. Part of you can feel Johnny’s thoughts swirling as you share the hazy unstructured scape. There’s hints of lust mixed with a sleepy mindset, probably left over from waking up moments ago in the real world. He’s set on being a lazy lover right now, selfishly devouring you with no haste in any of his actions, just taking these moments for himself. He can feel your thoughts just as much as you can feel his, he knows you’re feeling relaxed with him and he’s pleased at that, he knows how good you feel right now and he’s proud. He wants to use all of this time to make you feel good. You’re both in agreement that losing yourself in each other is ever so easy, and so you both fall into the other's grasps.

The second time you wake up, Ten is resting on your feet, warming them from the slight chill of the room. Johnny had roused quicker than you, and he’d already removed the IV from your arm. You spot him winding up the fluid bags and putting them into the insulated case they reside in. “How are you feeling?” He asks whilst disposing of the needles in the marked sharps box. “Good, lighter than usual. I’ve enjoyed spending time with you, albeit mostly imaginary.”

The floaty feeling remains in the forefront of your consciousness. Despite feeling lighter, less burdened, you’re aware that you need to change your vices. Constantly daydreaming, forming relationships through them, isn’t healthy. Continuous escapism isn’t a way to live; numbing yourself over and over again won’t solve anything. With a new fervor to gain meaning in your life, you rise from your place on the tatami. “What are your plans for today, John?” You ask, perhaps vices and meaning aren’t that different from each other.

long time no see! this is my penultimate fic :(( hopefully u guys enjoyed it! I know it’s not like my usual style and is somewhat offbeat but I hope it makes sense hehe <3

[calboniferous]

In Theory

Work 1 in The Pen and the Sword aka. my jedi and academics AU

A stressed post-graduate anthropology researcher from Coruscant University enters the Jedi Archives for the first time and is promptly taken under the wing of one Master Archivist Jocasta Nu.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32355310

—

Master Jocasta Nu felt the visitor before she saw them. Stress and a frenetic energy radiated through the force tangled with the unique threads of emotion and colour that made up their signature.

Closing the book in front of her with a soft thud, mindful of its frayed edges, she appraised the blue nautolan hurrying towards her. Their worn brown coat was unbuttoned and struggling to stay onto their shoulders, saved by the strap of the bag hanging off one side which the nautolan had one arm wrapped around. Apparently, the bag’s tie had lost the battle against the tide of flimsy and datapads making the simple bag bulge obscenely.

Ah.

A scholar.

Like the many before them, they had come to Master Nu’s beloved archives in hope of finding salvation in its hallowed stacks. With her guidance, they always did and more often than not, they would return again. And again.

However, this scholar was not one that Master Nu had seen before and as they glanced wide-eyed at the towering shelves, shying away from passing Jedi, she surmised that the Jedi archives were unfamiliar to them also.

They reached her desk out of breath.

“I need books on Kante martial arts and history. Do you have books on Kante? If it has historical martial arts then that would be incredible but I’m setting the bar low. Really, the bar is non-existent. Should I even be setting a bar I don’t know- do you know what the Kante are? Were? They’re extinct”

“Young one, breathe.” Master Nu said, lifting her hand to interrupt the rush of words. Her brow softened in sympathy, “How about you start from the beginning and tell me what your thesis is and then we’ll go about finding resources.”

She signalled to one of the Padawans stacking holopads nearby for them to take over monitoring the main desk and led Tema to one of the many sunlit alcoves tucked between the buttresses.

Settling on a cushion across the low table from the sleep deprived nautolan, Master Nu pulled out her well-worn datapad, ready to formulate a list of texts to recommend for this student’s project. She had gathered quite the collection of such lists over the years and took great pride in curating them. Often, she would continue to add to them in her spare time so that when the person they had been made for returned, it was waiting and ready. And, if Master Nu happened to enjoy the thrill of a hunt for obscure references through her own archives every now and again, that was her own business.

Stylus in hand, she was ready to begin.

“You mentioned martial arts?”

“Right. Yes. I’m studying the fighting style of the Kante people which they used to reclaim their lands 7000 years ago after it was conquered in the Chandrillan Divide. The politics of the reclamation itself have been documented to death but there’s kriff all discussing how they actually fought,”

Master Nu hummed sympathetically, listening as a classic university post-graduate research tragedy poured out in all its glory. The purple shadows smeared under Tema’s dark eyes suggested that more than one night had been lost to this.

It was a credit to her Jedi training and skill as an archivist that Master Nu could write notes, elegant script flitting smoothly across the datapad without misspelling a single title or name, while offering comforting hums and interjecting words of encouragement where Tema faltered.

“So now I need to piece it together myself in order to build a theory on how the Kante people approached battlefield strategy,” Tema finished, fidgeting with their bag strap.

Setting her stylus down, Master Nu surveyed the drafted list with a critical eye. It was a daunting selection. She weighed the situation in her mind and carefully turned the datapad off, placing it down with a muted click of metal on the polished stone table.

“That’s quite the task you’ve got” Master Nu said, “more than an Honours project scope covers.”

She loathed to discourage any scholar but there were limits to the workload that could be shouldered and she had a strict honesty policy. With all her Jedi compassion and experience ad Head Archivist, Master Nu knew how to recognise when a student needed guidance in whittling down their research focus to a reasonable magnitude.

“I know,” Tema sighed, shoulders sagging, “I know but my project topic has already been approved by my supervisor.”

“Dear, your project as it stands is enough to satisfy a PhD and beyond. I can tell you are passionate about it but it’d be a tragedy for you to fail because you tried to complete years’ worth of work in the 10 months you have.”

The blue nautolan wilted a little, head tails curling.

“I don’t see what choice I have. I can’t form a thesis on the merits of Kante strategy without knowing how it worked at the individual level,” they said, resignation colouring their force signature grey with worry.

Master Nu paused, and after a moment spoke.

“Have you considered centring your project on the martial arts itself? At the individual level, as you say. Leaving the rest aside to focus on that should technically be within your project topic.”

Tema blinked, “That’s…that would work. Yes.”

Master Nu watched as they turned the idea over, considering how to approach it.

“Yes. That would make it more of a research-and-reconstruction project. A literature review with practical application.”

They gave a wry smile, “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before.”

Some of the frazzled emotion of their presence eased and a few threads of humour sparked in its wake.

“I could have saved myself from being sick from worry in the University ‘freshers yesterday.”

They flushed a little darker at that admission and Master Nu suppressed what would have been a rather unprofessional snort of amusement as she clicked the datapad back on. Ah, younglings. They never changed.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, dear. That amount of stress isn’t conducive to clarity of mind, I’d wager,” Master Nu soothed, deleting a few items from the list with a satisfied air, “You’re hardly the first person’s I’ve known to have an adverse reaction to academic stress. Now, I do believe this list is ready.”

Rising with more grace than her age suggested she was capable of, she smoothed the creases in her cream and straw-gold robes and led the way into the maze of columns and shelves. Tema followed a step behind in a manner that to any observers bore remarkable resemblance to a duckling following its mother – if ducklings were six-and-a-half feet tall, that is.

“Somehow I find it hard to imagine a Jedi getting sick from assignments,” they mused absentmindedly, tipping their head to catch some of the book titles they passed, “all this information – it’d be hard to fail.”

Master Nu chuckled at that, passing through an archway into a side corridor.

“I’m afraid it can happen to anyone. One of my agemates routinely emptied his stomach at the prospect of examinations – that one, in fact,” she said, gesturing to one of the bronze busts lining the hall. The metallic features gave the human man depicted a severe expression. In Master Nu’s opinion, it was rather true to life even if the beard was far to neatly sculpted.

“The poor man. Perfection was as much his vice as his virtue.”

She smiled fondly, crows’ feet crinkling with nostalgia at sharing this particular story – at sharing the humanity of someone so proud and distant both in life and artistic rendition.

Tema faltered and the markings on their head tails blanched light blue.

“Oh, uh, my condolences.”

“Hmm?” Master Nu turned to them, “Oh no, he’s not dead. He’s retired.”

“Oh,”

They blinked, nonplussed.

“This way, dear”

The pair continued on their winding path. Master Nu, frequently gesturing to some architectural feature or other with her datapad, began to explain how the Jedi Archival system worked, pausing every now and then to pull a tome from the shelves.

“It is what many have described as ‘archaic’,” she said, stepping deftly onto the fourth rung of a sliding ladder attached to one of the shelves to reach her next target, “but no one—and I mean no one—has said it is an ineffective system.

“At least not in my earshot,” she said with a laugh, pulling the volume from its place and passing it down to Tema. The rumours the initiates (and fully-grown Knights) liked to spread about Master Nu’s draconian defence of the archives may not be entirely accurate but were taken by most as a warning to avoid slandering the archive in her presence. She knew Tholme liked to stir the pot and recount tales of her lightsabre prowess to the initiates, no matter that the stories were thirty years out-of-date.

“That being said, it can take some getting used to. The Padawans and Knight Archivists are always around and willing to retrieve sources for our visitors.”

Master Nu dismounted from the ladder, blew dust from her sleeve, and turned a critical eye on to the stack of books and datapads in Tema’s arms that had been steadily growing in size. The scholar looked strong enough to take a couple more, taking into account that their bulging bag would not fit anything more inside.

“That’s the last one from this aisle.”

She clicked her tongue and marked a check on her list next to the sources they were borrowing. They were all copies, of course, or volumes easily enough to source a replacement that their loss wouldn’t be abhorrent. Nonetheless, clean records made maintaining the collection less stressful on her soul.

On that note, Master Nu was pleased to feel that Tema was no longer pouring stress into the force like an anxious firehose. And—

She stilled, tilting her head as a familiar presence tickled the edges of her senses.

“Master Nu?” Tema asked, noticing her change in manner.

“Nothing to worry about,”

She once again took the lead. Down the aisle, then one aisle to the left and as they rounded the corner Master Nu smiled at the sight before her.

A little blue and beige figure was hunched over a book resting on the floor, absentmindedly gnawing on her Padawan silka beads and completely oblivious to the world around her.

“Padawan Secura! Why am I not surprised?” Master Nu called lightly and the twi’lek girl jerked, breaking from her literature-induced reverie to scramble to her feet.

“I’m not skipping sabre class again. I swear!”

Had it been any other Padawan of Aayla’s age group, Master Nu would think that emphatic declaration of innocence meant the Padawan in question was skipping class. Skywalker came to mind as a repeat offender of that variety.

Only question was that Junior Padawan sabre classes were always on Taungsday afternoons—this afternoon—and had been since before Master Nu was a crecheling. She hummed, unconvinced.

“Knight Kenobi is doing catch-up lessons this week and he said my forms were good enough to skip.”

That explained it. It seemed only yesterday that he’d been roaming the archives as a padawan himself, tearing through histories of the planets he’d visited at Qui-Gon’s side with single-minded focus. Shame that his lineage had picked him up before her own could. He would have made a fantastic archivist despite his record of being convinced to scale the bookshelves whenever Vos got temple fever.

Well, at least Aayla’s fencing education was in good hands.

Master Nu beamed at Aayla, “Then good work padawan and, as you are free, would you like to join us in gathering sources for Scholar Induri here?”

Aayla brightened, “Absolutely!”

And then, remembering her diplomacy training, bowed to Tema, setting her Padawan beads swinging. “Nice you meet you, Scholar.”

She scooped up the book she had been reading and as she put it back in its slot, Master Nu glimpsed the title.

“Reading Bastilla Shan again are we Padawan?”

The padawan blushed, fiddled with her tunic and handily dodged the teasing with a question of her own, “What are we looking for, Master?”

“See for yourself, young one,” Master Nu passed over the datapad, pointing to the highlighted entries.

Aayla squinted at the handwriting for a second before passing the pad back and running away down the aisle, one hand skimming the shelf labels. Padawans were lovely to have around and, watching Aayla slide 4 meters down a ladder and return to them with a grin plastered across her face, Master Nu wondered if she should take another student. Or, better yet, invite her former Padawans around for tea to see if more Grandpadawans would be joining the lineage soon.

“Thank you, dear,” she gave Aayla a pat on the head, “I’ll leave you to your reading. Just don’t forget to remind your Master that he needs to renew the materials he borrowed last month.”

Then, she turned to Tema who hadn’t made so much as a peep the past five minutes, seemingly satisfied to observe the interaction.

“Let’s get these checked out so you can get to reading them.”

Back to the main desk, the archivist and scholar wandered, and a minute later there was a new name entered into the borrowing database.

“Again, thank you for everything, Master Nu” Tema said, gathering the stack back into their arms. They were a little overwhelmed but they were smiling.

“Dear, it’s no trouble. One last thing, are you planning on enlisting someone practised in martial forms in your project? Or were you aiming for a more theoretical illustration of your findings?”

Tema cast their eyes to one side and shifted their weight.

“Ideally, yes, but I have no idea where to find someone like that so…theoretical?”

They trailed off.

“Good. I’m free to ask around here, then,” Master Nu said, tugging Tema’s bag strap so it was in less immediate danger of falling of their shoulder.

“If you need any help at all, don’t hesitate to send me a message or drop by. My archive is always open,”

At that, she tucked a slip of flimsy with her com code underneath the top datapad in the stack and gave Tema a parting pat on the cheek. With hope in their step, the scholar passed back out the archive doors, into the sunlight of the hall beyond.

Content, Master Nu smiled and watched them go.

“Now,” she mused to herself, opening the roster of temple-bound jedi and beginning to peruse the list, “who to ask…”

Her thoughts turned to the bronze bust of a man whose devotion to esoteric research was only outmatched by his skill with a blade.

His legacy…

Her eyes caught on a name. Yes, that would do very nicely indeed.

In the interest of vetting the source she intended to recommend, Master Nu made a mental note to attend next week’s exhibition tournament.

[spine-buster]

The President Wears Prada (William Nylander) | Chapter 10

A/N:  The response to last chapter was so amazing and I have been LOVING answering your anons and comment questions!  I hope this chapter brings some much needed, uh, happiness to your lives.  We’re seeing them get closer and closer..........😊

November 19th, 2019

Aberdeen Bloom was eating Doritos straight out of the bag.  

It was a Tuesday night, and she was on the couch with Minerva in her lap and Kasha beside her watching TV.  The Leafs had lost to Las Vegas 4-2, and Aberdeen was ready to call it an early night – if only so she could put a facemask on before she went to bed.  She didn’t have to be in the office tomorrow until about 10, which meant that she could sleep in.  Plus, her eyes hurt.  She’d been reading like a mad woman during all her days off, researching everything she could and trying to learn the history of the Maple Leafs: all the different players, the eras, the iconic moments, the not-so-iconic moments – everything.  It was a lot to learn, but she knew that the second she typed the words into the Google search bar.  She also knew she wouldn’t learn everything in four days, but alas, she was trying.  She was doing what she knew she had in her.  She was trying.  

Kasha snuck one last Dorito before she rolled up the bag and put it back in the designated “snack” cupboard in their kitchen.  They folded up the blanket, fluffed the pillows on the small couch, and made sure Minerva had some food and water in her bowl before closing the curtains and retreating to their bedrooms.  Minerva hopped onto Aberdeen’s bed, and she scratched behind Minerva’s ears which she knew she liked before changing into her pajamas and going to her washroom to wash her face.  

“Do you mind if I phone Evan?” Kasha called out from her bedroom.  “I won’t be too loud, I promise.”

“Go for it!” Aberdeen said, truly not minding.  She’d hear a few mumbles at most – nothing more – and she knew because Kasha did this often.  It was sweet, and they were cute, and Aberdeen honestly didn’t mind.  Kasha’s dad still didn’t know, which meant they were in their own world, which was nice.  She and Kasha were still harbouring secrets for each other, as they always would.

Minerva meowed when she came back in the room.  Aberdeen sat on her bed and cradled her in her arms for a few minutes, scratching and kissing her all over.  Just as she was about to shut off her light and tuck herself into bed, her phone began to ring.  She looked over to see Brendan’s name flashing across the screen.  

She froze.  Brendan never called this late.  She picked up immediately.  “Good evening Mr. Shanahan,” she greeted him.

“You need to be ready in half an hour with a suitcase packed for four days,” he said, his voice stern but sounding somewhat preoccupied.

Aberdeen stood up immediately.  “Oh, okay.  Of course.  Um, why?” she asked.

“We’re taking a red eye to Phoenix.”

She felt like throwing up.  That had to mean something was wrong with the team.  A player was injured, or being traded, or maybe demoted?  What if it had something to do with Kyle?  What if it was about John?  Was his captaincy at risk because they had only won two games in regulation in the past sixteen games?  “Okay.  No problem.”

“I’ll be there with Lou in half an hour.  Tell nobody,” he said before he hung up the phone abruptly.  

Aberdeen began to freak out.  She changed into a pair of clothes and threw her suitcase onto her bed, Minerva meowing at her and watching as she stuffed outfits into her suitcase.  Minerva even tried climbing into the suitcase a few times, which made Aberdeen sad – all she wanted to be doing was cuddling with her cat, not thinking about the Leafs.  She grabbed her travel bags that had her toiletries and travel-sized skincare and makeup products and threw them in as well.  When she was finished, she zipped it up.  She took a deep breath.

Minerva meowed.

“I’m sorry baby,” she whispered, scratching behind Minerva’s ears again.  She grabbed her credentials off her dresser and put them around her neck.  

She exited her room and knocked softly on Kasha’s door.  “Give me a second,” Aberdeen could hear her say to Evan.  “Come in.”  Aberdeen opened the door, popping in about half way.  Kasha immediately saw that Aberdeen was wearing regular clothes.  The look of worry on Aberdeen’s face was a tell-tale sign something was wrong.  She put her phone against her chest.  “Oh my God Aberdeen, what’s wrong?”

“I’m taking a red-eye to Phoenix,” she whispered, making sure Evan wouldn’t be able to hear her through the phone.  Not that he’d say anything.  “Something’s happening.”

“What’s happening?” Kasha asked, her eyes wide.

“I don’t know.  Brendan hasn’t told me.  But this is very unexpected and I’ve just had to pack for four days which means I’ll be in Colorado too.  I’ll be back Sunday.  But can you please watch Minerva?  I know you weren’t supposed—”

“Aberdeen, of course, it’s not even a question,” Kasha said.  

“You can’t tell anyone I’m going,” Aberdeen said.  “I don’t know what’s happening, but you can’t say a word.”

“No no, of course not,” Kasha shook her head.  “Can you at least text me when you land?  So I know you’re safe?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Aberdeen nodded, her mind running a mile a minute.  What if it was William?  What if it was Jason?  “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, Aberdeen.  This is your job now,” Kasha said.  “I’ll take care of Minerva, don’t worry.”

***

Aberdeen waited in the condo lobby for the town car.  When she saw it pull up, she began walking towards it, pulling her suitcase behind her.  Lou got out and loaded it in the trunk for her, and she opened the back door to sit in her usual seat.  

Brendan was, of course, already there, in a pair of slacks and a comfortable looking sweater.  “Hi Mr. Shanahan,” she said, putting on her seatbelt.  It was then and only then that she noticed another presence in the front seat.  Usually, of course, it was just her and Brendan.  

“Aberdeen, the only people who know the following information I’m about to tell you are Larry, Kyle, myself, and Lou,” he began.  She nodded her head, not believing she was privy to this information before so many other people just by virtue of having to travel with Brendan.  She glanced over quickly to the man in the front seat.  She saw a familiar face smiling back at her.  “You know Sheldon Keefe,” Brendan said as he noticed them looking at each other.

“Of course,” she said.  He was head coach of the Marlies.  He was around often.  Had multiple meetings with Brendan throughout her time working there.  

“Well, he’s the new head coach of the Toronto Maple Leafs.”

***

November 20th, 2019

After boarding the MLSE private jet – not first class on a commercial flight, not even another chartered flight, the MLSE private jet – and everyone sleeping most of the way to Phoenix, they landed and immediately checked into the same hotel as the team without telling a single soul.  Everyone went straight to bed but were notified by Brendan that they had to “lay low” for the next day and would be leaving for the arena, where the team would hold their practice, at 1:30pm.  Aberdeen barely slept, and had to stay cooped up in her room so nobody would see her and know Brendan arrived.  It was torture.  

When she arrived at the arena with Brendan and Sheldon, Brendan told her to sit in the stands and wait.  That’s when she got really nervous, because she knew he was prepping himself to fire Mike Babcock right after the practice, even though it was going on as they spoke.  But she did as she was told, sitting and clutching her iPad in her lap so hard her knuckles were white.  

She noticed William first, of course, his blonde hair peeking through his helmet, as he kneeled on one knee in front of Mike Babcock as he addressed the team.  John, Jason, Auston, Tyson – they were all there, and she picked them out one by one.  Everybody was facing away from her, looking at the whiteboard.  Her leg bobbed up and down uncontrollably.  In a mere, what, thirty minutes, they wouldn’t even have to listen to him anymore.

When the team stood up and did some last-minute drills, Aberdeen noticed Kasperi look in her direction.  William was skating over to him, and when he stopped in front of him, William did a double take.  Her heart fluttered at the moment she knew he realized it was her.  He would have almost missed his cue for the drill if Kasperi didn’t tap him.  When he was finished the set-up drill and skated back to his place, he looked in her direction again, transfixed.  

That was when her phone buzzed.  She took it out and saw a series of texts coming through from Brendan.  

Kyle will be texting you soon.  Please go into the locker room with him while he speaks to the team about the coaching change.  Sheldon will be there too.  Let me know how it goes, as I will be speaking to Mike.  

When we release the announcement expect crazy media.  I will speak to them.  Kyle will not.  If Kyle is not done speaking to the team by the time the announcement is sent out and media comes in, don’t worry.  Stay with Kyle.

I think the team will appreciate seeing your friendly face when this comes down.

You will have to help set up for a media press conference tomorrow but the Coyotes will also provide help.  Me Kyle & Sheldon.

Thank you for not leaking.

By the time she looked up from her phone, half of the team was already down the tunnel.  John, Morgan, and Auston had stayed out to speak with Mike a little bit more, but she took that as her cue to leave the stands and at least start making her way towards the locker room.  She knew the team probably had to undress, shower, and change into their regular clothes before Kyle said anything to them, but she was so anxious she couldn’t help it.

Another buzz from her phone.  This time, when she looked at it, ‘Head Empty’ showed – the name she put for William, so nobody would know it was him.

why are u here?

She had to resist every urge in her to reply.  She couldn’t.  Brendan had sworn her to secrecy, and had already thanked her for that secrecy.  If she typed even one word, William would know what was going on.  So she ignored him.

whats going on minskatt?

is everything ok?

pls answer me minskatt. what is happening

can i come see u?  where are u?

She put her phone on silent.  She couldn’t take it.  She held in every emotion she had as she walked through the arena and hallways, flashing every worker her credentials, before finally arriving at the visiting team’s area.  She walked through the doorway and saw Kyle.  He smiled and waved her over.  

“Thanks for coming,” he said as she approached him, still clutching the iPad to her chest.  

“Yeah, of course.  No problem.”

“You know Aberdeen, Brendan trusts you,” he said.  He could tell she was nervous by how white her knuckles were.  He thought that maybe saying that would put her at ease.  “That he made you come on this trip – that he made you privy to the information before a lot of other people…that says a lot.”

Aberdeen shrugged her shoulders.  She wasn’t so sure.  “I’m just doing my job Kyle.  He told me to be packed in thirty minutes and I was packed in thirty minutes.”

“But you didn’t leak it.”

Aberdeen furrowed her brows.  “I…why would I leak it?” she asked.  It was the most absurd concept to her.  “I would never do something like that. He thanked me for not leaking it too—”

“I know,” Kyle smiled slightly.

“But why?” she asked again.  “There’s nothing in it for me.”

“Really?  It’s interesting you see it that way,” Kyle said.  “You could have sold that information to any newspaper or reporter and they would have offered you a job.  A chance to write, which is apparently what you want to do, according to Brendan at least.  But you didn’t.”

Aberdeen hadn’t even considered that.  Sell the information for a writing gig at a national newspaper?  She didn’t even know the opportunity was there, truthfully.  What it revealed to her more than anything was that others had done it before – betrayed the team in some way.  She couldn’t even consider it.  She shook her head.  “This is my job,” she said, her voice small.  “I would never burn this bridge.  I’d never sell Brendan or the team out like that for personal gain.”

Kyle smiled.  “I’m going to chock it up to the fact that you’re young,” he said.  “You’re only twenty-one, Aberdeen.  This city is rife with opportunity for people who take advantage of others.  But you’re not like that – at least yet.”

“I’d never take advantage of someone.”  

Kyle smiled.  “Good.  I like a person with conviction.”  His eyes left hers as he noticed someone walking behind her.  He nodded his head at whoever it was.  “You ready?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

He opened the door for her, ushering her into the locker room.  As she turned a corner, she saw all the guys sitting at their stalls.  Quite a few of them noticed her come in and looked shocked.  When they saw Kyle follow behind her, they knew something was up.  

“Hey guys,” Kyle began, addressing the room.  “I know John let you know you all needed to stay back.  It’s because I need to speak to you guys.”  Aberdeen looked to her left and saw Sheldon lurking in the shadows.  He smiled at her and she smiled back.  “I want us to have a long, constructive conversation before you guys go back out there…because when you do, there’s going to be a big change,” Kyle continued.  A lot of the guys looked confused.  “That change being…well…Mike Babcock has been relieved of his coaching duties with our club,” he announced.  She watched as some of their jaws dropped.  “And your new head coach is someone many of you know very well – Sheldon Keefe.”

When Sheldon walked into the room and stood beside Kyle, the team broke out into a round of applause.  Guys like Zach, Travis, and Andreas were smiling and clapping for him so Aberdeen could only assume that they had played for him on the Marlies.  Jason seemed extremely happy.  Tyson looked like the weight of the world had been lifted off his shoulders.  

She watched William.  She couldn’t tell what he was feeling.

***

November 21st, 2019

It was William who texted Aberdeen first that night, when they got back to the hotel after the game.  im coming over and u cant stop me.  At least he gave her warning this time so she didn’t have a sheet mask on and her hair wrapped in a towel.  When she heard the lightest knock on her door, against all her better judgement, she ran over and opened it.  

William slipped into her room, wearing trackpants and a Gucci t-shirt that probably cost more than her last paycheque.  She closed the door and locked it before turning around to face him.  “Hi,” she said, her breath caught in her throat.  Here he was, in her hotel room…again.

“Why didn’t you answer my texts after practice?” he asked, getting right into it, not bothering with pleasantries.  

“Will, I couldn’t,” she said.  “I knew but I couldn’t say anything.  I couldn’t risk it.  Brendan swore me to secrecy.  I was on my couch eating Doritos, and then one hour later I was on the MLSE private jet on my way here.  I still can’t believe I am here.”

William nodded his head.  He broke eye contact with her as he walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.  “I’m sorry.  I was just – I was just so worried when I saw you.  I mean I was happy, don’t get me wrong, but you know.”

“Yeah.”  She looked at him, lost in his own thoughts.  There was a moment of silence because, Aberdeen thought, he was still processing everything that happened today – and that didn’t include the game they won.  A good start for a new coach, she thought.  “Will?”

“Yes minskatt?”

“How are you feeling about everything?”

He let out a long breath – one he didn’t know he was holding in – as he pushed himself further onto the bed.  He rubbed his face with his hands as she moved to sit on the opposite side of the bed cross-legged.  “I don’t even know minskatt,” he finally admitted.

“I mean…I don’t mean to tell you what to think, but there must be some…I don’t know…relief,” she said cautiously.

He looked over at her, smiling slightly.  “Yeah.  Relief.”

“Because, you know…the backhanded compliments.  You don’t have to take his shit anymore.  You have a coach now who actually, like, values you and your skill and doesn’t throw you under the bus all the time,” she clarified.

“Yeah, I guess.  Conflicted that I feel relief, though.”

It was glaringly obvious that he didn’t want to talk about it – well, that, or he really didn’t know what to feel about it all.  He was hard to read; he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve like she did most of the time.  And she didn’t know whether to blame him, the time of night they were having this conversation, or something else.  “Will—”

“Minskatt—”

“Can you just like…talk to me, please?” she asked, her voice just above a whisper.  She didn’t even look at him; she looked down and fiddled with the rings on her fingers nervously instead.  “I just want to make sure you’re okay, Will.”

His hand reached out and grabbed hers in her lap, making her stop fiddling with her rings.  Her skin felt like it was on fire as she looked up at him as he rubbed his thumb quickly over the back of her hand.  Her mind quickly flashed back to the first night they were together in her bed – how electrifying his touch was then, too.  Nothing had changed.  “I’ll be fine, minskatt.  You don’t have to worry about me,” he said, shifting to lie down on his side with her hand still in his.  

But she did.  That was her problem.  She was getting herself deeper into this mess even though she knew she had to get out.  Like, he wasn’t even supposed to be here, yet here he was.  Never mind just being in her hotel room – now he was on her bed.  Lying down.  “Will—”

“There’s been a lot of change in my life already, minskatt.  This is nothing,” he smirked, letting go of her hand.  

She knew that.  She remembered what he told her about his family moving around a lot.  It seemed like the only thing constant for him was change.  She thought maybe his long-term contract brought an end to that, but there were so many other variables in hockey she constantly forgot about.  “So long as you’re alright,” she said.  

“You know what would make it more alright?”

“What?”

“If you tell me how freaked out you were stepping onto that private jet for the first time,” he smiled.

Aberdeen started to giggle uncontrollably.  She shielded her face in her hands and shook her head, hearing William’s infectious laugh.  “Don’t even get me started.”

“Come on!” he beckoned.  

“It was torture.”

“Torture?”

“I’m not used to all that, Will,” she said, finding herself lying down on her side to face him.  She probably shouldn’t have.  “Like obviously it was nice – don’t get me wrong.  Beautiful.  But it was all so…crazy.”

“Crazy?” he just kept repeating her words.  

“Not all of us are accustomed to Gucci t-shirts and private jets,” she chastised.  “God, Will.  Sometimes I feel like the theme song to Murder, She Wrote is just playing in your head on a constant loop.”

“What’s it sound like?”

“Oh my God,” she mumbled, pulling her phone out from charging and opening the YouTube app to find the song.  She played it out loud for William, and the more the theme played, the harder William laughed.  His eyes crinkled and his smile stretched across his face; her eyes crinkled at the sound of his ridiculous laugh.  More than anything, she was just happy that he was laughing after everything that had happened.  

Will shoved his face into the pillow as he continued to laugh, the song ending not long after.  “Nobody roasts me quite like you do, Aberdeen.”

She thought about the list of the things she’d say he looked like whenever he asked “What do you think?” when he walked in with his game-day suit on, her most recent being, “You look like a medium pepperoni pizza with garlic dipping sauce.”  The guys got a kick out of that one when they heard about it.  Kasperi was even recording them all in the notes app on his phone.  “You love it,” she said without thinking.

“Of course I do,” he mumbled, his dumb smile still on his face.  “Tell me something Aberdeen.”

“What?”

He stretched out his hand again, one of them gliding over the skin near her elbow.  “What do your tattoos mean?”

It was her turn to shove her face into the pillow.  She knew this would come up one day, and truth be told, she wondered why it didn’t happen earlier.  “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got a lot of time.”

He did?  That was news to her.  It was late at night and he was in her hotel room instead of his own.  “This one…” she began, pointing to the first, “‘to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield’…it’s the last line of one of my favourite poems, Ulysses by Alfred, Lord Tennyson.  Do you know it?”

“No.”

“Well, it's a good poem.  You should read it,” she quipped.  “It’s about, like, the need of going forward, despite challenges, despite tragedy, despite anything.  About being strong in will, pushing forward relentlessly.  You know…persistence.  Never facing life passively.  It’s an attitude that I want to have in my life too.  An attitude I want to try to embody every day.”

William’s warm smile made her nervous.  “And you’re other one?”

She paused.  “That one’s even more personal.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you promise not to laugh?”

“Of course.”

She paused.  “This one is from Seneca.  He’s a Roman philosopher.  ‘We are waves of the same sea’.  It’s…my family,” she began.  “Mom is Scottish but grew up in Northern Ireland, and my dad is from Iran.  And if you know anything about the history of those two countries, it’s, like, focused on people’s apparent differences with each other creating conflict.  But in Canada, when they met, despite the cultural differences, they came together.  So like, we’re all waves, but at the end of the day…we’re part of the same sea.  We’re in this together,” she explained, embarrassed.  “I don’t know.  I just thought it was beautiful.  We can have all these differences, but at the end of the day we’re part of the same sea.”

The look on William’s face was one of pure adoration.  He was biting him bottom lip trying to suppress a huge smile, and his eyes so blue and dewy-looking she thought she would faint if she looked at them any longer.  “What’s wrong?” she asked.  Maybe he thought the whole explanation was stupid.

“You’re just so adorable, minskatt,” he said, not trying to hide his smile anymore.  “I could listen to you talk for hours.  Sometimes I even just imagine you talking so I can hear your voice.”

“You do?  Really?”

“Aberdeen…I think about you when I’m not even thinking.”

Her heart stopped beating.  She felt a rush of blood warm her cheeks as she pushed her face into the pillow again.  God, he was really going there, wasn’t he?  As they were laying in the same bed together.  “You can’t just say stuff like that to me and think I’m gonna react normally.”

“I know,” he said.  She shot him a look.  “Aberdeen.  I could listen to you talk all day and night.  I’m serious.  And besides, who was Ulysses or Alfred, Lord Tennyson anyway?”

“You don’t know?!” she asked, flabbergasted.  

William shook his head.  Aberdeen began talking, and he began listening.  And to William, all was right in the world.  

***

November 22nd, 2019

When Aberdeen awoke sometime the next morning, her body still felt tired and fatigued.  She knew the day before was long and tedious with the press conference and the game, but she thought sleep would rejuvenate her.  Apparently not.  She brought her hand up with her watch and took a look at the time.  It was still only 6:30am, so no wonder she felt the way she did.  Why in the hell was she waking up now?  

She sighed.  

Then something moved out of her corner of her eye.  A body.  On her bed.

As if on cue, everything from last night came flooding back into her mind.  William coming over to her room.  Talking about Mike Babcock’s firing and how he felt.  Talking about her tattoos and what they meant.  “Sometimes I even just imagine you talking so I can hear your voice.” “I think about you when I’m not even thinking.”  Then he’d asked who Ulysses and Alfred, Lord Tennyson were and she’d fucking taken the bait hook, line, and sinker so easily.  They had ended up talking for so long they just fell asleep.  Together.  In the same bed.

Oh my fucking God.

She looked at how peaceful his face looked.  God, he was fucking beautiful.  Just…beautiful.  But he couldn’t be here.  He shouldn’t have been here in the first place.  It went against everything.  “Will…” she said softly, hoping he’d wake up.  He didn’t.  “Will,” she said more forcefully.

“Hmph?” he grumbled.

“Will, you have to go.”

He furrowed his brows at the sound of her voice, obviously not expecting it.  He opened his eyes slowly, only to see her staring back at him.  “Minskatt?”  

“Will, it’s 6:30, you have to go back to your room,” she whispered.

He looked around, realizing just like she did what had happened.  “I don’t want to.”

“I know you don’t want to but you have to go before everyone starts waking up,” she reasoned.  “If anyone catches you walking out of my room Brendan will have my head on a spit.”

He took her words into consideration before nodding his head and getting up slowly.  He looked at the time before running his fingers through his hair.  He looked back at her as she lay in the bed looking at him.  “I’ll see you at breakfast, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she nodded her head.  

“Good,” he said as he got up, making his way over to the door.  “I’ll see you in a bit.”

When the door closed behind him, Aberdeen sighed and brought her hands up to cover her eyes.

She was fucked.  

[mexicancat-girl]

Transparency

A fic for #MLPrideFest2020 and Pride month. 

AO3: Link, 3400+ words, chapter 1 of 3.

Summary: Luka and Juleka come out of the closet.(An apparently very thin, very transparent closet, but a closet nonetheless.)

Mentions of Juleka/Rose and Luka/Adrien/Marinette/Kagami.

.

...

Luka sits on his bed idly strumming on his guitar, humming a few bars. His guitar was balanced on his crossed legs, notebook open and spread out on the duvet next to him.

It is, no doubt, a familiar sight to all that know him. Luka does practice with his guitar often, and also tends to take to his bed to practice.

This time, he was working on a new piece—already had the lyrics written up and everything—but he needed to find a proper melody first. He knew the general vibe he wanted, but wasn’t exactly sure how to get the specifics down just yet.

He thought he’d start simple. Acoustic guitar always made good base tracks to work with, especially with fledgling song ideas. And if he still couldn’t get it, he could move onto his keyboard and fiddle around with a few arrangements, or even move straight onto electric guitar.

Music was a long and meandering process, sometimes. Other times, it was like a lightning strike, sudden and electric.

Ironically, Luka was somewhere in the middle with this one song. He’d written the lyrics in a fit of inspiration, just plopped himself down and wrote it in one session. A song about longing and blooming feelings and bright eyes. But the actual musical accompaniment was taking longer, hard to grasp, sand sifting through his fingers.

He wasn’t going to let it bother him much, though. If he works enough on it, he’ll figure it out.

Patience was a virtue, after all.

Not to mention, he had the weekend ahead to make progress on it. It’ll be the most free time he’ll have.

A long sigh cuts through the air, and Luka pauses in his strumming to peer over at his sister at the other side of their shared room.

Juleka was sprawled out spread-eagle on her bed, staring up at the ceiling. Though maybe it was more like she was glaring, as if the very architecture of The Liberty had done her a great wrong.

He could all but hear the frustration and longing through her sigh. Could hear the discord there that’s emerged in her heart song. It makes him frown, just a bit.

Luka went back to strumming, a bit quieter and more listless, more habit than anything to keep his hands moving. Thoughts of his newest song were promptly shoved to the back of his mind, alongside the blooming and festering lovesickness he’s had as of late, replaced instead by growing concern for his little sister.

It was a familiar feeling, this protective worry, sliding comfortably over his shoulders like a well-worn coat.

As the older sibling, Luka’s always looked after Juleka. Hell, he pretty much half-raised her himself, what with Anarka busy working for…well, as long as he can remember. For most of their lives, probably.

Luka’s fingers stop suddenly, the last note coming out reedy and out of tune, as Juleka lets out a loud groan and buries her face in her hands.

Hm. This seems like it’ll be a…delicate situation to handle.

Luka carefully sets his guitar on the floor, propped up against his bed. “Jules…?” he calls out, calm and careful and open-ended.

It was never good to crowd Juleka or push an issue too brashly. His sister was a shy and sensitive soul. She didn’t do well with conflict or speaking at the best of times.

Juleka gives him a reply, but it’s muffled and grumbled through her fingers. He can hear her heart song tremble alongside seeing her shoulders do the same.

“Do you want me to go over to you, or the other way around?” he asks her patiently, waiting on his bed, foot bouncing to burn off his restless energy.

He’s sure other teenagers would find sharing a room with their sibling as inconvenient and annoying, especially if a guy had to share with their little sister. While the lack of privacy wasn’t exactly something either of them enjoyed, as well as the lack of space for all their shit accumulated over the years, it wasn’t all bad.

They’d pretty much gotten used to it, considering they’ve roomed for so long. Their bedroom was the biggest, nearly the size of the living room, so they each clearly had their own space without much crossover. If either one needed to borrow something from the other, they could just ask and borrow it then and there, without much fuss.

They both co-existed well together, really. Since they went to Dupont together—at least, for another semester yet, as it was his last year before moving on to secondary school—they had their morning routines down to a science.

Luka always set the alarm for seven fifteen and woke up a half-hour earlier to make a fresh pot of coffee and get started on breakfast. If he happened to accidentally sleep in, either the alarm or Juleka herself will shake him awake to get ready for school. He’d always get to the bathroom first to shower at the speed of light, change, and brush his hair, before letting Juleka hog the space, as her morning routine was a bit more extensive.

Sharing a room also cut down on his response time, for sure. Pretty much the instant Juleka had a problem, he was there, ready to help her.

No matter the time of day, either. It could be the dead of night, even. And the second Jules would lightly touch his shoulder, tentative and nervous to wake him, he’d jolt up fully awake and ask her what’s wrong. Sometimes, he would even wake up on instinct alone, whenever Juleka had a nightmare, before she could even rouse herself to flee to his arms for comfort.

He was attuned to her emotions to a degree that most siblings probably couldn’t replicate, or even understand. But it was his duty to do so, to know how to be there for her.

This is all a very long-winded and complicated way to say this: Luka knows his sister well. Very well. He knows when and how to comfort her, knows how to walk the delicate tightrope of giving her the space she needs while being there for her to rely on. If the need ever arose, he could literally teach a class on the hows and whys of Juleka Couffaine, to the letter.

So he knows that when she starts to bury her face in her hands, she’s overwhelmed by something and needs to vent to someone.

- - - - -

The seconds stretch out, long and quiet and with a slight underlying tension, before Juleka lets out another gusty sigh.

Luka watches her carefully, already dropping one of his feet on the floor, half-ready to jump up and go to her side if she requests it of him. But instead, she slowly drawls out, “Your bed…?”

“Sure thing, Jules! It’s open and ready whenever you are!” he tells her, bright and encouraging. He quickly reaches out, fumbling for his notebook next to him, closing it and setting it alongside his guitar. He pats the duvet next to him invitingly, grinning toothily as Juleka all but throws herself on his bed with an appreciative grunt.

He waits while she makes herself comfortable, offering his wrist to her in case she needed a rubber band to tie up her hair or wanted to grab his hand to anchor herself. She does the latter, but not before spitting out a section of her hair that landed in her mouth and forcing her long bangs behind her ear.

“So…? What’s up, Jules?” Luka asks, rubbing his thumb across her hand soothingly. Instead of it relaxing her, the grip on his hand tightens.

Without much more preamble, Juleka’s leaning in and burying her face in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He has just enough foresight to tilt his head up, so he won’t get a mouthful of her hair on accident, frowning a bit at how quickly Juleka jumped into needing one of his hugs.

Not that he was complaining that she needed him for a hug, but the issue must be bothering her quite a bit if she’s jumping straight into seeking physical comfort.

“Jules…?” he asks her quietly, carefully threading the fingers of his unoccupied hand through her hair when he feels her shake against him, tension tight against her shoulders.

She mumbles something against his neck, low and indecipherable. He breathes evenly and considers the odds of him upsetting her more by asking her to speak up, knowing it’s something she hated.

But…He thinks finding out what has her upset might take precedence, just a bit. Just so he can figure out what’s wrong to start with, and quickly go from there.

So he squeezes her hand back, and pats her head, and asks evenly and sympathetically, “Could you speak up, sis? I can’t help you if I can’t hear you.”

There’s a slight pause. Juleka somehow manages to tense up even further, and Luka nearly hisses through his teeth at causing her more distress, instantly wanting to backpedal. But she ends up relaxing all on her own, bit by bit.

She’s nearly deadweight in his arms, by the time she answers.

“I…I think. No,” she starts, shaking her head against his neck. “I know. I know I…like Rose.”

Luka takes in a sharp breath, surprised by her boldness, though he really shouldn’t. His little sister was pretty blunt about certain things, like saying if she disliked something. She also never hid the fact that she liked and appreciated her friends.

But the way she’s spoken, she doesn’t mean she likes Rose in merely a platonic way.

“Just Rose?” he asks her, feeling her tense up against him in the silence it’s taken him to find a decent answer. “And for how long have you known?”

Juleka hums, noncommittal. But she shifts, pulling away from his embrace. He lets her, watching her carefully as she leans back enough to look him in the eyes, still clutching tightly at his hand.

“I…I’ve liked girls before,” she confesses quietly, but her eye contact doesn’t waver and she doesn’t try to hide behind her hair. “But…Never one like Rose.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything else, if you don’t want to,” Luka starts, firm in giving her the choice for further privacy. “But if you’d like to tell me anything else, I’d be happy to listen. You can tell me anything, Jules, you know that.”

His sister nods. “I know.” She tilts her head, looking back at him, considering. Like a little songbird. “I’m a lesbian. And a very useless lesbian, apparently.”

“You’re not useless,” he refutes her on instinct alone, as he tends to be the one to shoo her doubts away and act as her hype man. He goes on, quite diplomatically and encouraging, “Crushing on your best friend is a hard situation in general.”

No hesitation, and no need to think about it.

So, his baby sister was a lesbian…? That’s cool.

It was nice to know they had another thing in common; both apparently being as gay as they are.

Juleka snorts, and the edges of her lips are titled in a small grin. “Only you’d protect my honor against myself, Lu.”

“One of the benefits of having me as your older brother, Jules,” he smiles back at her, deciding to use a bit of humor to bring some much-needed levity to the heavy discussion. “Alongside nice hugs, sweet lullabies, making your favorite foods for dinner, and being just as gay as you.”

Juleka blinks back at him slowly, copper eyes wide and suspiciously shiny.

“You…really?” she asks, voice a near whisper. Hopeful.

“Really really,” he says with a nod. “Cross my heart.” He makes the familiar motion, watching as she chuckles warmly at their old routine since early childhood.

“So I wasn’t hallucinating…?” she starts, voice now teasing and eyes gleaming mischievously. “You really do get crushes on just about everyone?”

“Hey,” he starts jokingly, “don’t call me out like this, sis.” This spurs a delighted giggle from Juleka. His heart feels like it expands in his chest, overwhelmingly fond. “I don’t get a crush on everyone…”

“You literally gave Marinette, Adrien, and Kagami heart eyes the first time you met each of them,” she deadpans, raising a brow at him pointedly. “And you haven’t stopped since.”

Luka sputters and nearly chokes on his spit, flustered and feeling like the rug’s been pulled straight up from under his feet. He pounds on his chest to calm his coughing fit down, while Juleka just smirks at him like the cat that’s got the cream, leaning back and crossing her legs like she owned the universe.

The only drawback of hyping up Juleka and helping her with her confidence issues? She gets very cheeky with him and isn’t afraid to give him shit.

“I…I haven’t…” he manages to stutter out, face feeling like it was on fire, and trying very hard not to avert his eyes. In the Couffaine house, averting your gaze was a sign of submission or guilt, as their mother prized firm eye contact.

Also, one of Luka’s tics was wildly darting his eyes away when he felt guilty. Anyone who knew him at least semi-well knows this fact about him. And considering she was his sister, Juleka knew him the best of all. He was like an open book to her.

“I d-don’t give heart eyes, that’s…” he trails off, laughing nervously, his voice instantly jumping up an octave. Damn it. “That’s not a thing.”

“Mhmmm,” Juleka hums, still leaning back to survey him, smirking. And most definitely enjoying watching him flounder. “Right. Sure.”

“I don’t,” he presses in a hiss, hands clenched on his knees.

His sister simply shoots him another pointed Look. “You’ve written five love songs in the past three weeks alone,” she tells him flatly.

Luka opens his mouth to retort, before stalling as he counts the songs in his head and…realizes…she’s actually right.

“I, uh…May have…actually wrote a new one, too,” he hedges, voice a squeak.

“That absolutely proves my point,” she states, pointing a condemning finger at his guitar. “Six whole love songs, Lu. In three weeks. You’re averaging two per week here, buddy.”

She then pats his shoulder in patronizing consolation when he lets out an embarrassed groan.

It’s Luka’s turn to bury his face in his hands, apparently, the roles somehow firmly reversed. “Am I…really that obvious?”

“You’re so obvious, even blind people could see it,” she deadpans, snorting out a laugh as he blindly tries to swat at her. “Shit, Lu—”

“Language,” he mutters through his fingers, an automatic chiding.

“—soon enough you’ll have written enough love songs to make a whole album. Apiece, for each of them.”

“Please stop roasting me.”

“I’ll stop roasting you when you stop being a disaster about it,” she states flatly with absolutely no mercy.

“Weren’t you the one with girl problems? Why don’t we talk about that?” he asks, just a bit desperately, popping his head up from the previously safe confines of his hands. “I think we should talk about that.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” she refutes, instantly levelling a finger at his face. “I’m only crushing on one person. You’re juggling three, you loon.”

“I also haven’t created a series of mixtapes for my crushes,” he shoots back, feeling a little thrill of smugness at his sister instantly flushing pink.

“Fuck off,” she hisses, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re literally writing songs about them! That’s even worse!”

“Is it really?”

“Yes,” she stresses, glaring. “And don’t pull that ‘not making mixtapes’ bullshit on me—”

“Language, Jules—”

“—when you’ve literally made them personal ones already,” she says with a dramatic eyeroll. “So pot, meet kettle. Or in this case, disaster bisexual, meeting useless lesbian.”

“I’m pansexual, actually,” he interjects, with forced levity, “but Go Off, I guess.”

Juleka blinks back at him, obviously taken aback, but she recovers quickly. “Fine. Disaster pansexual.”

“Y’know, that doesn’t exactly sound right. It just doesn’t flow as well…”

“Maybe we can workshop it?”

“Yeah, sure, we’ll workshop it later,” he says lightly with a shrug, almost baffled at how completely blasé him coming out to his sister had ended up being, in the end.

He…hadn’t exactly thought the conversation would go like this, in this direction. He’d envisioned the scenario countless times, from the quick and light ‘Hey, I’m pan, that cool? Cool’ to dramatic revulsion fit for a daytime drama soap opera.

What ended up happening… wasn’t exactly something he’d ever considered.

Apparently, Juleka was thinking the same thing, because she went into a similar state of quiet and off-kilter pensiveness.

“Y’know…You being pan makes a lot of sense, actually,” his sister ends up saying, surveying him.

“Same with you being a lesbian,” he admits, also surveying her in kind.

“…Well, damn, we really are gay as hell, huh?” she asks. Luka doesn’t even have it in him to tell her to watch her language, because…yeah. Yeah, that was accurate.

“Thank fuck,” he nods solemnly, smiling wide at Juleka’s answering laughter.

- - - - -

Juleka talks with Luka for the rest of the evening, and into the night, too.

It’s like a floodgate’s opened, officially coming out to each other. They pretty much knew everything about each other before, but with this new revelation, a piece they hadn’t realized had been missing just seemed to click into place.

It all made sense, suddenly. The little things, that had no explanation before, that she’d just written off as her brother’s slight quirks.

Luka’s bold declarations of marrying Gerard Way when he was still in elementary school. His starry-eyed devotion to Jagged Stone, wherein for a solid six months he’d stare dreamily at his posters for minutes on end with a puppy-dog look on his face. His perfectionist tendencies when it came to making mixtapes for his friends-slash-secret-crushes that rivaled Juleka’s with how she meticulously created mixtapes for Rose.

Luka getting riled up about Valentine’s Day every year, insisting that he give all his classmates and friends cards, and coming back home either elated or dejected depending on if people accepted his gifts. The slew of names he doodled across his notebooks’ pages in hearts, like a merry-go-round or a lottery, a constant-changing thing that had no pattern between boys or girls. The evolving ‘lucky charm’ crises, where depending on what so-and-so classmate said looked good on him, was suddenly Luka’s go-to outfit or accessory he always had on him.

Hell, Luka had no qualms with watching any and all movies with her and Mom, barely absorbing any of them because he would just daydream over whichever actors he found the cutest.

“Have you never actually paid attention to any movie we’ve watched, ever…?” she demands, after his last confession to her.

Luka flushes, looking offended. “O-Of course I have! I know the Harry Potter films by heart!”

“Alright, sure. But can you name any characters from the Twilight series?”

“Uh, duh. There’s Bella and Edward and Jacob.”

“Past the three literal main characters, Lu.”

“And the Cullens. And the werewolves. And the Volturi…?”

Juleka has to bite on her tongue in order to not go on a twenty-minute rant-slash-spiel about the vast cast of Twilight characters. She had to focus. She was roasting her brother, first and foremost, and that was always most important.

“…Do you actually know specific names, or do you just think of them as ‘the hot vampires’ and ‘the hot werewolves’?” she asks dryly after a few incredulous seconds, just to watch him sweat.

After a pause—one longer than it really should be— he answers weakly, “Yes?”

“Oh my God, Luka.”

“Listen! Listen,” he says, bringing his hands up. “In my defense? There’s a lot of characters.”

She glares at him narrowly. “There’s a lot of characters in the Harry Potter series too, you hypocrite.”

“…You know what? Fair.”

- - - - - 

Juleka and Luka talk so much and so far into the night, they’re exhausted afterwards. With great reluctance and heavy yawns, they get ready for bed and turn in.

Thankfully, the next day is Saturday, so they don’t even have to wake up early.

Even their mother sleeps in on the weekends, especially as of late. And that woman literally rises with the sun, because she’s insane like that.

Something, something, pirates always have to wake up at the crack o’ dawn to start the day.

It was stupidly corny and cheesy, but, well. That was Anarka Couffaine for you.

When Juleka drifts off to sleep, all she feels is warmth, a smile dancing on her lips.

[theresnosuchthingasmonsters]

(Prompt: “Everyone keeps telling me you’re the bad guy,” with Ainsley and Martin, sent in by Anonymous)

Ainsley Whitly thought that daddy’s ‘new home’ was very big, and very dark, and very scary. Her mother had been right about that. The five year old worried that her mother had been right about all the other things she’d said too. That daddy was a monster. That daddy was evil. That daddy was a ‘bad guy.’

‘Go see for yourself,’ her mommy had said. It was the same thing she’d told Ainsley’s older brother when she’d sent him to visit daddy’s ‘new home.’

‘It’s not that scary,’ Malcolm had mumbled upon his return. Ainsley had wondered if he was telling the truth, or if he was just acting brave and trying to comfort her. ‘There’s a really nice guard there. He’s tall, and he doesn’t have hair, and he has a special badge that makes the doors go click and open up --all by themselves, like magic.’

Her brother had been telling the truth about that. Ainsley hovered beside the tall guard’s legs and his hand hovered behind her shoulder, gently guiding her through the long, cold hallways. At the swipe of his badge, doors clicked and beeped as they automatically opened up for them to pass through.

They came to another red door, but this one did not open. The guard placed her in a spot off to the side and told her to stay there. He looked at his watch, pressed some buttons on it, then opened the door, poked his head in, and said, “You have a visitor. Three minutes. That’s it.” When the guard motioned for her to come, the girl hesitantly stepped over and walked with him into the room.

Her father was wearing orange pajamas that were unfamiliar and harsh on the eyes. But he did wear a familiar, welcoming smile. His chestnut hair was sprawled in the way it was always sprawled in the mornings before the sleep was brushed from it. It was probably difficult for him to brush his hair with handcuffs on. Especially when the handcuffs were also attached to the chain belt around his waist. Ainsley struggled to decide which feature to focus on; his smile, or his chains.

Or the giant cage that he was stuck inside.

“Ainsley!” he beamed from behind the bars. “My little angel.” He lowered himself to her height, kneeling at the front of the cage. “Hello, sweetheart!”

She didn’t say anything. She simply held her stuffed animal tight with both arms and stayed next to the tall guard’s legs.

“Oh, you brought Mister Giggles with you,” her daddy grinned, pleased to see the plush creature again. “How is Mister Giggles doing?” he asked with a colorful voice. He spoke as if they were playing in her bedroom, not as if he was in a very big, very scary prison.

“Good,” she mumbled, her tiny voice taking up a very small amount of space in the wide, foreboding room.

Her father’s smile remained as he asked with slightly more awareness of the situation, “And how are you doing?”

She nervously shifted her arms around Mr. Giggles. “Okay,” she mumbled again, burrowing her face in the animal’s synthetic fur.

He shook his head with a longing look. “I miss you so much, darling. I want to hug you so desperately.”

The truth was, she felt the same. But she didn’t respond, only hugging Mr. Giggles tighter. The child wasn't as talented at hiding her emotions as her father was at hiding his. He saw them, and asked, “What’s wrong, angel?”

“Everyone... keeps telling me... you’re the bad guy,” she struggled to admit.

He hesitated before inquiring, “Do you think I’m the bad guy?”

Ainsley didn’t answer.

Martin waited.

Still, she didn’t answer.

He blinked and lowered his gaze to his cuffed hands for a second. “Sweetheart… I may have done some... bad things, but…” he struggled to admit. He renewed his smile and shone it at her, reminding, “I’ve done a lot of good things too.” Lifting his brows, he tilted his head and added, “In fact, I’ve done a lot more good than bad.”

She thought about that, and asked, “How much?”

“How much more?” he clarified.

The girl nodded.

He glanced to the wall. “Well… they’re saying I… hurt twenty people, is that right?”

“Twenty three,” she mumbled. It was nearly as high as the young girl could count. Mommy had told her that it was all of her toes, and all of her fingers, plus three. That was a lot.

“Yes, so…” Martin eased, “If I’ve done twenty three bad things, can you guess how many good things I’ve done?”

The girl thought deeply, making a face similar to that which Malcolm made when he thought deeply about something. “Thirty?” she guessed, knowing that was the next highest number from twenty.

“More,” he encouraged warmly, prompting her to raise her number.

She chose the next biggest number in her head and winced, “Fifty?”

“Hundreds,” he grinned, professing, “I’ve done hundreds of good things, Ainsley.”

She didn’t seem to believe him, or at least, she didn’t seem able to wrap her head around that big of a number.

He shifted on his knees, gesturing gently with his hands in their limited range of motion. “Think of every day that I went to work at the hospital. Each of those days, I helped probably five, sometimes ten people.” He held two fingers in front of his chest, the highest point at which he could lift them. “So, in only two days of work, I helped just as many people as I hurt,” he told her, as if his virtues canceled out his sins. “You could think of it as; I had two bad days. But all the rest were good.”

Ainsley thought about that. Two was a much smaller number than twenty three. And everyone had ‘bad days,’ didn’t they?

“And I worked a lot of days,” Martin nodded. “I’ve been going to work --doing good work, as a doctor-- for longer than you’ve been alive,” he explained, putting it into perspective for her.

She felt a lot better, hearing that. Her daddy was right. He had done plenty of good things. Much more good things than bad. In fact, when he put it like that, this was all starting to seem almost unfair, to the little girl. “Then why do they still say that you’re a bad guy?” she asked, confused.

“Well,” Martin tipped his head and explained, “Sometimes people like to only focus on the bad, and ignore the good.” He made a face and teased, “It’s a terrible injustice of society.”

The girl didn’t know what those big words meant.

Above the child, Mr. David shot a look at his patient. Dr. Whitly caught it, and refrained from preaching further. He kept his attention locked onto his daughter.

“Have I ever done anything bad to you?” Martin asked her, feigning worry.

Ainsley thought about that. She thought very hard, and then she shook her head.

“No. Of course not,” Martin grinned affectionately. “You’re my little girl, and I love you very much.”

Ainsley curled her fingers around her stuffed animal.

“I would never hurt you, sweetheart. Do you know that?”

She nodded.

Mr. David’s watch beep-beeped, beep-beeped.

The girl looked up at the device as the guard silenced it, and Martin’s smile fell from his face as her eyes were briefly averted. He quickly concealed his dash of panic as Mr. David murmured, “Time to go,” and told them both to “Say goodbye.”

With a grin big enough to disguise the pain glistening in his eyes, Martin re-equipped his cheerful facade and urged in a fond rush, “Ains, you can come back again whenever you want. Alright? I’m always going to be right here, waiting for you.”

Mr. David placed his touch on the child’s shoulder, but did not usher her out yet, giving her a moment to respond. She did not. She was too consumed by the overwhelming thought of her father, being there, in that cage, with those chains, for always.

“Okay?” Martin prompted fearfully. “Ains?”

“Okay daddy,” she mumbled distractedly, staring at the chains around his wrists.

Mr. David murmured a low reminder as he guided her toward the door, “Say goodbye.”

Operating on auto-pilot, she did as she was told and followed his guiding hand. “Bye daddy.”

Her daddy’s smile crumbled. “Goodbye, my angel,” he whispered, moving his hands to hold onto the cold iron bars in front of his knees. He wanted to say so much more. He wanted to say everything except ‘goodbye.’ He was dying to tell her so many things --anything to make her stay. Anything to keep her, there and as his own.

He yearned to scoop her up and ball her body in his arms and hug all of her, so tightly. He yearned to kiss the thin, blonde, baby hair on her head, and smell the faint scent of applesauce and peanut butter that naturally perfumed her scalp. But he knew that if he ever did those things again, then he’d never let his child go. Nothing in the world would be able to pry her from his arms. They could kill him, and he still would not let go of her.

Perhaps they knew that too, and that was exactly why it was forbidden.

Ainsley kept turning around to look over her shoulder. Her daddy forced a smile to remain on his face, but she could tell that it was a difficult, heavy smile to bear. It threatened to break and he was doing everything he could to remain strong, despite his anguish. He was hurting, maybe even enough to cry after she left.

The girl squeezed Mr. Giggles. He made her feel better when she hurt and when she wanted to cry. But her daddy had nothing to squeeze.

She glanced back one last time, then faced forward as the guard led her through the door. But she couldn’t leave, yet. In a blur, she slipped under Mr. David’s arm and ran back into the room, straight to the cage. The child reached out and pushed Mr. Giggles through the bars, and then she ran back to the guard so she didn't get in trouble.

She moved so quickly that her father didn’t have time to react. She darted so close, but he didn’t know what to say. The soft toy fell into his hands and he glanced at it before staring after her again, slow to realize she was giving it to him as a gift. It made him smile again, like a syringe of happiness had been stabbed and injected into his dead, dried-up heart.

The girl looked back to watch her daddy’s expression mend, and it bred a small grin of her own. Mr. David tossed Martin a look that promised a discussion about that stuffed animal later, and then closed the door. Martin continued to smile as he held that silly toy in his hands, rubbing his thumbs over its synthetic fur before pressing it to his chest.

--------- Hope you enjoyed it, Anon! Want me to write a short scene? Send me a prompt with a pair of characters! Check out my #starter and #prompt tags for more ideas and responses!

[exercise-of-trust]

i’m way behind on this so expect a whole bunch of these posts this coming week as i catch up, anyway here’s some thoughts on le morte d’arthur: book 2

look just in my personal opinion: this is not a particularly demanding catalogue of virtues. "he must be a passing good man of his hands and of his deeds," which, thomas malory i know you have described multiple knights as being this so far, "and without villainy or treachery, and without treason." which. again. seems like a low bar to clear! further qualifications include: "a clean knight without villainy, and of a gentle strain of father side and mother side," again, presumably things that many if not most of you have???

the number of prophecies in this goddamn thing is matched only by the number of times these knights bullheadedly insist that they can overmaster their own fates, which in theory is very hot but in practice is just stupid given how many of these things do actually come true

like don’t get me wrong struggling with your destiny makes you 100x more attractive but sometimes discretion really is the better part of valor

"then the most part of the knights of the round table said that balin did not this adventure all only by might, but by witchcraft" i'm not sure how to explain to you that when the criteria for sword-drawing involve moral fiber instead of muscle, might alone just will not fucking avail you.

i knew revenge was a big deal with this story but i was unaware of HOW big a deal it was

balin is imprisoned for killing arthur's cousin; the lady of the lake wants balin's head for killing her brother and the lady's head for killing her father, balin gets the lady of the lake's head for killing his mother, it's just turtles all the fucking way down isn't it

"the which was an orgulous knight"

obviously murder is bad under any circumstance, i get that, but. like. if your brother murders your lover in cold blood, it's not like you're just full of murderous intent toward your brother for no good reason.

"whereby asked thou it?" "for i would wit it"

i do not see why the dwarf seems to hold balin liable for lanceor or colombe's death when the former came after him for the express purpose of kicking his ass and the latter slew herself for dole and sorrow?

i feel like i need to make a whole disclaimer that as a general rule i am of the opinion that there are few to no good reasons for killing anyone but in this specific context i'm also not sure what a lot of these people were expecting to happen to them when they killed other people's relatives or challenged people who are demonstrably better knights than they are. malory assigns blame in weird ways.

merlin what the fuck is with you and disguising yourself all the time

THOMAS MALORY STOP SPOILING YOUR OWN FUCKING STORY CHALLENGE

more seriously - i certainly didn't come in expecting to be on the edge of my seat, because i'm already familiar with the general arc of the canon. but malory keeps doing this thing where he catapults you out of the flow of the story with something like "and as it telleth after in the sangreal, that sir percivale's sister helped that lady with her blood, whereof she was dead," or "wherefore sir gawaine revenged the death of his father the tenth year after he was knight, and slew king pellinore with his own hands" or a two-sentence summary of the entire story of accolon and arthur and morgan switching the scabbard of excalibur. like, just doing a search of the table of contents, we are going to get a longer and more detailed account of at least two of those events in future books! and this isn't even in the same class as merlin's extremely specific prophecies; these are malory speaking as the narrator, and it's already difficult enough to get immersed in the story when the language is archaic and the rest of the descriptions are dry, but constantly getting dragged in and out of the future like this just makes it worse.

holy christ there is so much murder going on

"and when balin was weaponless he ran into a chamber for to seek some weapon, and so from chamber to chamber, and no weapon he could find, and always king pellam after him"

holy CHRIST

okay plot-relevant deaths so far: arthur's cousin killed by balin, the lady of the lake's brother killed by balin, the lady of the lake's father killed by the sword-lady, balin's mother killed by the lady of the lake, the lady of the lake killed by balin, lanceor, colombe, king nero, king lot, a bunch of unnamed knights in battle, herlews le berbeus killed by garlon, perin de mountbeliard killed by garlon, garlon killed by balin, garnish of the mount's girlfriend, garnish of the mount's girlfriend's boyfriend, garnish of the mount, balin, and balan, and it is entirely possible that i've missed some because so many fucking people die in this book

"and launcelot with this sword shall slay the man that in the world he loved best, and that shall be sir gawaine" GAY

[musicallynerdy]

hey ryn long time no see that d&d ask meme is insanely cool (frankly I love all of them so I tried to choose but there are still a lot, feel free not to answer all of these), so: 2, 3, 7, 9, 11, 12, 15, 16, 20, 23, 24, 26, 27, 31, 33, 35, 44, 60, 72, 77, 87, 93, 94, 97!

Hi Taylor! Long time no see! I hope you’re hanging in there! @hoot-h00t So, Hannah sent me a few of these last night on my D&D sideblog (@gmsguild) so I’ll skip those ones but I’m gonna do the rest! I’m gonna focus on my primary character, Sahar, my tiefling wizard in my home Tal’Dorei game.  2. Who in the party would your character trust the most with their life? I think our party rogue most likely. A few weeks ago (in game time) the rogue saved her life (literally- failed death save, would have been dead if that shadow hit me again), and Sahar returned the favor in a fight with a succubus, so there’s some trust there. 

3. What are your character’s core moral beliefs? I think she’s redeveloping her morals for the first time in a decade. She’s becoming a better person and it’s interesting really interesting to play. She never hurts kids, she’s willing to do whatever it takes to protect those she loves, and she’s devoted to the pursuit of knowledge. She’s got a dark side and isn’t afraid to hurt or kill to get what she needs, but she’s starting to try not to cause more harm. I think she feels the need to make up for what she’s done in the past. 

7. Describe your character’s current appearance: clothes, armor, scars they’ve picked up along the journey, etc? Sahar Tel’Urdyn is a deep purple-skinned tiefling with these stormy grey eyes with catlike pupils and a light blue nictitating membrane that she can flick over them. Her horns come from her forehead and then curl back forward similar to but not the same as a bighorn sheep (I don’t really know how to describe them?), and she has a thin pointed tail that flicks like a cat’s when she’s excited. Her hair is a darker purple, close to black, and is pulled back in a single french braid. She has a number of piercings, earlobes and cartilage. One of her cartilage piercings has a thin chain that connects to a band around one of her horns. She also has a belly button piercing, a nose stud, and a ring in her tail, all in silver tones. With the exception of the chain, she wears almost entirely studs, bars, or rings. Nothing that could catch on something or make noise. She has a number of scars and tattoos from the Tragic Backstory, but the most interesting is probably a lot of blackwork on her left arm that extends from her hand up to her elbow, almost like she dipped her arm in ink (although there is a triangular design on the hand, almost looking like a bit of that type of glove that only attaches to the middle finger?)-- or more accurately it looks like blackwork but it’s actually a lot of really intricate work, lots of script and sigils.  She wears a white, v-necked, with lacing in the V, like a flowy pirate shirt sorta thing, with black pants and brown leather boots, and a dark blue almost black sash around her waist. She has a dagger at her waist and her spellbook sort of sits in a bit of a holster thing in the small of her back. She hasn’t actually picked up much over the journey... she’s got a really nice dark gray traveling cloak she took off of... some dead body somewhere. She’s also got a wand of magic missiles tucked into a leather thigh sheath. She’s probably got a scar or two from the one battle I’ll detail below in number 15.  9. What deity, if any, does your character worship? What’s their opinion on other people’s worship? She grew up worshiping the Moonweaver but sort of lost a lot of her faith during the Tragic Backstory period. As a wizard she also prays occasionally to Ioun. She doesn’t really have opinions on other people’s worship so long as it doesn’t start causing her problems.  

11. Describe your character’s current relationship with the player character sitting to your right. So my group is a crew of old friends from my hometown, so we haven’t played in person in a while. 

12. What is your character’s current goal, summed up in one sentence? To crack this puzzle cube and learn more about conjuration and transmutation magic in the process. 

15. What battle in the campaign has been most memorable to your character? Oof so we broke this girl out of prison, she’s the daughter of a crime lord, but in the process we sort of... alerted the entire town to what we were doing and our barbarian punched the guard captain in the face? So we were burnt and tried to get out of town and hide, but they sent guards after us and we had no spells left and our barbarian had one rage and our rogue, our warlock, and our druid all went in with like low health and Sahar ended up having to be a tank for the battle and was just casting shocking grasp and somehow we still won? We killed six guards coming after us and somehow got away. That was the moment it was like ok we’re a team and we have each other’s backs even when shit royally hits the fan. 

16. If your character wasn’t whatever class they are, what would they be instead? Probably a bard or a warlock. Magic is just like, ingrained in her and she’s a curious motherfucker so like, if her troupe had lived she probably would have become a bard, or she would have stumbled into something deep and dark and made a pact with something for knowledge. If she had focused in her Tragic Backstory more on the sneaking bit of being an assassin rather than the “i will kill people creatively with magic” bit, possibly a rogue too. 

23. If your character could go back in time and change one thing about their life, what would it be? To not get kidnapped by the crew of the Talon’s Breath because that just started a decade of bad things. On the other hand, without that she probably would never have gotten to Tal’Dorei from Marquet and would never have found the party, which she’s starting to count as the best experience in her life. But it doesn’t erase the previous decade. 

24. Which other player character does your character find themselves having the most in common with? Definitely our party rogue. Tragic Backstory Buddies

26. What would your character say their best trait would be? “My Wit, of course” (her virtue name she used for years was Wit, so that’s a pun)

27. What is your character’s greatest fear? Deep, irrational? Ooh tough one. She’s afraid of losing her powers, I think. Her magic has been what has kept her alive and allowed her to become who she is and I think she’s wrapped up so much of her identity into the magic she wouldn’t know who she is without it. She uses minor illusion like people in the real world use a fidget spinner. I think she’d have a hard time functioning without her magic. It was a source of trauma and now it’s the way she’s helped herself through that trauma. She’s definitely going to need to deal with that at some point but therapists are hard to come by in Tal’Dorei. 

31. What stereotypical group role does your character play in the party? (The Mom, the Mess, the Comic Relief, etc. Optionally: What role would your character play in the “Five Man Band” structure?) Ya know I’m not sure. She’s sort of the brains (her intelligence is like a full 4 points above anyone else’s in the party) but really our party is six dumbasses held together by spit and a prayer and the fact that they keep stumbling on sketchy shit in every small town they come to (literally, they’ve had one town that hasn’t had sketchy shit going on in it) (well, and one city. So two stops on their entire journey). 

33. What person does your character admire most? In our party? Tough choice. Probably Thea, our warlock. She’s a 16 year old human girl and Sahar just thinks the world of this kid. She also has this huge Big Sister drive to keep this girl safe and also teach her about magic. 

35. Why is your character’s lowest stat their lowest (the in-character reason, not “because there’s no reason for a wizard to have 16 strength, duh”)? 10 in strength (I rolled well) but in character, she never really had a chance to develop it. She was the prisoner of a cartel for years and just didn’t have the space or the means to build up her strength. 

44. Does your character think more with their heart or their brain? Brain. 18 intelligence. She’s a wizard. Everything is logic. 

60. What decision would the party have to make in order for your character to consider splitting off from the group? Answered over at @gmsguild with number 20!

72. Who in the party would your character trust the most to keep an important secret? Oof yikes... honestly? Probably Mire, our barbarian. 

77. If your character had to multiclass into a class they currently aren’t the next time they level up, what would it be and what reason would they have for doing so? hmmm..... Something with spells. She’s such a magic nerd she would do something stupid for knowledge. 

87. What major arcana tarot card best represents your character? I’m only skipping this one because I’m not really familiar with tarot

93. Who in the party does your character trust the least? All of them. We all have flaws that make us untrustworthy in particular circumstances. But also she knows all of them have her back if she needs it. She just needs to know their weaknesses so she can help protect them. 

94. What is your character’s biggest flaw? She always has to be in control. It comes from years of not being in control and now she’s a bit of a control freak. 

97. What is most important to your character: health, wealth, or happiness? Happiness. I don’t think she knows what that means yet, but she left employment with a crime lord that could have made her very rich because she knew it wasn’t making her happy.  Thanks, Taylor, that was fun! Took me like 2 hours, but whatev. Hope you’re hanging in there!  Also I’m reading back through this and realizing like, folks trying to piece together her Tragic Backstory from this and my post on @gmsguild are going to have a rough time Much love to my party yall are amazing and I love you (@geekoz87, @skirtsandbattleaxes, @miniaturetanks, @vaguelyconcerning, @tenebris-felidae)

[tiny-maus-boots]

Wild West AU pt 18

A/N: as always a huge ginormous thank you to @chloes-yellow-cup for taking care of all my posting on ao3 and always taking the time to encourage me.

Stacie

“Get down!”

Beca dropped down to a knee and Stacie raised her rifle to fire right into the chest of the man running straight at them. She figured he was hoping to overwhelm them before they could get a shot off at him. It was a stupid idea that ultimately got him killed. Stacie snorted and pulled the lever back again before raising the rifle up to scan the roofs.

“Thanks. I owe ya.”

Stacie let her gaze drift down to Beca still kneeling on the ground. “Ya owe me about six by my last count.”

“What? Six?? Just because I can’t read doesn’t mean I can’t count. I owe you two at most.”

“What about Albuquerque?! That counts for at least five just on its own.”

A shift of air behind her warned Stacie just in time and she ducked as Beca launched herself like a wild animal at the soldier behind her. The smaller woman gave a feral snarl, knives flashing out to scissor cut at his throat. Beca glanced over her shoulder at Stacie, a fine spray of red dotting her face.

“Albuquerque doesn’t count. You can’t say you rescued me when you were in the same damned cell!”

Stacie rolled her eyes and tugged a few bullets out of her belt to load in the rifle. “And who’s to blame for that?”

Beca’s lips quirked into a grin and she shrugged as she took stock of what weapons she had left. Stacie leaned against the clapboard wall of the Saloon and peeked down the street. It was quiet but she couldn’t tell if that was because they’d killed everything out there or the Sheriff’s men and what few soldiers Avery still commanded were waiting them out. The latter seemed likely.

“I didn’t throw the first punch in that bar. You can talk to your missus about that.”

The mention of Aubrey made Stacie swallow hard despite the humor of the memory. The tall woman sighed softly, a bittersweet smile gracing her face. “That was one hell of a punch.”

“She’s a hell of a woman.”

Stacie gave a nod at that and closed her eyes for a second trying to push out the image of Aubrey falling to the ground as bullets struck her body. After a second she opened them to find Beca watching her silently. There wasn’t a question or a discussion, simply a look between them and a nod from her, affirming that she was all good. Beca gave a soft huff and peeked around Stacie and the corner of the building.

“See anything?”

“Naw. Pretty sure whoever is left is either with Avery or the Sheriff. It’s not gonna go easy for either of us you know.”

She nodded at that already knowing they were facing an uphill battle. She just didn’t care. Stacie couldn’t care less if she had to shoot each and every person in that crap hole town. “Yeap.” The tall brunette took a step back to eye the side of the building looking for handholds, her gaze tracked the easiest way up to the porch roof and she smiled. “I got an idea…”

“Every time you say that Chloe ends up having to dig buckshot out of my ass.”

Stacie chuckled and jerked her head upward to indicate their path. Beca gave her a dubious look but nodded anyway. She gave a quick glance around just to make sure, slung her rifle over a shoulder then cupped her hands into a stirrup for Beca to step into. The shorter woman frowned slightly at needing a lift but lightly stepped in and up to climb onto the roof. As soon as Beca was up Stacie leapt at the low hanging edge and pulled herself up and over it as quietly as she could.

They laid there on their backs for a second just waiting to see if there was a stir of movement that signaled they’d been seen. She raised her head slightly then nodded. “Clear.”

Beca sat up to gauge the distance between buildings. It wasn’t a wide jump but it still wouldn’t feel great if she misjudged and fell to the ground between them. Bec grunted and pointed to the general store and sighted down her arm as she considered. “See ya when the dust settles…”

Before Stacie could say anything Beca stood and took three running steps to leap from the edge of the roof, her tiny body curling into a ball as she crashed through a glass window of the second floor of the general store.

“Well I’ll be damned, showoff.”

She shook her head and scrambled up the slope of the porch roof to a window and peeked in carefully. Beca would never let her live it down if she got shot before she even got inside. Stacie slid her fingers under the lip of the window and pushed it up slowly. There was no one in the room which was just as well, and she was halfway across it when the glint of brass caught her eye. Stacie turned her head to the corner and growled at the sight of blood stained Army officer’s uniform jacket hanging from a chair back.

Heavy booted steps thudded dully on the dusty rug running the length of the hall outside the door and she darted in behind it just as it swung open. Avery, she assumed, sighed heavily and shuffled unsteadily inside the room.

“Jones, Hanover…no one and nothing comes up those stairs. I don’t care if it’s the barkeep’s cat just kill it.”

The men turned and started down the hall with quiet ‘yes sir’s before Avery shut the door and threw the latch to lock it. Stacie stood still as death as he shut the door and turned away from her to the room without ever noticing that she was there. The bloody bandage wrapped around his head and over one eye made it easy for her stay hidden as he swept off his hat and tossed it casually at the bed post before lifting the lid on a box of cigars resting on the low table in the corner.

Avery pulled one out and neatly cut the cap off with a small curved blade. He bent slightly to light the cigar with a rough wooden match. It was all so very familiar and her heart throbbed painfully in her chest. “You know Aubrey does the same thing. Tosses her hat on the bedpost, lights herself a cigar…I guess I expect nothing less from the heirs of a tobacco plantation empire.”

He spun on a heel and opened his mouth to shout but Stacie drew her revolver and raised it to his head, thumb ready on the hammer. Avery let a pained scowl twist his face but he closed his mouth and raised his hands when she gestured with her gun for him to raise them up.

“Well if it isn’t the great whore of Babylon. I suppose you’re here to take revenge for my sister?”

She tipped her head to the side and eyed him curiously. They looked so much alike, Aubrey and Avery did. The same twitch of a smile when they were pleased with themselves, same cocky swagger when they knew they were being watched, right down to the steely eyed gaze when they stared down the barrel of a gun fearlessly. But he wasn’t anything like her girl where it counted, not deep down in the heart and soul of him.

Aubrey was good and kind. She was gentle and patient and full of love and devotion. Aubrey was every good thing in this world and Avery was a steaming pile of buffalo shit. Right down to his rotten and broken soul. He was a monster at the core and as long as he lived he would bleed that darkness onto anyone weaker than he. And he’d do it all with the weight of the law behind him making him even more of a threat than before.

“Somethin’ like that. That’s gonna leave a nasty scar on that pretty face of yours.”

Avery put the cigar back in his mouth slowly and took a few puffs. He didn’t seem overly afraid but a beat of sweat dripped down his temple and her lips quirked into a grin. A man can lie with his mouth, he can even lie with his eyes, but his body will betray him every single time.

“It was a gift from my dear sweet sister before her death.” She cocked the hammer back, the smile vanishing from her face instantly. “Jones told me the mountain took her when it came down on everyone. I expect that’s about as good a burial as she’s likely to have gotten riding with you and yours.”

He didn’t know. Stacie’s eyes bored into him as hate deeper than any she had ever felt flamed to life in her chest. Avery was gleeful as an executioner on hanging day talking about Aubrey’s passing and it poked at all the wrong sore spots in her heart. Stacie swallowed hard, her hand shaking just a little as she thought about how true his words could have been.

“That hurts doesn’t it? Knowing that she’s gone I mean. I’ll tell you, there was no one on this green earth that was quite like my sister. No one but me.” A grin tugged at his lips and he glanced toward the bed then back at Stacie. “You pull that trigger and she’s gone for good, forever. This might be your last chance to remember what it was like having a Posen between your legs. I promise you I’ll make you feel things my sister never had the equipment for. I’ll teach you your place same way I taught her.”

Stacie didn’t feel herself move nor did she hear the sharp crack of the hammer hitting the firing pin. And she definitely did not notice the jerk of her arm as the recoil of her gun kicked back. The cigar dropped from the surprised ‘o’ of his lips and landed on the cheap hand woven rug he stood on. Avery fell back against the wall leaving a dark red smear of blood where he slid along it and tipped into the bed. She hadn’t wanted it to be so fast, she had wanted to make him suffer for the pain he’d caused, but patience was never really a virtue she’d mastered.

Feet pounded the hall in a run and she knew the two soldiers he’d left guarding the stairs would come bursting through his door any second. Stacie lowered the gun, fingers still gripping the handle as if she longed to pull the trigger again. A heavy body slammed into the door but the latch held firmly in place.

“Lieutenant Posen! Sir! Are you alright?” The body hit the door again attempting to break it down and it shuddered violently under the force. Stacie holstered her gun and quickly moved to shove the heavy dresser in front of the door to give her more time. Avery rolled to his side, eye alight with an unholy glow of sick anger but that was okay by her. She felt plenty sick on rage herself.

“You bitch…you goddamned bitch.”

“That’s a right pretty offer you made Lieutenant, but Aubrey ain’t dead.” Stacie pulled her rifle over her shoulder and raised it carefully, aiming for chest high at the door before pulling the trigger. There was a shout and a thump as someone hit the floor outside. There was silence save for Avery’s heavy breaths and she chuckled and pushed him to his back on to the bed, digging the butt of her rifle against the wound in his shoulder. Avery screamed out in pain and writhed under the pressure. “And her dick is bigger than yours.”

This time she was aware of every single movement and every single second that ticked by. The smooth antler handle of her knife hugged her palm warmly as she gripped it firmly and slid it free from the sheath in her boot. Avery batted weakly at the rifle but couldn’t push it away with Stacie’s weight holding it steady.

“Whore….I’ll kill you all. Make her watch as I fuck you dead and bleedi…”

The blade sunk in to his gut with almost no resistance cutting off his words as the air rushed out of his lungs. One of his hands gripped hers to pull the knife out but she twisted her wrist and forced another gasping breath out of him. Another thud against the door, more cautious and hesitant.

“I might die sure enough but you’ll be worm food long before that day.” She twisted again and a long rattling whine whistled past his lips. Stacie pulled the knife out and plunged it back in with another slow grinding twist, smiling when the blade grated against the bone of his ribs. “Tell the Devil I send my regards.”

Thick sticky blood coated her hands for the second time that day but this time she delighted in the feel of it, in knowing it was Avery’s life slipping away. Stacie roughly pulled her blade free and wiped it clean on the leg of his pants before putting it away and slinging the rifle strap back over her shoulder. His dull eyed gaze followed her and his lips worked form words but no sound issued from him. Stacie stuck one leg out of the window and glanced back to watch the light leave his eyes. When she was sure he was dead she gave a nod of finality. It was over with him and Aubrey could finally be free of that malingering fear of retribution.

Stacie slid out of the window then stopped and looked back. She didn’t really have time for it but…it’d be a sin to let a box of fine cigars go to waste. Especially when she knew Aubrey was likely twitchy for one. She ducked back in to grab the box just as the door finally pushed open. Stacie drew her pistol and held it steady but the soldier that had tumbled into the room raised his hands in surrender.

“Is he…dead?”

“Yeap.”

“A-are you gonna kill me too?”

That was the question. Stacie raised a brow and glanced at the body of the other soldier she’d shot through the door. He was older and heavier looking than the one standing in front of her. This one was just a boy, no more than fifteen or so, a whole life left to lead. Seconds ticked by as she weighed what Aubrey would say over what her gut wanted her to do.

“You the last of them?” He nodded quickly, the whites of his eyes too big for his face. “Then congratulations, it is your lucky day, boy. You get to live to tell the tale. Best thank your God for that sweet bit of mercy. I reckon it’ll be the last you ever see if you stay in the Army.”

He nodded again and she pushed past him roughly, pausing only to shove a cigar into his mouth and give him an unkind push out of her way. He stumbled back, hands still held up in fear but he didn’t follow as she strode down the hall to the stairs. Each step took her further away from the possessing fear and anger that had driven her to such brutality but she wouldn’t truly be free of it until she was with Aubrey again and sure that the blonde was well and safe in her own two arms.

“I’m coming home darlin’. Real soon.”

[cruellae]

Sephiroth Week, Day 4

Each of my Sephiroth Week entries is a fragment of a love story told in seven parts.

[Read all of them on AO3]

Day 4: Haunted (Free Day)

Sephiroth isn’t sure how long he’s been here, in this humble apartment above a bar in the Midgar slums. Ever since he found Cloud lying in the desert dust, a half mile away from Zack Fair’s dead body, and carried him to the city, time has become oddly elusive, slipping strangely away from him. 

Cloud has reunited with a friend from his childhood, a dark haired young woman who looks past Sephiroth as though he’s not even there. He works as a mercenary now, running with some terrorist group--Sephiroth can’t be bothered to remember the name or the details.

Sephiroth spends his time training in a field of flowers flourishing mysteriously under the plate. He’s skilled enough that neither his feet nor the Masamune ever harm a single petal. Some days he wanders to Wall Market to listen to the locals talk or hunts pathetic monsters through the roads between sectors, wastelands of sparse dirt and twisted metal. 

He follows Cloud on his missions, helping him to slay the more determined foes, Shinra’s mechanical monstrosities falling before their blades. He likes this best of all, when Cloud’s Buster Sword and his own Masamune move together in a beautiful, razor-edged duet. After missions, he sits with Cloud in a dark corner of the bar, listening to Cloud’s companions talk and laugh amongst themselves. No matter how cheerful the mood, Cloud is always on the outside, looking in. 

Sephiroth knows what that’s like.

He and Cloud have something of a truce--sometimes even conversations. But Cloud is always guarded, distant, even as Sephiroth longs for greater closeness. 

He dreams of Cloud nearly every night, dreams that started brief and simple but have gotten more detailed and more depraved over the time he’s been here. 

Tonight Cloud is on his knees, his hands bound behind his back, looking up at Sephiroth with something akin to worship. And in this dream, Sephiroth knows that no matter what he does to Cloud, no matter how he hurts him, violates him, defiles him, Cloud will look at him with love and beg for more. 

This is what you want. 

That voice is familiar, an unearthly melody that once possessed him entirely, down to his core. He can still feel the hollow places in himself that ache in her absence. 

You betrayed me for this pitiful creature. For him you turned your back on all that we are and all that we could be.

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Sephiroth whispers, feeling the cold burn of her chastisement. 

My son my heart my love. I understand what it is to want. But why would you deny your own strength, my scion, my own breathing soul? You could have this and more, if you only would let me show you the way. 

Sephiroth wakes with a start, his heart racing and his body aching with unspent desire. He’s not alone--the apartment above the bar is small so he shares a room with Cloud, sleeping on the floor beside Cloud’s bed so he can remain nearby. 

“Are you awake?” Cloud asks, in his low, husky voice. There’s a slight western twang to his words, the country boy lost in the big city. 

“Yes.” Sephiroth takes a moment to collect himself. “Did I wake you?” 

“Nah. Been awake for a while. Just thinking.” 

“About what?” Sephiroth sits up so he can see Cloud lying atop the bed, turned on his right side, propped up on his elbow. 

“About you,” Cloud says. “Wondering why you’re here. And why only I can see you.” 

Sephiroth considers this for a long moment, and realizes he can’t think of a single instance where anyone besides Cloud has acknowledged his presence. 

“I carried you here,” he reminds Cloud. Surely that’s proof of his corporeal existence. “I brought you Zack’s sword.”

“Sure. I remember. But I also remember seeing you die.” 

“Because you killed me.” Sephiroth gets up and approaches the bed, feeling very much like a ghost in the darkness. 

“And now you’re haunting me.” Cloud gives him a wry smile, weary at the edges. “Zack died for good, but you get to come back. What the fuck kind of deal is that, anyway?” 

“I don’t understand it any more than you do,” Sephiroth says. “I didn’t ask for this.” 

Cloud rolls onto his back and puts his hands behind his head, staring up at the ceiling. “Let me know when you figure it out, okay?” 

Sephiroth nods, though Cloud isn’t looking at him, and slips away to his corner to wait for the dawn. 

#

Sephiroth is a quiet ghost. Cloud is thankful for that, at least. He’s not always around, but when he is, he’s usually content to sit silently nearby unless Cloud wants to talk. 

Today they’re the only people in 7th Heaven, the CLOSED sign hanging on the door, so Sephiroth has set his sword along the length of the bar--it’s almost as long as the bar itself--and is methodically polishing it from hilt to tip. 

Cloud has a whetstone, and he’s attending to his own weapon. He’s engrossed in the task and doesn’t realize Sephiroth has moved closer until he feels the gentle brush of a hand on his shoulder. 

“Like this,” Sephiroth says, leaning into his space. He puts his hand over Cloud’s and angles the whetstone just so. “You’ll get a better edge.” 

His hand is warm, the bulk of his body firm where he’s leaning against Cloud’s shoulder. For a ghost, he feels very present and very real. And Cloud knows from experience that when Sephiroth fights by his side, that sword is corporeal enough to kill. 

Cloud wonders if he’s going crazy. 

“Use brings about wear, tear, and rust,” Sephiroth tells him. “That’s what Angeal always used to say when he cleaned this sword.”

“Yeah.” Cloud clears his throat. “Zack told me a little about him. While we were...on the run.” 

“It’s good to see this sword get some use.” Sephiroth is still standing very close, and Cloud has to tilt his head up to see his expression. “Angeal never used it. He was too afraid of damaging it. Very much like his famous honor.” 

“What do you mean?” Cloud asks. Zack always talked about Angeal like he was a paragon of virtue. 

“I did worse things in Wutai than in Nibelheim,” Sephiroth says. “Angeal always turned a blind eye. He never tried to use that stalwart honor of his to change things. Just as he never used this blade to fight.” 

“You probably would have killed him if he had,” Cloud says. “Maybe he thought that doing what little he could from the inside was better than dying for no reason.” 

“Hmm.” Sephiroth runs his fingers up the flat side of the Buster Sword. His hands are large but elegant, and Cloud can’t help but imagine that the caress is on his own body rather than his blade. “But you would never compromise like that.” 

“Probably not,” Cloud admits. 

Sephiroth pulls back and returns to his own task at the bar. They each resume their work in comfortable silence. Being haunted is one thing, but it feels kind of good to not always be alone. And Sephiroth understands Cloud in a way no one else ever has before. 

“I never did figure it out,” Sephiroth says, softly breaking the silence. “Why I’m here.” 

“Karma, maybe?” Cloud asks.

Sephiroth raises an eyebrow, looking puzzled. 

“You burned down a whole fucking town,” Cloud says. “Your karma must be shit. So like, maybe this is your punishment.” 

“I doubt it,” Sephiroth says, his eyes on his blade. “There are worse places I could be.”

Cloud shrugs one shoulder nonchalantly. “Maybe it’s my shitty karma.”

He regrets saying anything at all when Sephiroth turns towards him, strange eyes laser-focused on his face. “Why would you think that?” 

“Cause Zack was the best person I know. And he died because of me.” 

Sephiroth is quiet for a moment, leaning against the bar. Not like he’s not paying attention, but more like he’s taking time to really consider what Cloud just said. It’s oddly endearing to see him put in the effort, and it helps with the raw vulnerability threatening to claw its way out of Cloud’s throat. 

“He died protecting you,” Sephiroth says. “Would you have done the same for him?” 

“Yeah,” Cloud says. “Of course. He was my best friend.” 

“If you had died to protect him, would you want him to spend the rest of his life feeling guilty about it?” Sephiroth arches a brow, his gaze pinning Cloud to the spot. 

“I...I guess not,” Cloud says, softly. He’s never thought about it like that before. It doesn’t make everything completely better, but it does make him feel a little lighter. “Thanks.” 

Sephiroth gives him a rare smile, then turns his attention back to the Masamune. 

[scintillating-galaxias]

i’ll be the wind beneath your wings (ch. 2)

chapter two of my swap gift for @peppervl​! if you don’t want me tagging you every day when a new chapter gets posted here, let me know :D all chapters will be available to read beneath the tag ‘ibtwbyw’ and it is also available on ao3.

(read it on ao3!)

-

Rain lashed against the panes of the windows, demanding entrance through the cracks in the glass. It was not used to being wholly barred access from any building in London. There were always tiny holes in roofs, ever a misfitted window to trickle through. But not this building. 

Aziraphale huffed as he pushed a massive cherry bookshelf across the floor. It did not occur to him that this would scuff the flooring, so it didn’t. He would have liked to use a miracle or two to arrange everything correctly, but given he had to be rescued from the Bastille because he wasn’t able to perform more ‘frivolous miracles’ (just the thought made him roll his eyes), he probably shouldn’t. 

He dusted his hands off and stepped back to examine his work. His heel collided with a chest, and he only just managed to catch himself on a large wooden crate. When he nudged it out of the way, it caught on a loosened rotting bit of flooring. Perhaps he should have made the proprietor stay just a little while longer so they could at least get some base remodeling done. 

Moving into his new shop was thrilling, but he was sure his mouth was going to fall right off after all of the smiling and talking and agreeing he’d had to do to move things along. And he still had to deal with the vast amount of books, scrolls, tablets, art pieces, and other assorted trinkets he’d acquired over the centuries. Presently, they were all carefully wrapped and stored away. Inventory was going to be a nightmare, especially after learning the ship coming from France to England carrying the last of his items had gotten caught in this storm. It would be fine, hopefully ( probably Aziraphale insisted), but for now, all he could do was wait.

As he surveyed the scene, he could not help but feel that the shop was paradoxically cluttered and empty. The floor space was open enough right now, but there were pillars of books sprouting from partially unloaded crates all over the place, and even more shoved against the walls. Corners glinted with cobwebs hanging over planks of unassembled shelves. Furniture, some purchased new, some not, was shoved into one such corner for the time being, covered in brown paper to protect them from the wax drippings from the dull candle holders just barely clinging to the barren walls. Aziraphale watched as a draft of wind finally succeeded in sneaking through the space to blow out one of the candles with an acrid puff of smoke.

At that moment, a dull thud sounded from his door.

“Goodness,” said Aziraphale. Someone must be seeking refuge from the storm. Of course, as a host of humble Heavenly virtues, he would oblige—so long as they did not touch the books. He bustled over to the door, fussing with the rusting lock for a brief moment before wind tore it from his hands and slammed the heavy doors open with a startling bang, revealing a huge, hunchbacked figure.

“Come in!” he exclaimed. “It’s positively dreadful out there.” A flash of lightning illuminated a familiar sharp face. “Crowley? What are you doing out here?”

“Hey, angel.” Crowley looked, to put it in the gentlest terms possible, terrible. 

His hair, usually so meticulously styled, hung in lank, dripping strands around his shoulders. His sunglasses were missing, and his eyes were entirely yellow—a sharp contrast to the black and blue bruises sprawling all across his jaw and his cheeks. The hunchbacked shape could be sourced to his wings, which were out and held awkwardly.

Aziraphale gasped. “What happened to you? How—?” He reached out, but Crowley harshly smacked his hand away even as he leaned towards him. Unbalanced, he careened into the doorway and swore loudly.

“‘M sorry,” he hissed, clutching his shoulder. “Didn’t know where else to go.”

Crowley’s eyes rolled up and he pitched forward. Aziraphale rushed to catch him, stumbling as Crowley collapsed into him. He grunted and lowered them both as gently as he could to the floor, a task hindered immensely by Crowley’s massive wings.

“Oh, my goodness, alright—down we go, that’s it, dear boy…”

God in Heaven, what had happened to him? Aziraphale’s hand went to his mouth as he knelt beside Crowley’s crumpled form. For the longest time, he could only stare in mute horror at the still-bleeding cuts littering Crowley’s body, the blooming black bruises, and his wings, oh, his wings. He had to look away. 

“What happened,” he mouthed again uselessly. His hands hovered fearfully over Crowley’s body, desperately wanting to do something, but equally resenting the possibility of causing harm instead. Even as he sat, Crowley moaned dismally into the floorboards and curled in on himself a little more.

“S’rry,” he slurred, more breath than a distinct syllable. “Gimme—gimme a sec—hah, fuck… ”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said. “You’re in hardly any shape to talk, let alone do something foolish.” A low rumble of thunder shook the floor. “You’re in my care now. Let me help you.”

“S’not… you don’t have to help, I know you don’t want to.”

“Just what is that supposed to mean? Of course I do.”

A tremor went through Crowley’s body, and Aziraphale realized he was laughing. “‘Cause yer ‘n angel. Tha’s it.” He paused. “Maybe if I was something else. Wasn’t a demon, you’d want to. I get it.”

“That just isn’t true!” Aziraphale snapped, hurt, though he did not know why. It was not as though Crowley was wrong; he did want to help, and yes, it was likely a result of his angelic nature. But was that truly all? It mustn't be if it stung this much. “I’m moving you to the back of the shop. Someone could see you. Hold still.” As if anyone else would be out in this storm when the rain was as hard and cold as blades, and the wind struck as hard as a whip against the creaking walls of his shop.

He spent a moment figuring out how to best move Crowley without aggravating him. Or rather, aggravating him the least, because it seemed not one square inch of flesh had been spared from some grievance. Aziraphale very badly wanted to snap his fingers and transport Crowley’s body the twenty or so feet he needed, but again, Heaven was closely watching him. Forget moving a shelf. If they caught him using miracles on a demon to heal him instead of outright killing him while he was at his most vulnerable, the consequences would be far worse than a letter of condemnation. 

He said he knew you wouldn’t want to help him, and he came anyway. He said he had nowhere else to go, and he came to you. Answer him; will you let him die? Will you let him die because you are afraid to do what you know is the right thing?

Aziraphale uttered an unsavory phrase under his breath and deemed Crowley’s right shoulder to be in the best condition to be handled. “I’m picking you up now,” he told Crowley, who did not react to his voice or the hand he placed on her shoulder. He pulled Crowley up, draped one arm over his shoulders, and stood slowly, waiting for a whimper of pain, a gasp, or a curse. All he got was a faint, “M’ugh.”

Aziraphale slowly dragged him towards the back of the shop, skin crawling as the limp ends of Crowley’s listless wings left streaks of blood on the floorboards so dark they almost looked black. All of the clutter moved aside under his glare, creating a path to what would eventually become his nook. In it sat a new sofa, a desk whose surface was hidden beneath haphazardly stacked piles of books, and a few more unassembled shelves. He snapped his fingers as he approached. The sofa stretched to become much broader and longer, probably more so than necessary, but there was no time to be picky. Another snap and an array of squashy pillows appeared at one end. 

“I’m going to try to patch you up,” Aziraphale said as he carefully sat Crowley down into a slouched seating position. Crowley’s eyelids blearily twitched open. Aziraphale sucked a breath in through his teeth. “They roughed you up, my dear, but that won’t be a problem. You’ll be raring to go quicker than you can say ‘crêpes!’”

Crowley groaned again at that. “You and your bloody crêpes. S’why I got caught up in the first place.”

A horrible chill shocked his body. “What?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. It’s—Shit, ow — Don’t worry your pretty head about it, angel.”

“Pardon me, but why the hell should I not worry?”

“Later.” Crowley slumped sideways against the pillows, carefully keeping his wings out of the way. “Just—if you’re serious about helping, talking’s only going to make me die quicker.”

Aziraphale bit his lip. “We’re talking about this later,” he warned. “But for now…” A fluffy white rag appeared in his hand. “You’re probably going to want to bite this.”

Aziraphale collapsed into his armchair, shoulders, neck, and hands aching something fierce. Exhaustion pricked his eyes, a sensation he had been more than happy to leave behind in the chaos that was the European Renaissance. His discomfort was likely nothing compared to that of Crowley, who was fast asleep on the sofa and bandaged and cleaned up to the best of Aziraphale’s ability. The bruising and swelling faded with minimal trouble at least, but the same could not be said for the rest of Crowley’s more grievous injuries. 

When it came to cleaning and closing of the lacerations, Aziraphale had almost wept at the sheer amount of cuts and gashes littering poor Crowley’s body. It’d taken hours to close all of them; Crowley’s flesh heavily disagreed with his holy touch, flaring up angrily if he sustained it for more than a minute. It had taken them well into the night, possibly into the early morning, to heal all of the cuts he could find. Most of them would leave scars. Aziraphale prayed—no, that would probably worsen the process— hoped they would fade with time. 

Setting the broken bones of his fingers and wings was easily the most taxing portion. He’d healed the fingers alright but had only gone so far as to splinting Crowley’s wings. Coaxing the wayward shards of bone scattered in the lean muscle of Crowley’s wing to return to their places had taken everything he had. By the time he finished, he was too exhausted to deal with detailed, meticulous work like rearranging Crowley’s feathers back into their usual sleek uniformness, so they were still bent and broken in huge patches, stiff with blood.

Despite that, he felt he’d done what he could. He wished, gaze lingering on the colorful strips of bruises peeking between the bandages, he could do more. But his reserves of medical supplies were already woefully low before Crowley had stumbled inside, plus he had started running on fumes of miracle energy about four hours ago. He felt scraped empty and raw. But Crowley was not in danger of dying in his sleep and that was going to have to be good enough for the time being.

Crowley’s face pinched as he mumbled into his pillow in his sleep. Aziraphale bit his lip.

Maybe one more miracle.

He wearily held up his hand and murmured, “May you dream of whatever you like best,” and snapped his fingers. An unpleasant zing went down his arm, but he could forgive it as Crowley sighed contentedly and seemed to fall into a deeper sleep. “I’ll be here. Rest well, my dear,” he sighed. 

Satisfied, Aziraphale slumped back down in the chair and settled his chin on his chest, absently rubbing his thumbs. His gaze lazily roamed about Crowley’s body for any cuts he may have missed or had been reopened. Crowley had set his progress back a couple of times when he’d awoken with Aziraphale’s hands on him. Evidently distressed, he reacted the way anyone would expect a scared and injured person to react: thrashing, yelling, hitting, hard, wild unrecognition blazing in his bruise yellow eyes. It made Aziraphale ache in a peculiar way. You’re with me, he wanted to tell him as he shushed and consoled him, you’re with me, you’re safe here, what’s the matter with you?

Eventually, Crowley passed out a final time. He had not awoken since, but the feeling still had not settled. It prickled Aziraphale even now, prodding and persistent like the loose threads of missed stitches in his clothes. But as insistent it was, it could not push through the rubbery numbness of exhaustion. Introspection could happen later. He needed some rest.

A cracking yawn forced its way out of his chest. Crowley had lauded the glories of sleep on a few occasions. Perhaps now would be the time to see what the fuss was all about. Just a few minutes, and he’d be ready to go.

He took one final glance at his unfinished packing job, at the scattered books, the trail of blood, and then, at last, at Crowley. 

“Be right here,” Aziraphale said quietly as he finally let his leadened eyelids slip shut. “Right… here…”

[theajaheira]

transitional

read it on ao3!

“So you’ve warmed up to computers a little, huh?” she said very casually.

“I-I suppose so,” said Giles, who couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something.

“And you think they’re maybe worth getting to know a little more?” said Ms. Calendar. “Like, outside a workplace environment?”

i think a lot about how we never saw giles and jenny go from awkward friends into moony-eyed dorks. so i took a stab at writing that.

Giles spent the night dancing, and regretted it sorely in the morning—pun intended. His back ached from the battle and the Bronze alike, he hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, and Snyder’s godforsaken early-morning faculty meeting was grating on his nerves. It was difficult enough to stay awake; he felt he should get a bloody medal for managing to act civil.

Ms. Calendar had no such qualms when it came to professionalism. She showed up five minutes late, staunchly ignored the look sent her way by Snyder, sat down next to Giles (there was an audible murmur of surprise from the staff at this), and leaned back in the chair, eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses.

Giles was the only one close enough to hear her softly snoring, and it irritated him tremendously—though not for the usual reasons. In times past, he might have been infuriated at Ms. Calendar’s lack of decorum and respect, judging her for both her tardiness and her obvious napping. Now, he was mostly just annoyed that she could sneak in a bit of shut-eye and he had to stay awake through this absolute nonsense.

“The library, Mr. Giles, has sustained earthquake damage,” Snyder announced about fifteen minutes into the meeting, with a dirty look at Giles as though the earthquake had somehow been his fault. “Of course, this renders it unusable until it’s properly fixed.”

“Obviously,” Giles agreed.

“We’ll be sending some workers in tomorrow to take a look at the damage,” Snyder informed him. “Make sure that all the books are removed so they can get to fixing things.”

“What—that’s—tomorrow?” Giles sputtered. Next to him, Ms. Calendar jerked awake, giving him a semi-panicked what-did-I-miss look over the tops of her sunglasses. “I have to remove all the books from the library tomorrow?” Giles tacked on.

Ms. Calendar first gave him a small thank-you smile, then stopped, frowning. “Wait,” she said, looking over at Snyder. “Seriously? Aren’t there people who can help him with that?”

“Thank you for volunteering, Ms. Calendar,” said Snyder with satisfaction. “As you two will both be doing this, none of the school budget will be going towards paying extra labor. And as I am conducting performance reviews in two weeks—”

“Can he seriously blackmail us into it?” Ms. Calendar whispered to Giles.

“He’s a power-mad moron,” Giles muttered back. “I’m fairly certain anything is within his jurisdiction.” He was well aware that the entire faculty room was staring at him and Ms. Calendar, and was rather glad he was too tired to care about how this must look to them. Both of them sitting together and whispering to each other, Jenny wearing the same clothes from the day before—oh, lord, scrap that bit about not caring.Giles straightened his glasses and tried to stop blushing.

“—as I am conducting performance reviews in two weeks,” Snyder continued, looking just as bewildered as the rest of the staff room to see the two most violently combative teachers sharing secrets, “I think you would both do well not to rock the boat. I’ll expect that library free of books before the workers show up tomorrow.”

Ugh, thought Giles, but decided against saying it.

“Ugh,” said Ms. Calendar. Then, “Can we at least have an extra day?”

“No,” said Snyder. “Library repairs cost extra on Saturdays. Meeting adjourned.”

As the faculty filed out (Giles did his very best not to listen to the whispering teachers, all of whom had things to say about why he and Ms. Calendar had shown up in disarray), Ms. Calendar put away her sunglasses, then turned to Giles with a small, tired grin. “I mean, I’d have helped you out anyway,” she said, “but it sucks that he’s making you do this.”

“I’ve functioned on worse sleep before—”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you ever danced the night away,” said Ms. Calendar, grin widening.

“Oh, for—” Giles felt the twinge of familiar annoyance, now paired with an exasperated affection. “It was one dance,” he said.

“Five,” said Ms. Calendar.

“It was not!”

“You weren’t keeping great track of the songs,” Ms. Calendar pointed out.

“You never let me leave the dance floor!” Giles countered. “More than one dance implies breaks between the dance!”

Ms. Calendar scoffed, her eyes alight with the same warmth Giles felt. This argument was different, he thought, in a way that had his heart fluttering. “A dance is a song,” she said. “When the song ends, the dance itself is over, even if you’re still dancing.”

“You never let go of me long enough for the dance to be over,” Giles persisted.

Ms. Calendar gave him an open-mouthed grin. “You’re a hard guy to let go of, Rupert,” she said, and batted her lashes.

“Oh, ha ha,” said Giles, standing up. Ms. Calendar’s face fell a bit; he couldn’t imagine why. Awkwardly, and trying to recapture the fleeting comradery between them, he said, “To the library, then?”

Ms. Calendar was blushing. “Yeah,” she said. “Yeah. Library. Obviously.”

The library was a wreck. Even without the debris left by the monster, the shattered glass from the skylight, and the broken table containing the Master’s skeleton (Giles supposed he should count himself lucky that Snyder hadn’t asked about that), there was still the fact that Giles’s books were entirely in disarray. He couldn’t stop the distressed little whimper as he looked upon what had once been an organized research space.

And then he felt a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” said Ms. Calendar. “We’re working under a weird time constraint, sure, but I’ve packed up way more stuff than this in way less time.” She considered. “And hungover, actually. So we’re fine.”

As she headed towards the first pile of books, Giles frowned, playing the sentence back. “Why were you packing and hungover?” he asked.

Ms. Calendar stooped, picking up an armful of books, and turned back to Giles. He noticed, with a strange flutter, that she was holding them all with care. “I travel a lot,” she said, tried to shrug, and remembered just in time that she was holding the books. “I’m not really one to stick in one place for longer than a year. Whole lot of world, you know?”

“No,” said Giles honestly.

Ms. Calendar laughed, a sound of genuine, pleased amusement that Giles hadn’t heard from her before. Mostly, when she laughed, there was a biting edge of mockery or bitterness or some other flavor of one-upsmanship; Giles liked this laugh better. He wanted to hear it again. “Well, at least he’s honest,” she quipped, placing the books down on the checkout desk. “So you don’t travel much?”

Giles hesitated. Generally, when people had asked before, he had made some weak joke about stuffy academics and left things at that. But Ms. Calendar was currently the closest thing he had to a friend, and the first person in Sunnydale he had chosen to tell about his Watcher status. That felt important. “I spent the better part of the last twenty years at a desk job in the Watchers’ Council,” he said, “preparing myself to train a Slayer. I was more than desperate to prove myself worthy of the cause. It left little time for travel.” He smiled a little sadly. “I’d rather like to live the life you do,” he said.

Ms. Calendar shook her head. Her expression was more gentle than Giles had ever seen it—directed at him, at least. “It gets old,” she said. “Doesn’t leave a lot of time for friends, you know?”

Giles snorted. “And I suppose I make time for my sparkling social life in between the research and the nearly being eaten by monsters?”

That made Ms. Calendar smile. “Fair point,” she agreed. “So we’re both lonely—”

“You cannot possibly be lonely,” Giles scoffed, appalled by the very notion. “You’re one of the most outgoing, charismatic people I’ve met. How on earth could you not have made friends on staff already just by virtue of being yourself?”

Ms. Calendar blinked, then turned a rosy pink. Giles played his words back, and began to blush a bit himself. “Wow,” she said. “Um, that’s…kind of the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me in a really long time.”

“Your bar is very low if you’re calling me sweet,” said Giles dryly, which made Ms. Calendar laugh again. “Shall we start on the books?”

Giles was still having trouble getting used to the ease with which he and Ms. Calendar worked together. They had been assigned to tidy the staff room for a bake sale two months ago, and had spent more time shouting at each other than actually getting any work done. The teachers had been displeased, the bake sale had been bumped a week, and Principal Flutie had said, in an injured tone of voice, that at Sunnydale High, we foster community, not combativeness! Ms. Calendar had responded to this by flipping Giles off behind Flutie’s back and stalking out of the office, leaving him to clean up the rest of the staff room on his lonesome.

But they had exorcised the demon together easily, Giles bringing out his old grimoire and Ms. Calendar typing without argument. They had researched the Hellmouth and the Master together, Giles finding books for Ms. Calendar to page through. And now they were sorting books into boxes to pack away, and to Giles’s utter shock, Ms. Calendar took to his supernatural cataloguing system like a fish to water.

“You were expecting me to struggle with this?” she laughed, handing him a stack of books for the box labeled Demons—Dismemberment. “It’s honestly not that hard.”

“It requires a, a rudimentary understanding of the contents of each book,” stammered Giles, his heartbeat picking up as he looked at her. He was a bit tired, he told himself. Tired, and the tea in the staff room was undoubtedly much too caffeinated. “Or at the very least, an ability to assess—”

“Rupert,” said Ms. Calendar, looking at him with playful sympathy, “has your only exposure to human society been Buffy, Willow, and Xander for all these months? You know I love those kids, but Willow’s the only one among the bunch who even knows what the Dewey Decimal System is.”

“I-I must confess, I am a bit…unused to adult company,” Giles agreed. “It’s been a while since England.”

“So you had friends over there?” Ms. Calendar placed another stack of books on the counter.

Giles stilled, unsure how to answer that question. After a good few seconds of silence, he knew that he had inadvertently answered it anyway. “No,” he said simply.

Ms. Calendar looked up, and it took Giles a moment to recognize that the sympathy in her eyes was no longer teasing. “Well,” she said, and bumped his shoulder. “The English are obviously morons.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Excluding you!” said Ms. Calendar hastily, wincing. “I just meant…they’re missing out.” She gave him a nervous little grin. “You’re kind of an okay guy when you’re not telling me how computers are going to directly cause the end of all human interaction.”

“Did I say that?” said Giles, alarmed. “Truly, computers aren’t all that bad. I really would like to learn more about them.”

Ms. Calendar’s face then went through a series of expressions of which Giles couldn’t fathom the meaning. First shock, then disbelief, and then a sort of stunned smile crept across her face. “So you’ve warmed up to computers a little, huh?” she said very casually.

“I-I suppose so,” said Giles, who couldn’t help but feel like he was missing something.

“And you think they’re maybe worth getting to know a little more?” said Ms. Calendar. “Like, outside a workplace environment?”

And at that moment, something revealed itself to Giles that he had somehow never noticed before: Ms. Calendar was extremely beautiful. In the days when they were at each other’s throats, all he had seen was a veritable hurricane of a woman who refused to admit when she was wrong, and his frustration had eclipsed any notice he might have taken of her sweetly quirky smile or her dark, sparkling eyes. He was not at all thinking about computers—had completely forgotten the question she had posed—when he said, rather breathlessly, “Yes, I think—yes.”

Ms. Calendar smiled, leaning closer—

“Attention,” blared Principal Snyder’s voice through the intercom, and Giles and Ms. Calendar jumped apart. “A reminder to our students that the library will be closed until further notice. Also, Miss Cordelia Chase is still due at my office for questions regarding security footage of her car driving into the school. Thank you.”

“Seriously?” said Ms. Calendar, glaring at the intercom. “You choose now to do this?”

Giles leaned against the checkout desk, rather stunned by the about-face his feelings for Ms. Calendar had taken. He had always felt strongly towards her, even when they had been workplace enemies, so it stood to reason that his feelings would remain strong in this new context. But being hit with romantic inclinations this fast, and this unexpectedly—

“Books?” said Ms. Calendar.

“Yes,” said Giles, hurrying past her to the stack of books still on the checkout counter. “Um, these go in—”

“Evisceration,” said Ms. Calendar, her voice softening. Giles turned to look at her, and saw that she was giving him a sweet little smile the likes of which he had never seen her give anyone before.

“Yes,” said Giles again, feeling the beginnings of a rather soppy grin of his own.

Ms. Calendar turned on the radio when they were three-fourths of the way through the books, humming along to the little jingle played before the news. Giles, however, found himself rather tired of current events. “Might I change this?” he asked.

Ms. Calendar looked up, surprised. “I thought you’d like this,” she said. “Aren’t you all Mr. Intellectual?”

The fact that she said this without a hint of mockery made Giles feel too ridiculously fluttery to manage a coherent sentence. “Well, that’s—y-yes,” he stammered, horrified with himself. This was the woman he had had actual debates with about the merits of technology, and now a schoolboy crush had him unable to speak around her? “Yes, I simply—news has been rather, rather draining lately. I think I’d like some music.”

“Classical?” said Ms. Calendar.

“Not particularly,” said Giles, and flipped the stations until something with a respectable beat came on. As he turned to Ms. Calendar, he saw that she was staring at him incredulously. “What?”

“This is rock and roll,” said Ms. Calendar.

“Yes, it is,” said Giles, bemused. “Is that surprising to you?”

“Yes, it is!” said Ms. Calendar, and gestured towards Giles as though this somehow clarified things. “You’re—I once saw you call a vending machine an infernal contraption! There is a running theory that you’re some kind of time traveler from the nineteenth century!”

“Well, I’m a modern Regency man,” said Giles mildly. “Besides which, I figured classical music might put us both to sleep rather quickly. You’ve gone through how many cups of coffee in the last hour?”

“Twelve,” said Ms. Calendar.

“That cannot be healthy,” said Giles.

“I was up all night,” said Ms. Calendar. “I’ll take a sick day tomorrow and sleep it off.” She was grinning. “It’s a good song, though,” she said, and then extended her hand to Giles.

“Oh no,” said Giles. “No. You have gotten more dancing out of me than I have done in the last five years at least.”

“C’mon, Rupert,” Ms. Calendar wheedled. “The song’s already half over, and I really need to move around a little in a way that’s not lifting heavy books.”

In answer, Giles crossed his arms, leaning stubbornly back against the checkout desk.

“You know what,” said Ms. Calendar, looking more amused than annoyed, “I am too tired to push this issue,” and shrugged off her leather jacket, placing it on the table and beginning to dance herself. She had moved with adrenaline-fueled precision, the night before, dark hair falling down and out of her messy bun, but it was clear that the sleep deprivation was beginning to hit her rather hard. Still, she danced, eyes fixed determinedly on Giles as if daring him to comment on her utter childishness—and then she swayed, and fell.

Giles honestly didn’t decide to catch her. He didn’t even make the conscious choice to take two running steps across the room as soon as he saw her sway. All he knew was that, the moment she should have hit the floor, she was somehow in his arms instead, forehead bumping against his.

They hadn’t been this close when they were dancing. She smelled like magic and too much coffee and something that was just her, and Giles was having trouble remembering to breathe. Part of him was afraid that any sudden movement would shatter the moment. Part of him was afraid that she would let him pull her closer.

“Thanks,” said Ms. Calendar, her voice suddenly thick with sleep. “Guess the whole zero-hours-of-rest thing is catching up to me, huh?”

Giles steered her gently to a chair, helping her sit down at the checkout desk. Removing his jacket, he draped it over her shoulders, telling himself very firmly that her bright, adoring eyes had more to do with sleep deprivation than genuine appreciation. “Rest up,” he said. “I can finish up the books while you nap. I’m quite practiced at keeping late hours.”

“I drank too much coffee to get any sleep,” mumbled Ms. Calendar, who was already resting her head on her arms.

“I’m sure you did,” said Giles, patting her shoulder.

Ms. Calendar sighed, leaning into his touch. “Just gonna…relax for a little ‘n then I’ll, I’ll…” She trailed off, her breathing evening out.

Giles tried to remind himself that there were a thousand and one reasons that a Watcher having a relationship was a bad idea. All these reasons flew very neatly out the window when Ms. Calendar murmured something incoherent, then tugged his jacket closer around her. She’s so small, he thought, and yet she’s so much more confident than I think I’ll ever be.

Ms. Calendar opened her eyes again, half-awake. “Rupert?” she said.

“Mm?” said Giles.

“I wanna dance with you again later,” said Ms. Calendar, and promptly fell back asleep. Giles spent the next twenty minutes analyzing this statement and got absolutely no work done.

(“Shameful,” said Principal Snyder. “Shameful. Napping on the job, Ms. Calendar? Wandering around muttering to yourself, Mr. Giles? Now I am going to have to pay people to remove the books. On the weekend.”

“We make a good team,” said Ms. Calendar.

“That we do,” said Giles.

“I am never putting the both of you on an important project again,” said Principal Snyder, and completely missed the high-five Ms. Calendar gave Giles under the table.)

[exhaled-spirals]

« Sometime around 1925, a woman in her 20s emigrated to New York City. In America, she went by the name "Lillian Alling," an anglicized form of her birth name. Although her exact origins are uncertain [...], she was probably a displaced Jewish woman from Belorussia.

Alling found her life in America to be a hard one, with the added burden of intense loneliness. She had no family in the country, and her reserved, somewhat prickly nature made it difficult for her to find friends even in the immigrant communities. She was left completely alone to struggle with a series of tedious, low-paying jobs in a loud, bustling city that was frighteningly different from anything she had known.

[Susan Smith-Josephy, who wrote the biography Lillian Alling: The Journey Home, said, "I think she was eccentric and I think she didn't handle crowds very well. Being in New York was the wrong place for her. When she's around a lot of people, she tends not to be terribly reasonable. Crabby. Swearing. Snapping at people.”]

Before long, she decided she had made a horrible mistake in leaving her native country. She longed to go back to her home, a land that may have been harsh, but at least had the virtue of familiarity. But how could that be done? She knew it would be nearly impossible for her to raise the money for the passage back. She seemed trapped.

But then, this remarkably determined woman had an idea. Studying maps of North America in the New York Public Library, she developed a plan of action: she would walk home. She traced out a route that would take her from New York to Canada, then across the Yukon Telegraph line to the Bering Sea. From there, she anticipated it would be easy to cross the water and enter Russia.

It was, of course, an utterly daft undertaking, but never underestimate the will of a woman with an itch to get the hell out. One day in 1926, equipped only with a backpack and an iron bar to defend herself against both bears and men, she set out for home.

A young woman walking on her own across the continent would be an unusual enough sight today. In the 1920s, it was quite startling enough so that there are numerous eyewitness reports of her incredible trek. She was spotted in Chicago, followed by Minneapolis, then Winnipeg, and finally, in the fall of 1927, Alling was observed making her lonely way in Hazelton, Canada, headed for the Yukon. [...] By spring of 1928, she was again on the road north. Linesmen working along the telegraph trail monitored her astonishingly quick progress--it was estimated that she must have walked an average of thirty miles a day. 

She stopped for the winter in Dawson City, where she took on odd jobs and worked on repairing a small, abandoned boat she planned to use for the last leg of her journey. In the spring of 1929, when the ice began to thaw, she set sail in her little vessel, headed down the Yukon River en route to the Bering Sea. 

[A Russian man who grew up in Alaska] remembered the woman telling officials she had “come from America, where she said she had been unable to make a living or make friends. She said she had had to walk ‘a terrible long way because no one would lift as much as a finger to help me in any way because they didn’t want to — or couldn’t understand — my feelings. I tried to make friends at first, but everyone wanted no part of me — as a foreigner — and that so deeply hurt me I couldn’t bear it and so I began to walk. I knew it was far and it would be hard but I had to do it even if no one understood. And I did it!” »

— From The Long Walk Home of Lillian Alling and Susan Smith-Josephy’s Lillian Alling: The Journey Home